Mark Twain was no stranger to priorities. In his Unfinished Burlesque of Books on Etiquette, he presents a list of things to be saved in boardinghouse fires. The first things to be saved by any gentleman are, of course, young ladies. "Partiality, in the matter of rescue," he writes, is "to be shown to:
1. Fiancées.
2. Persons toward whom the operator feels a tender sentiment, but has not yet declared himself.
3. Sisters.
4. Stepsisters.
5. Nieces.
6. First cousins.
7. Cripples.
8. Second cousins.
9. Invalids.
10. Young-lady relations by marriage.
11. Third cousins, and young-lady friends of the family.
12. The Unclassified.
"Parties belonging to these twelve divisions should be saved in the order in which they are named.
"The operator must keep himself utterly calm, and his line of procedure constantly in mind; otherwise the confusion around him will be almost sure to betray him into very embarrassing breaches of etiquette. Where there is much smoke, it is often quite difficult to distinguish between new Relatives by Marriage and Unclassified young ladies; wherefore it is provided that if the operator, in cases of this sort, shall rescue a No. 12 when he should have rescued a No. 10, it is not requisite that he carry No. 12 back again, but that he leave her where she is without remark, and go and fetch out No. 10. An apology to No. 10 is not imperative; still, it is good form to offer it."
Later on, Twain gives the remainder of the list of things to be rescued from fires:
13. Babies.
14. Children under 10 years of age.
15. Young widows.
16. Young married females.
17. Elderly married ditto.
18. Elderly widows.
19. Clergymen.
20. Boarders in general.
21. Female domestics.
22. Male ditto.
23. Landlady.
24. Landlord.
25. Firemen.
26. Furniture.
27. Mothers-in-law.
28 May 2010
De Civitate
The Bible, one will note, begins in a garden and ends in a city. This seems to imply some sort of progression from rural to urban life, a progression which I am not sure is real progress at all. Let me explain.
My travails started when I agreed, most agreeably, to drive some friends to Union Station in Chicago, the train ride from South Bend being inconveniently timed for a transfer to the train to Milwaukee (their home). I had not anticipated that this would necessitate my driving into the very heart of downtown Chicago (and on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, no less: the very time when, it seems, the totality of the citizenry of the Windy City departs, by car, for greener climes). Suffice it to say that the experience was not pleasant: what is normally a four-hour drive from South Bend to home became a seven-hour ordeal. The more I visit the city, the more I am convinced that I hate it beyond reason. This is mainly due, I suppose, to traffic, which provokes in me a most powerful misanthropy.
Does city life have any redeemable qualities? Surely it must; surely something must counterbalance the infernal drudgery of commuting. Or is it only for money that people work in such an environment? If this is so, then I cannot understand people, in general, at all. It is far better to live in a bare cell in heaven than a McMansion in hell.
My travails started when I agreed, most agreeably, to drive some friends to Union Station in Chicago, the train ride from South Bend being inconveniently timed for a transfer to the train to Milwaukee (their home). I had not anticipated that this would necessitate my driving into the very heart of downtown Chicago (and on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, no less: the very time when, it seems, the totality of the citizenry of the Windy City departs, by car, for greener climes). Suffice it to say that the experience was not pleasant: what is normally a four-hour drive from South Bend to home became a seven-hour ordeal. The more I visit the city, the more I am convinced that I hate it beyond reason. This is mainly due, I suppose, to traffic, which provokes in me a most powerful misanthropy.
Does city life have any redeemable qualities? Surely it must; surely something must counterbalance the infernal drudgery of commuting. Or is it only for money that people work in such an environment? If this is so, then I cannot understand people, in general, at all. It is far better to live in a bare cell in heaven than a McMansion in hell.
22 May 2010
Those Mid-May Blues
These past few days in May, for some reason, have provoked a certain nostalgia in me, for reasons I can't quite rationalize. (Well, yes, granted: nostalgia generally isn't to be rationalized. But here even the cause of the nostalgia is a mystery. Perhaps it's the weather?) I find myself looking back on my salad days—fully behind me, I assume—with a certain wistfulness. Why? Certainly not because I was happier; indeed, I was far more morose, if not melancholisch, back in high school. I suppose it's the callowness that I miss. I was less aware, then, of how many problems there are out there in the world.
Dear, if I feel such nostalgia at the age of twenty-three, what shall I do at forty-three? How many more realities can I face before becoming either irreparably cynical or inescapably escapist?
Dear, if I feel such nostalgia at the age of twenty-three, what shall I do at forty-three? How many more realities can I face before becoming either irreparably cynical or inescapably escapist?
05 May 2010
Psalm, er, 151
Our psalmody professor (whom Notre Dame recently lured away from Princeton) has a sense of humor, it seems. One of our examples on the final exam today was some Anglican chant (click the image for a better view). "Heed not the prayers of those other Protestants; for their prayers are silly ones." Indeed. Of course, it's much more funny if you happen to know what Anglican chant is supposta sound like.
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