“Watching
it fall, I am reminded how much the beauty of snow— my perception of it—owes to
central heating. Put another way, it is the saving fact of my lovely boiler,
the electricity that keeps it going, and the indwelling charm of steam
radiators that permits me to look out my double-paned window and take aesthetic
pleasure in what Longfellow called the `poem of the air.’”
Our
world surrounds us with layers of things for which we owe gratitude, from icicles
to wool socks. I read Mullarkey’s essay moments before interviewing two
electrical engineering graduate students from India who have devised a way to
monitor the heart rate and other vital signs of astronauts in space. The
problem, posed by NASA, had to be solved not only non-invasively but without
touching the subject. Their solution: use a webcam to read the changes in skin
tone, imperceptible to unaided eyes, that accompany every heartbeat. To do this they devised complex and beautiful
new algorithms. Mullarkey writes: “The arts of the engineer partake as fully in
the creative intelligence as any other.” She dispenses with the soft-headed
nature mystics:
“There
is just no arguing with cultists. The most you can do is wish on them a
sustained, possibly curative, power outage in freezing weather.”
Mullarkey
goes on to recount the fates of two elderly neighbors who froze to death
outside their homes: “The snow fell as indifferently on both doomed women as it
does on the Alaskan cedars and Douglas firs outside my window. To anyone
watching unawares, it looked lovely coming down. To the two women trapped under
it—metabolic heat draining out of them— each crystal flake was a cinder from a
frigid hell. Far from the warming light of the Good.” Mullarkey’s anti-romantic
common sense is bracing, and her essay reminds me of Tolstoy’s “Master and Man”
(1895). His narrator is god-like. He sees all and, more importantly, accepts
all. Vasili
Andreevich Brekhunov sets off hurriedly with one of his peasants, Nikita, to
negotiate the purchase of a forest from its owner before other prospective buyers arrive. The pair is lost in a blizzard and, after briefly abandoning
Nikita, Vasili Andreevich experiences a moral awakening. He climbs atop Nikita
in the snow and dies, but saves the life of the peasant. Tolstoy concludes the
story (in the Maude translation):
“Nikita
lay in hospital for two months. They cut off three of his toes, but the others
recovered so that he was still able to work and went on living for another
twenty years, first as a farm-labourer, then in his old age as a watchman. He
died at home as he had wished, only this year, under the icons with a lighted
taper in his hands. Before he died he asked his wife's forgiveness and forgave
her for the cooper. He also took leave of his son and grandchildren, and died
sincerely glad that he was relieving his son and daughter-in-law of the burden
of having to feed him, and that he was now really passing from this life of
which he was weary into that other life which every year and every hour grew
clearer and more desirable to him. Whether he is better or worse off there
where he awoke after his death, whether he was disappointed or found there what
he expected, we shall all soon learn.”
Mullarkey
reminds us that the aesthetic, moral and scientific realms are not discrete,
not demarcated like the departments of a university, but inextricably meshed,
like our flesh, blood vessels and heart.
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