compare the perspective of George Saunders’, as he reflects in the preface to the new edition of Civilwarland in Bad Decline about his interior emotional drive, with that of Elizabeth Wurtzel’s as she stumbles along trying to grasp at, well, something in that now-infamous essay.
It’s good that Marco Rubio, Condoleezza Rice, Artur Davis and other “coloured” representatives spoke at at the Republican National Convention, and that cameras lingered upon the faces of Black and Asian delegates, because what else would distract us from the scores of…
i get the point, and do not disagree, but if you’re going to disparage the religiously-affiliated, at least get your stereotypes right! precious few episcopalians would identify as republicans, and RNC convention-going types among them are even fewer. the vast majority of episcopal dioceses are about the last stop on the mainline protestant train before you get to unitarian universalism.
secondly, they’re called evangelicals.
i have no truck with “gun-toting deer-hunting Republican beneficiaries” though.
(Source: takesamuscle)
on the weekend we drove east and a little north to pick up the champagne for our wedding. florian, a good friend of gilles’, was raised in the region, and it’s through him that we know this particular champagne: the producer is a family friend.
on leaving paris it very quickly becomes rural and it is easy to drift into pastoral reverie. the fields and hills are very green, the cows are very white (“trois vaches dans le pré,” i dutifully practice), the villages are tiny and far away.
after the highway we drive an unmarked country road past stacked bales of hay, turning a corner and descending into a valley, a hamlet with perhaps 25 houses nestled at the heart-center of the hills of green.
the vitner and his wife invite us in and we all sit down together. they answer all our questions. this year’s harvest will be later and smaller because of the cold summer. we need to pray for rain in september, otherwise the grapes won’t flourish and the fruit will be tiny — all skin.
he brings out a bottle of champagne — uncorked and very young, but still exceptional. as he pours she tells me that the key to lots of bubbles is that the glasses have to be a little less than perfectly clean. that it’s actually the minuscule particles of dust and debris with which the champagne comes into contact that cause the oxygen to rush upward. never wash your champagne glasses in the dishwasher, she instructs me.
the vitner’s parents owned the vineyard, and it was divided into three parts between their three sons. of the brothers, he is the only one who still makes champagne. the others just grow the grapes and sell their harvest to the big houses (“grosses maisons,” somehow appropriate), which is a more secure way of life. less dependent on prayers for rain. the big houses don’t have their own vineyards — did you know that? they buy their grapes from the regional growers, and so their champagne is always a mix, never single-origin.
here at this vineyard they produce less than ten thousand bottles a year. their largest customer is a man who owns a restaurant near bordeaux; he buys 400 bottles each year. mostly, they tell us, it’s little grandmothers who come around for a demi-bouteille. if they advertised — had a sign in front of their house, for instance, as many of the local producers do — they would sell out their year’s production very easily. but this doesn’t seem to be the primary goal.
there are two ways to harvest: the traditional way, with a team paid by the day, everyone working alongside each other — harvesters and owners alike — for eight days straight (though not on sundays) and all breaking to eat all together: breakfast, lunch and dinner. or you can hire workers who are paid by the kilo. they are very fast, but they will harvest “anything that weighs.”
with the economy and the climate, the horizon doesn’t look promising. each year they set aside half the grapes for the next year, in case of a bad harvest. but two bad harvests in a row you can’t prepare for.
investors have already bought and seeded vineyards in cornwall, england, anticipating that in five years the best grapes for champagne will be grown even further north. there are always folks lobbying the european commission to declassify champagne — to make it a variety and not an appellation, which means it could be grown anywhere. which means it could be grown anywhere.
there is a french expression gilles uses when we’re cooking together, or when i’ve made something he finds especially good. he says, “we’re close to the truth,” or “baby, you’ve found the truth.” it’s a charming idiom that also belies centuries of french culture: we know something by its origin. and we know it is good by its origin, and we can rely on the truth of its goodness because we know its origin.
two hours and one bottle of champagne after we arrived, the man who harvested the grapes loads the magnums into the back of our car. he and his wife stand in their driveway and wave goodbye until we are gone from view.
