The Curse of Ms. Bliss

-- By Tom Phillips 

The first warning I ever heard about old age came from a fifth-grade teacher.  Grey-haired, thin, and usually dressed in black, Ms. Bliss had  aroused no special feelings in me.  But somehow I brought out a deep resentment in her.  One day, I discovered an alternate way to solve an arithmetic problem, and eagerly put up my hand. “I have a different way to do it," I piped.   

Ms. Bliss told me to shut up, and do it her way.  

I don’t remember exactly what brought on her curse. I was probably just horsing around with my classmates, not paying attention, when she erupted:   

“Some day, Tommy Phillips, you’re going to be flat on your back!”  She said this quivering with rage, repeated it for emphasis, and added  "Then, you’ll see…”    

For the next 60 years I wondered about the curse of Ms. Bliss, and what it was I would "see" if it came to pass.  And then at 71, I found myself flat on my back.   

 

                                                ************ 

On Columbus Day, 2013, eight weeks after the first stabbing pains in my right hip and thigh, I was stretched out on the table in a neurosurgeon’s examining room, unable to sit or stand for more than few minutes. I had grown a spiky beard and lay there moaning when Dr. Cohen came in.  He immediately diagnosed me as “pretty miserable.”   

The MRI showed a badly herniated lumbar disk, pressing on the nerves from my spine. Rest, ice, heat and stretching had done nothing to help, and the pain was getting worse by the day.  He proposed a micro-diskectomy, cutting away a small portion of the vertebra to clear out the herniated tissue.  I was desperate and the surgery seemed to make sense.  “Let’s do it,” I said.  

Clearing his schedule, the nurse found an opening three days away, but only if I could get the necessary pre-op tests with my primary care physician.  Dr. Baskin grumbled about the hurry-up, but he squeezed me into his schedule the next day, even after the holiday weekend.  Normally brusque, this time he patted me on the back and said, “Good luck.  You’re in good hands.”    

I woke up in pain at 5 a.m. Thursday. My wife Debra helped me dress, led the way to the elevator, then to the street to hail a cab.  The cabbie was African, mellow at the end of a night shift.  No traffic.  I stretched out in the back seat as best I could and we rolled down Columbus Avenue in the pre-dawn, past familiar signs and buildings, to Roosevelt Hospital.   

Inside the atrium a small crowd was gathering. These were the ambulatory surgery patients, reporting at dawn for 7:30 operations.  We were blacks, whites, Latinos and Asians, some with kids in tow.  I was the least ambulatory of the bunch.  A Latino, a sharp-looking guy in a new straw hat, gave up his place on the one couch, so I could stretch out.   

At 6:00 a nurse came to escort us upstairs.  She looked Chinese, plump and jolly, and herded us like campers on an outing.  I was last in line when we reached the 5^th floor ward, but she put me in Waiting Chair Number One, closest to the door.   

Before I even tried to sit,  an orderly came up to ask if I would rather lie down. “We want you comfortable,” she said with a Haitian lilt.   She wheeled a bed from across the way, adjusted the height, helped me onto it and covered me with a blanket.    

Next to come in was a senior RN, who introduced herself as Alicia.  She reminded me of Edith Bunker, chatty and friendly but serious about her business. She went through a ream of paperwork, checking my answers to all the questions about medical history, allergies etc.  Alicia had seen hundreds of these operations and assured me that I was going to feel better, very soon.  

A few minutes later I watched the ceiling fly past as my bed rolled through the corridors, pushed by a Jamaican guy. The anesthesiologist had deep blue eyes.  She looked deep into mine, checking my consciousness before she obliterated it.  “This is your last chance to ask questions” she said, as Dr. Cohen strode up in casual street wear. 

I had no questions.  The surgeon and I shook hands.  His hands were good.  

A Filipino nurse popped into view.  ---You’re going on a trip, she said.  Where you wanna go on vacation?  I checked my bucket list.  "Aruba."     

“OK, Aruba!”  The anesthesiologist dropped the bomb.  

Next thing I knew, the surgery was done, I was back from vacation.  A medical student debriefed me – told me all they’d done, and what I could expect in recovery.  Already I began to feel a warm ache in the lower back, and the return of normal sensation to my right hip and leg.   

