Six
weeks before his death five years ago, John Updike wrote “Peggy Lutz, Fred Muth,”
later collected in Endpoint and Other
Poems (2009). The names in the title refer to children Updike knew when growing
up in Shillington, Pa. Both had already died. Nostalgia is rooted in the Greek nostos, “to return home,” and algia,
“a sorrowful or distressing condition or illness.” Updike seems to have known
that nostalgia is homesickness:
“Dear
friends of childhood, classmates, thank you,
scant
hundred of you, for providing a
sufficiency
of human types; beauty,
bully,
hanger-on, natural,
twin,
and fatso -- all a writer needs,
all
there in Shillington, its trolley cars
and
little factories, cornfields and trees,
leaf
fires, snowflakes, pumpkins, valentines.
To
think of you brings tears less caustic
than
those the thought of death brings. Perhaps
we
meet our heaven at the start and not
the
end of life. Even then were tears
and
fear and struggle, but the town itself
draped
in plain glory the passing days.”
That’s
a healthy way to think of the past – as a fledgling data base of human
knowledge; if not “all a writer needs,” at least the beginning of a
lifelong library, a version of “our heaven.” In The Rambler #47, Dr. Johnson distinguishes grief and sorrow from other
human passions, which at least in theory carry within them the possibility of
their satisfaction:
“But
for sorrow there is no remedy provided by nature; it is often occasioned by
accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have lost or changed their
existence; it required what it cannot hope, that the laws of the universe
should be repealed; that the dead should return, or the past should be
recalled.”
Johnson
reminds us that sorrow deeply felt is a gift, so long as we resist
over-indulging. It is, he says, “to a certain point laudable, as the offspring
of love, or at least pardonable, as the effect of weakness….it may afterwards
be admitted as a decent and affectionate testimony of kindness and esteem.”
3 comments:
A amalgam of sorrow and nostalgia by proxy is what I experienced yesterday on seeing Nabokov's empty fawn jacket with tie draped over the shoulder and his shoes at the foot of the glass case. The jacket, which pinned its owner like a butterfly, would not have fitted the ephebe that had inhabited that same room a century before. I brought to the apartment my own copy of Speak, Memory, still damp after being baptized in the Neva (a ludicrously sentimental gesture that Nabokov might have ragarded quizzically but perhaps without outright ).
Wise words. I think Updike got it right.
disapproval.
Post a Comment