we see color differently. it’s one of the few things we argue about, and we are both incredulous each time the other expresses their difference of opinion.
recently we discovered it’s a matter of spectrum — his green starts before my blue ends, and his yellow begins before my green is over. though gray is problematic, too.
other things about which we argue:
the correct temperature in which to wash one’s clothes (he’s hot; i’m cold)
how one gets sick (he attributes illness to air-conditioning, to sudden changes in temperature; i tend to stick with germ theory)
how nice to have something easy on which to blame each other’s idiosyncrasies: culture at large rather than individual determination. but more than easy, it’s pleasurable, too; i can assume nothing about him so everything is discovery.
sometimes i’ll ask: is this just you, or is this a french thing?
but luckily it’s never all that clear.
flavors the french are more into than americans:
flavors americans are more into than the french:
- for anything spreadable prefer the spoon to the knife
- call ahead for a reservation. take no heed of the fact that you’re literally five minutes away and the restaurant is literally empty: call ahead.
- yield to the right
- dance aerobics at the gym with course names like: WACKING, SH’BAM and KRANK
- iron every item of clothing you own, yes, even cardigans. this is not for neatness’ sake, but is because european washing machines crumple and mangle clothing of every type and ironing is a precursor to even being able to put the item of clothing on.
- before a fancy meal, champagne is de rigeur
when first getting to know the man for whom i moved to paris, in an effort to describe some aspect of my personality i said something like: “i make big decisions quickly and agonize over small ones.”
he’s remarked on this characteristic more than once, affirming its truth; the upheaval of the last few months of our lives is evidence enough.
as is our average trip to the grocery store.
what is strange to me — quite literally foreign — when it comes to both language and signification is not something he even notices. this is natural, and no different than anyone’s experience in a place that is not one’s own country.
but combine it with the subtle negotiations that happen when adjusting to living life with another person and layer on the differences in our personalities (he approaches everything with logical efficiency, me with intuitive deliberation) and you have this portrait of the two of us in the yogurt aisle at the monoprix:
he loads our cart with five different yogurts, then stands and watches me. i am motionless, struck dumb, just staring at the options, not even capable of picking up an item and trying to discern whether it has all the qualities i look for in yogurt. i am bewildered not just intellectually, but existentially: if choice has been rendered meaningless, who am i?
eventually we move on to the fresh fruits and vegetables. i tell him we need limes and watch with a slightly sinking feeling while he rapidly chooses the nearest three limes, bags them, and tosses them into the cart. were it me i would have carried out a thorough assessment to determine which are the best limes. which have the weight and feel of a truly juicy citrus fruit? which have the smoothest rind? which smell the most like limes?
later on when discussing the difference in our shopping habits he offers this solution, half in jest, half serious:
“next time we’ll just buy the whole lot of limes and you can choose the ones you want at home.”
- messy, unbrushed hair
- little to no concern when leaving cooked food (as long as it’s sans meat and dairy) out on the stove for a couple of days
- no need to shower every day
- not inclined to smile at strangers
- diet consisting mainly of cheese, bread, jam, yogurt
- analysis more appealing than action
I owe so much
to those I don’t love.
The relief as I agree
that someone else needs them more.
The happiness that I’m not
the wolf to their sheep.
The peace I feel with them,
the freedom –
love can neither give
nor take that.
I don’t wait for them,
as in window-to-door-and-back.
Almost as patient
as a sundial,
I understand
what love can’t.
and forgive
as love never would.
From a rendezvous to a letter
is just a few days or weeks,
not an eternity.
Trips with them always go smoothly,
concerts are heard,
cathedrals visited,
scenery is seen.
And when seven hills and rivers
come between us,
the hills and rivers
can be found on any map.
They deserve the credit
if I live in three dimensions,
in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space
with a genuine, shifting horizon.
They themselves don’t realize
how much they hold in their empty hands.
“I don’t owe them a thing,”
would be love’s answer
to this open question.
- Wislawa Syzmborska, who died yesterday, translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
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