After that I was wheeled to the recovery room, where a golden-skinned, dark-eyed nurse took my vital signs, and gave me a choice of snacks.  I chose cranberry juice and graham crackers.  They tasted divine.  She brought me seconds.   

“I’m Miss McDonald,” she said primly.  She was so pretty that I had to flirt.   Ah, but what's your first name?  

She hesitated. ---I usually don’t give it, because people can’t say it right.   Z-E-N-A-I-D-E.  

Oh, Zen-IDA, I said. 

She smiled. ---So, you’ve traveled, she said.  

I asked her what country she was from.  She asked to me to guess.  

"Aruba?" 

Wrong. Panama.  

                                                          ________________

A volunteer was hovering, an elderly woman named Evelyn.  Her job was to contact loved ones and escort them to the recovery room.  She called Debra, and brought her to my bedside.   

The last nurse we saw was a solid Latina, middle-aged, who was there to check out my “sea legs.”  She watched me intently and followed close as I got up and walked on crutches to the men’s room.  I hadn’t noticed before, but there was a bright yellow bracelet on my wrist that said FALL RISK.  My legs felt steady, though, as I made my way across the floor.  The nurse closed the door---“for privacy”---and told me to knock when I was ready.   

I stood, I peed, I knocked.  I walked back across and sat on the bed.  The nurse said, “You’re good to go.”  

We rested for a few minutes, then Debra called for a wheelchair to push me to the lobby, where I sat while she went out to hail a cab.  Another mellow African driver took us up Amsterdam Avenue, past PS 87 where the kids had gone to school, past our favorite Taqueria, past V&T’s Pizza.   We took a left on 111^th, stopped at our entrance, and Debra gave him a $5 tip “for a smooth ride.”  I asked for extra time to get my legs and crutches out.   

“No hurry, man.  All the time you need.”   

I was home again, miraculously with two working legs under me.    

That night I was able to reflect on the curse of Ms. Bliss.  She was right, I had been flat on my back.  But what I saw was not what she had envisioned.  She probably thought that in a helpless state I would see that my boyish sense of freedom was an illusion, that our lives are controlled by others, that we live not according to what we want but the dictates of family, school, employer, medical establishment, church and state. Shut up and do it their way.  

Maybe that was her life, but it was not what I saw. On the day of my surgery, every human being I saw recognized my distress and shared it in some way, helped me to bear it.  I didn’t feel controlled, but lifted up by others.  Maybe it was because everyone could see themselves in the same state.  I never felt helpless.  Lifted up by people from all over the world, in the heart of the greatest city in the world, I wound up feeling on top of the world. I was doing what needed to be done, was thrilled to see it working out.  But I wasn't doing anything, it was all being done by the people in whose hands I had placed myself.  My boyish sense of freedom was renewed, but I understood freedom in a new way.  It's not an individual achievement, but a communal gift.  

A hundred years ago hernial disk surgery had barely been invented, and I might have spent the rest of my life flat on my back.  Today, on the cusp of 80, I am walking on two feet, damaged but intact, living the life abundant.  I owe it to New York City, to humanity and science, and even our half-broken health care system, in which I have been blessed to be in the unbroken half.  I only ask for the strength and wisdom to return the blessing.  

And to Hell with the curse of Ms. Bliss.     

-- Copyright 2013, 2021 by Tom Phillips

O let the heavens hear it
The penitential hymn
Come healing of the spirit
Come healing of the limb.

---    L. Cohen

               
 

A Tragedian Unmasked

Life lessons come fast and hard on the Road to Dotage.   Last month I defined my fundamental problem as a Tragic Flaw:  “an irrational craving for life that picks me up out of bed every morning and propels me out the door to explore the known and unknown world, that fills my head with music and makes me want to dance.”  This flaw, I supposed, was the force behind my latest dancing injury, which turned out to be a herniated disc, requiring surgery.  “The dancer will dance, the actor will act, the lover will love, the tyrant will oppress and the courtier will curry favor until they expire,” I wisely wrote.   

My thesis was that even thought this flaw had got me into big trouble and would eventually kill me, it was simply a fact of life, in the DNA, unalterable, a categorical imperative.    

