Not long
ago I had the good fortune of a leisurely medical consultation with an eminent
academic physician, a department head at a major medical school in New
York. When I say “leisurely” I do not
mean to imply that it was unprofessional or inefficient—far from it. But I realized that I had come to expect that
what a “doctor’s appointment” amounted to was a perfunctory exchange of words
with a person seated at a computer, briefly and laboriously typing something
onto a screen from which his eyes seldom strayed. This man looked at me, listened to me, talked
to me as though he presumed I was no longer in the third grade. Hence our conversation did occasionally move
off the topic of the mortal frame and its discontents. Very briefly it even grazed the subject of
current politics. The supposed health
care “replacement” bill (at that point still invisible) was in the news, and he
allowed himself the expression of a general sense of dissatisfaction and
apprehension. But even this was hedged
with diffidence. “I can’t really follow
politics,” he said. “I simply don’t have
the time.”
It was then
that I realized that quite by accident he had accurately diagnosed my most
serious problem, which has nothing to do with electro-physiology. I do follow
politics because I have fancied that, since I retired, I do have the time. The
premise being a fallacy, the action based upon it is a particularly
time-consuming form of folly. By
“following politics” I mean this. I
regularly read the New York Times
with tolerable thoroughness. We seldom
miss the NPR “News Hour”, and though we continue to grieve the loss of Gwen
Ifill, we applaud its journalists and their uniquely intelligent presentations. On Fridays we take in Gwen’s old program
“Washington Week”. Most days I survey
the offerings of the website “Real Clear Politics,” which aggregates the most
widely read current political columns from many perspectives, and includes a
large swath of the right-wing press that I would never otherwise see. I often take the time to read through the
“Comments” threads of news stories and op-eds, for in them I find revealed,
with a clarity nowhere else apparent, the Great Divide running through the
center of our population. There are
video clips of journalistic debates, shouting matches, and foul-mouthed rants
by political comedians galore.
In theory
this investment of time and energy was supposed to leave me informed, or woke, to use the Anglo-Saxon equivalent
recently certified by the Oxford lexicographers. In fact, it has left me depressed, or downed, to use an Anglo-Saxon equivalent
I hope might soon join it. I have
several friends and acquaintances who tell me that they actually no longer read
or watch much news for the sake of their mental health. I no longer think they are kidding. Like most intelligent Americans I have been
wedded to the idea of an “informed electorate;” but sadly it may be time for a
divorce. There are practical limits to
the willingness to suspend disbelief.
In the
ancient monastic literature, in which I have read a certain amount, there is a
story concerning a hermit who had been dwelling solo in a cave for twenty years
or so. A small merchant caravan, having
lost its way in the desert, stumbled upon his lair. Submitting to the law of hospitality the
ancient ascetic chatted up the head merchant in a monosyllabic sort of
way. “Who,” the monk asked the trader,
“who now sits upon the Imperial throne?”
The merchant uttered a name the troglodyte had never heard before. “Ah,” said the monk, “thank you,” politely
excusing himself and turning back to his reading. What he was reading is not explicitly
mentioned, but it was not the “Huffington Post”. He obviously considered that the political
information he had gleaned in this brief interchange made him sufficiently woke
for the next decade or two.
Despite
this fantasy we set out last night as scheduled for our “Six Every
Six” dinner, aka the “Trumpian” dinner.
We are one of three couples, six very old friends, who are meeting for
dinner every six weeks in each other’s homes to assess latest developments,
replay favorite moments, and makes predictions.
The predictions are actually written down on a piece of paper, then
produced at the next dinner to embarrass us with their inaccuracy. The dinners seem to be “evolving”. Last night’s was as delicious as ever, and
the eventual consternation as complete.
But we prefaced moving in to the table with unhurried drinks and nibbles
as we sat outside on the greensward in the lingering, soft summer’s light, as birds
flitted about a feeder and we chatted about the normal things of Normal Times.