Cool facts about a Tragic Flaw: 
1.  Since it is unalterable, you don’t need to work on it.  You’re off the hook.
2.  It puts you in a class with Kings!  Remember the college definition of tragedy – a great man undone by a flaw in his nature.  A tragic flaw confers nothing less than greatness on its bearer.   

Lest you all run out and look for one, let me offer this urgent update.  At some point a doubt may appear in the tragic hero’s aura of self-satisfied suffering.  Could it be that his flaw is something less than the curse of greatness?  Suppose, just suppose that it were no more than a stupid, babyish arrogance that should have been shed long ago, and in fact could still be shucked off.  Ever since I wrote about my Tragic Flaw I’d been thinking:  Do I really need this?   

As fate would have it, I was presented with a test.  Two weeks ago when my herniated disc was hurting out of control and I still didn’t know what it was, I had reduced my daily outing to a 50-yard walk, to the corner of my block, where I could stand in the sun for ten minutes and watch a parade of Upper West Siders go by.  It was my last direct contact with the great world outside, and I didn’t want to give it up.  One day, the pain was especially intense and unpredictable, but the sun was shining and the world beckoned.  I grabbed my crutches, unsteadily, and told my wife I was going out for my little walk.   

She eyed me.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”   

“Yes,” I said in a defiant tone.  And off I went.  I wobbled to the corner and stood in the sun, but it made me feel sick and dizzy.  A few people wandered by, but I got no kick out of them.  I decided to walk back.  Turning for home, I dropped one crutch and had to stand holding an iron fence until a woman came and picked it up for me. 

I made it back to the front stoop and mounted the ramp, but felt too weak to open the heavy front door of the building.  So I leaned against the wall, waiting for a neighbor to come along.  The next thing I knew, two guys were hauling me into a sitting position on the ramp.  I had passed out, grazing my head on the iron railing as I fell, and was bleeding slightly from the scalp.   

For the next three minutes, I had to fight my rescuers and talk them out of calling an ambulance, which would carry me to a squalid emergency room where I would be held for hours, checked for a concussion, stuffed into an MRI machine, and held up for inflated fees.  “Just buzz my wife,” I begged, and she rescued me.

The test itself came two weeks later.  Feeling a little better, I craved some afternoon sun on a beautiful October day.  The day was getting late, but I begged my wife to walk with me to the corner.  When we got outside, we could see that the sun had already sunk behind the buildings opposite ours, and had crossed Amsterdam Avenue, where it still shone on the sculpture garden at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.   

It was about 75 yards to the garden.   

I could make it, I was sure, and told Debra so.   

“Yes, but will you make it back?”   

I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought so.  Besides, she was with me.   

“If you fall down, I’m gonna call an ambulance,” she warned. 

That put me in a pickle.  I couldn’t afford another collapse and a trip to the ER.  But my Tragic Flaw craved the sun and the city.  To deny its wishes would be to abandon my own beloved irresponsibility, my own cherished greatness.   

I caved.  All right, I said sheepishly.  I would wait and go out the next morning when the sun was on the stoop.   

Thus my tragic flaw began to come undone.  As I had secretly suspected, there was nothing noble about it.  It was no more than a babyish arrogance, a flight from reason toward objects of desire, however passing and trivial.  I could still compare myself with King Lear, but I had to look past his royal robes and see him too for what he was:  a foolish old man who knew himself only slenderly, a poor decision maker, deluded by flattery that had turned into grandiosity. 

A few years ago, in my Shakespearean acting period, I wrote on a futile audition form:  “King Lear, c’est moi.”   

* BLONG *

A very dear friend of mine describes herself as a “ridiculous person,” and she means it.  Irrationally neurotic, compulsive and fearful, she is nevertheless probably happier than I, because she is at home in her ridiculousness. She doesn’t try to justify or glorify it, it is what it is, and so is she. 

But could I, at this age, make the leap from pseudo-tragic to authentically ridiculous? 

Some would say I’m already there. 

-- Copyright 2013 by Tom Phillips

  

A Voice From the Ditch

The Road to Dotage is the pleasantest, openest road you’ll ever encounter in life.  Free at last from the demands of working and raising a family, you get onto it as if exiting from a jammed expressway, coasting down a ramp, abandoning your car and skipping onto a broad, sunny path.  The destination is unknown, but of course it’s the journey that matters, and the journey is delightful.   

There’s just one little thing.  You have to find a way to block out or disregard the shrieks and groans continually rising from the ditches on either side.  These are the the cries of the casualties, those who have fallen or run off the road.  The ditches are strewn with elderly people: wounded, sick, demented, and dying.  These are your peers, your colleagues, your rivals and your friends.   

Of course there is an army of doctors, nurses and pharmacists on hand, tending to the casualties, trying to get as many as possible back on the road as soon as possible.  They work miracles, these people.   

Last year a man I know, an octogenarian who still teaches college and rides a mountain bike on weekends, fell suddenly and violently ill.  In the hospital they found a hole had opened in his esophagus, and food was leaking out into his abdomen, setting off a septic infection.  This man spent two months flat on his back in intensive care, as they battled the infection and saved his life.  In the following months he underwent two surgeries to repair the damage.  Now, I hear, he is back on the Road to Dotage.   

I write this from the ditch, where I too have suddenly fallen flat on my back.  The sore hip I brought back from dance camp only got worse and worse, until I could barely walk or sit up without excruciating pain.  Last week the orthopedist dismissed me and sent me on to a neurologist to search for the source of this torment.  After two more MRI's, the diagnosis is in: a "doozy" of a herniated spinal disc.  I'm seeing the neurosurgeon next week.   

I’m living day to day with the help of a wonderful wife and powerful pain killers.  But I have hope.  I fully expect that in some weeks or months I will step – or at least limp – gratefully back onto the Road to Dotage.   

I started this blog with an enthusiastic account of a book – “The Delights of Old Age” by Maurice Goudeket.  He was one of the lucky ones, enjoying the wisdom of old age and finding new adventures and pleasures as he walked in wonder through his seventies.  Since I liked the book and identified with his character, I assumed my seventies would go the same way.  And maybe, once I get back on my feet, it will be that way again for a while.  But never again will I ignore or disregard the voices from the ditch, the cries of the wounded.  I’m one of them now, and we are legion.   

-- Copyright 2013 by Tom Phillips
Photo by Django Phillips

A Tragic Sense of Life

Miguel de Unamuno 

At 71, I am starting to grasp what might be meant by a “tragic sense of life.”   The phrase has puzzled me ever since college, when I looked at the book by Miguel de Unamuno with that title.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  For me, tragedy was something to be avoided, not cultivated or brooded over.  Armed with youth, good looks and education, I hoped to leap over the pitfalls of life, and let others come to grief.  

In literature class we learned about the tragic hero.  This was said to be a great man undone by a flaw in his nature, unwittingly brought down by a catastrophe that was, in some way, of his own making.  I found it interesting but not that relevant, since I didn’t have any major flaws.  I did have an inkling of something universal in the stories of Oedipus and Lear, a cold wind blowing through all of existence.  My goal was to stay out of its way.  

Fast-forward fifteen years and find me undone, in the ruins of an early, supremely self-confident marriage.  I began to understand that I did have hidden flaws, and they did cause me to suffer.  But I thought they could be fixed, the damage repaired, and a tragic end averted after all.  To some degree I was able to improve myself; I learned to listen and consider another person’s feelings, so my second marriage succeeded where the first had failed.  Still, I was left with my original tragic flaw, which ran much deeper than the ones I had supposedly fixed.   

I was left with my original tragic flaw because in every way it appeared to me to be a virtue.  It was, and is, an excessive, irrational mixture of optimism and joy, a craving for life that picks me up out of bed every morning and propels me out the door to explore the known world and the unknown, that fills my head with music and makes me want to dance.  Starting at about age 55, my tragic flaw began to harm me.   

Bored with my job, and inspired by all the stories of elderly people who succeed in new ventures or go back to their first loves, I decided to go back to ballet class.   I had studied ballet on the side for a few years in my twenties, and got just far enough to feel the intense pleasure of disciplining the body into an instrument, and the ecstatic sense of taking it into the air.   

I told my colleagues I was coming in late one day, and took a beginner-level ballet class at nine a.m.   I came out laughing like a man suddenly released from prison.  I could still do it!  I was rusty but my body had not forgotten, the teacher even complimented me on my knowledge.  And the class ended with leaps across the room, two by two.  It was ecstasy to keep pace with the pretty girl dancing next to me.    

I had planned to take one class a week, but this was so much fun that I went back two days later.  This time I came down from a leap and felt a pain as if I had been shot in the leg.   I hobbled off the floor -- someone asked me if I was all right.  Oh yes, I gasped, it’s just a cramp.  It turned out to be a torn calf muscle that took six weeks to heal.   

As soon as it healed, I went back to ballet class. This was the first of a series of injuries that dogged me for the next ten years.   My wife told me I shouldn’t be jumping.  My response: “jumping is my life.”    

My first ballet class was the beginning of the end of my working career.  Three years later my employer declined to renew my contract, and the boss said he didn’t think my heart was in it any more.  He was right.  My heart was in ballet class, where I continued to jump, and come down in pain, until I finally gave up in my mid-sixties.  Do I regret going back to ballet, with all the pain and loss it caused?  On the contrary, I feel it saved my life.  The body-memory of a releve at age 60 with arms fully raised, back straight, and every muscle and bone engaged in soaring higher, will be my inspiration until I die.   It was my tragic flaw in action.  What makes it tragic is that it can't be fixed,  it’s in my DNA, both my joy and my downfall.    

Once I sat with a delirious man dying in a hospital.  He was stretching his body upward the same way I did in that releve, babbling nonsense, reaching for heaven.  He looked beautiful -- his arms balletic, his face angelic.  The nurse came in and yelled at him.  “If you don’t stop that, I’m gonna restrain you!”  

The world takes it as a duty to restrain people from acting out their tragic flaws, but it is mostly a hopeless task.  If you visit the School of American Ballet in New York, you will see some teachers crippled for life by their dancing days, leading eager children down the same path.  The dancer will dance, the actor will act, the lover will love, the glutton will feast, the saint will give, the tyrant will oppress and the courtier will curry favor, until they expire.  We can give up many things for our health and well-being, but we can’t give up life.  And we die from having lived.   

--   Copyright 2013 by Tom Phillips

My Back Pages

                                    “I got no future, baby, I know my years are few.

                                    The present’s not that pleasant; just a lot of things to do..” 

                                                                                    L. Cohen  

Every summer you learn something about yourself.  It’s the time of year when structure breaks down, when you drift off to different places, some boring, some exciting; you do new things, you do the same old things, but sometimes they come out different.   This summer I learned that I can no longer dance every day and night.  

I’ve been going to dance camp with the Country Dance and Song Society nearly every summer since 1976.  The first year it was American Week at Pinewoods Camp in Massachusetts.  We did Appalachian clogging, contras and squares, plus I took a fiddle workshop and sang early American hymns.  This took place in the woods and went on all day and half the night.  It was the total opposite of my life in the city, working in a tense newsroom, visiting my children on weekends in a broken home.   

I got so high at Pinewoods – on nothing but dance, music, women partners, a black pond and country air – that I could hardly sleep.  I would stand outside my cabin in the dead of night and vibrate in the wind, shaking with a continual attack of energy, howling silently through the trees. 

Lucie Hopkins in a sword dance

I got married again in 1979, to Debra who I met dancing, and now we go to Family Week in New Hampshire with grandchildren from that first marriage.   This year I came up lame after three days of dancing day and night.   Again I could hardly sleep but this time it was from pain, rather than excitement.  My greatest thrills were watching my grandchildren in a sword dance, a morris dance, a mummers’ play.  

I was a semi-invalid for two weeks after we got back, and to stay conscious I spent some time living in the past.  I used to find this uncomfortable; I was always rating my performance, judging whether I had succeeded or failed, whether I had done better than someone else.   But now I think if you give up praising yourself for past success, you can also give up blaming yourself for failure.  It’s all one, very little of it has to do with personal effort or choice.  You were what you were, you are what you are.   

I’m enjoying the past, at least the exciting times of it, the times I felt part of what was happening in the world.   This week I read through old issues of Crawdaddy!, the magazine of rock that appeared briefly and memorably in the late 1960s.  At that time I was writing occasionally about popular music for mainstream publications, but my point of view was shaped by what I’d read in this underground magazine, put out by people younger and more radical than I was, people who believed rock and roll was the template for a new culture, a new way of life in America and beyond.   

I believed it, at least in part, and for a very short period it seemed to be true.  The April 1968 issue of Crawdaddy! brings it all back.  This was the sweet spot of the late 1960s, post-Sgt. Pepper and pre-Woodstock, when the answers were no longer just blowing in the wind, but broadcast on the radio, on mainstream stations, in everyone’s ears.  “All You Need Is Love.”  Americans were still dying every day in Vietnam but here at home, a peace movement was gaining strength, with an anti-war candidate successfully challenging the President, driving him out of the race for re-election.   

Rock and roll was not a unitary phenomenon but a cultural wave, crossing all racial, social and political barriers.  The April issue of Crawdaddy! was on it across the board:  an interview with Jimi Hendrix, a review of Bob Dylan’s pivotal album “John Wesley Harding,” an analysis of the curiously conservative pop art of the Bee Gees, an account  of Brian Wilson’s creative process with the Beach Boys, a review of  the masterful and hypnotic “Notorious Byrd Brothers” – and a concluding editorial by executive editor Paul Williams, in which he held out hope that the music industry could be a vehicle for peace and reconciliation, as well as great art.  “I believe we are on the threshold of a whole new level of mass communication,” he wrote.  “I think that the dreams of both businessmen and artists can be realized, but only to the extent that they both recognize each other, only to the extent that we think of ourselves as all being people, working toward common human goals.”   As Jon Landau pointed out in his review of “John Wesley Harding,” Dylan had cast off his image as a one-sided protester, and was saying the same kind of things.  In “Dear Landlord,” he addresses his adversary:  "If you don’t underestimate me, I won’t underestimate you.”    

That was April 1968.  Two months later, reconciliation went out the window as the presidential campaign became a horror show.  Robert Kennedy, who had entered the primaries trying to push past Eugene McCarthy as the peace candidate, was assassinated in Los Angeles.   Later that summer President Johnson called out the National Guard to defend the Democratic National Convention, and Chicago police went on a riot, attacking anti-war protesters in the streets.  The democrats nominated vice-president Hubert Humphrey, and Richard Nixon was elected in November, with a “secret plan” to end the war that relied heavily on carpet-bombing.    

Rock and roll mirrored the collapse, as the 1967 “summer of love” was succeeded by fear and loathing.  The Beatles floundered, the Beach Boys broke down, the Byrds took refuge in ersatz Country-Western.   Hendrix died, as did Jim Morrison, and others.  Williams left Crawdaddy! and it faded as a critical voice.      

Early 1968 was like our “Arab Spring,” an opening that seemed to look out on a new age of moderation, rationality, peace and love, if only we could get over the hump.  (“Dump the Hump” read my home-made sign as I stubbornly protested and campaigned for McCarthy in the days after RFK’s assassination.)  But we couldn’t get over it, it just kept growing.   

Yet I remember that spring fondly, and I don’t write it off.   If I’m going to enjoy my dotage, I will enjoy it with the thought that someday – not in my lifetime, probably, but maybe in my grandchildren’s, another spring will come, and this time we will find a way over the hump.  Perhaps foolishly, I feel the same way about Tunisia, about Egypt, about China.  I was there during the Tienanmen Square protest that spread to every major city in China, and I don’t believe the Chinese authorities have the power to repress those memories, or the hope the people expressed.  

Remember the “Prague Spring” of 1968?   The Soviet Union sent in tanks to end it, but 20 years later it was back, and this time it was the Soviets who didn’t have the strength to resist.  And a playwright, a Frank Zappa fan, a former prisoner, was elected President of Czechoslovakia.  Proving what?  That rock and roll will never die.   

For people who insist that the end of an essay return to the topic with which it began, I offer this: unable to take my usual outdoor activity because of an inflamed hip, brought on by exercise I can no longer manage, I have just spent several days reading, thinking and writing about my own past, and the future of others.  There are worse ways to grow old.   

 

Copyright 2013 by Tom Phillips

Beauty, Truth, and News

-- By Tom Phillips  

When John Keats wrote “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -- that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know” it was probably a romantic outburst, the final inspiration of a masterpiece, rather than a thought-out philosophical statement.   But a few years earlier,  the great philosopher Immanuel Kant had laid the groundwork for just such an outburst.  Truth is "the indispensible condition of fine art,” wrote Kant in his “Critique of Judgement.”   Kant saw beauty as the great vehicle of truth and goodness, communicated not in concepts but directly to the senses, available to all.   Beauty has a universal appeal, and for Kant it was the means for moving ideas up and down the social ladder, bridging the gap between an educated elite and the common people, creating a unified culture.      

We experience beauty in nature as well as art, but Kant predicted correctly that in the modern age, art would take the leading role.  In the early years of the industrial revolution, Kant foresaw that “nature will ever recede further into the background,” and future ages will have to search for truth and goodness without a daily experience of it.  Art, he said, will bear the burden of civilization, expressing moral and philosophical ideas in beautiful form.   

That was written in 1790.   In the 20^th century, the fine arts rejected the ideal of beauty, and so lost touch with the people.  Modern art, contemporary poetry and conservatory music may be conceptually brilliant; they don’t speak to the masses.   Still, beauty has a life of its own, it is everywhere in the works of humanity.  It finds its way, and we find our way to it.   

After reading Kant and Keats in college, I graduated thinking I was a poet.   Instead I spent much of the next 50 years writing the news for radio and TV, possibly the lowest form of literary work.   But in my own mind at least, it was a way to serve art and beauty.     

Newswriting is not a fine art.  In Kant’s terms, it lacks the essential element of freedom; one is tied to the facts, and there are strict limits on the imagination.   Still, there is an art to newswriting, and it has exactly the same goal as the highest poetry – to render ideas in terms of the senses, in terms common to all.    

To that end you employ definite, specific, concrete language, whether writing about a street fight or an argument before the Supreme Court.  And it has to sing.  People who listen to the radio expect music.  Every sentence needs to scan, and you dress them up with metaphors and similes, internal rhymes, alliterations, and quotations, preferably with a twist on their original intent.   

Time is precious in broadcast news, and especially on a show like the CBS Evening News, where we used to try to write the first draft of history every day, packed into about 20 minutes of airtime.  Later, when I tried to show students how to do it at the Columbia School of Journalism, one said “this is like writing haiku poetry.”   My favorite lead sentence ever was written by a student, Joanmarie Kalter, on a local story.  Somewhere in upstate New York in November, they cut down a big evergreen to be that year’s Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.  She wrote:  “A tree fell in the woods today..”   

The golden age of newswriting seems to be in the past.  At CBS, vivid writing was once the stock in trade, and you might still hear some echoes of Edward R. Murrow on the Evening News.   But original voices like Charles Kuralt and Andy Rooney are gone and irreplaceable, and a new generation of TV journalists is more interested in the arts of digital imagery than in creating pictures with words.  Most news today sounds like it was written by robots, and some of it actually is.  But beauty-and-truth is always out there somewhere.   These days I look for it in the lyrics of wry, cryptic young song-writers on college radio stations, in independent films and videos, and in the writing of a new crop of essayists and bloggers.   Where do you find it?   

-- Copyright 2013 by Tom Phillips  

P.S.  If anyone wants more of my thoughts on the art of newswriting, I spoke about it at length in a 2001 PBS interview, which they later turned into a lesson for high-school and college students.   You can read the interview at http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/media/jan-june01/phillips_06-27.html

References: 
Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn"
Kant, "Critique of Judgement,"  translated by James Creed Meredith.  Oxford World's Classics, 2007.   See Ch. 60 "Appendix"  page 182-3.  

Unfamiliar Quotations

-- By Tom Phillips

Like most people I have my familiar quotations – the 23^rd Psalm, the Lord’s Prayer -- but I rarely use them.  I rely mainly on a small collection of private quotes, proven effective for getting through the day.  None of them shows up in a google search – these are stray quotations, scraps of poems or conversations, possibly misquoted or misattributed, but tried and true.   So here they are:

1. “Most mistakes that people make aren’t that important.”   

This humble truth I remember as the last line of a poem, a lost poem from a defunct magazine of the 1960s, written by a teacher of mine.  The poem was about a bric-a-brac shop full of useless items.  It ended something like, "We should be grateful for these things, because they teach us / Most mistakes that people make aren’t that important.”  The author was Sheldon Zitner, professor of English at Grinnell College.  A Brooklyn native sojourning on the prairie, he later drifted north to the University of Toronto where he became known and loved as a "Canadian poet," though he was about as Canadian as an onion bagel.  When I knew him he was an intense young American poet and playwright, and a brilliant teacher of literature.  For Sheldon every class was a performance – a meticulously prepared improv with students serving as props, foils, dunces, and occasionally co-teachers.   One day he seemed to be holding forth as usual when he suddenly slammed his fist on the desk and apologized --- “I just can’t teach today.” Somehow he felt he was having an off-day, and was furious with himself.   He couldn’t abide anything less than brilliance. The poem may have been an act of kindness to himself – forgiveness for not being perfect.  So when I'm furious with myself in that way, I mumble the last line, savoring its calm rhythm, its modest internal rhyme, its soothing sentiment.  

2.    “Now is not the time to be in a great hurry.”   

This is from another beloved teacher, Zen Master Soen Nakagawa from Japan.  In the 1970s he would fly in periodically to lead intensive retreats for the Zen Studies Society, bringing wisdom and spontaneity to the often solemn and plodding practice of American Zen students.  I loved the personal interviews he would give during retreats at our Zendo in the Catskills.  His dokusan chamber was on the second floor; we would line up at the foot of the stairs, and go up one by one as he rang his little bell.  At one sesshin I had so much to say that I would tear up the stairs as if the place was on fire, making a terrible racket.  On the last day, I tore upstairs again.  But this time he sent me back, and made me walk up calmly and quietly.  “Now is not the time to be in a great hurry.”  

3.    “He knows the heart for the famished cat it is.”  

Here is another fragment of a lost poem, also from a little magazine in the 1960s.  All I remember is that one line and my image of a cat foraging in alleyways, desperate for food.  I remember this while walking the streets late at night, with my chronic recurring deficit of unmet needs, “desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, with what I most enjoy contented least..”  I can’t remember who “He” is in the poem, except that he knows the heart for the famished cat it is.  That lets me know I’m not the only one, in fact we are legion.  “Everybody’s got a hungry heart,” says the pop song, but I prefer my feline image: inarticulate, driven, not just needy but desperately so, famished.      

            

4.  "Steer in the direction of the skid."   

This is from Driver Education in high school---what to do if your car slips out of control on ice or snow.  It was re-purposed by Alan Watts as a way to deal with temptation.  When you feel drawn to one of the seven deadly sins, don't try to yank yourself back in the right direction. You'll just continue to skid, or spin out of control.  Instead, set out to fulfill your desires -- and you will immediately see the consequences you'd been trying to ignore.  Only then can you make a reasoned decision---to sin or not to sin. 

5.  "There is nothing in the world so beautiful as a healthy, wise old man." 
Here is a Chinese proverb, from a culture that respects old age.  I've seen old men whose wizened features glowed with vitality and joy.  Sometimes I feel that way; it's all in the eyes.  W.B. Yeats makes a carving of two ancient Chinese men come alive in his poem Lapis Lazuli:  "..One asks for mournful melodies;/ Accomplished fingers begin to play./ Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,/ Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay."   

5. "What do poets do between poems?  We prepare for our death." 

This last one I associate with Gilbert Sorrentino, another Brooklyn poet from the 60s and 70s.  He was asked that question at a cocktail party, and gave that answer.  The radical simplicity of this lifestyle -- he doesn't even mention eating, drinking, or sleeping -- feels uncompromised.

The founder of Soen’s teaching line, Hakuin Ekaku, had an even briefer, breathtaking summary.  I saw it in an exhibit if Hakuin's calligraphy at Japan Society, a one-word koan, the character for “death.”  

That's all he wrote.  

-- Copyright 2021 by Tom Phillips