—From CB—

I’m writing another book. Don’t know if I’ll call it a memoir or novel, but the title will be “Joy.” A novel has the advantage of leaving things out or telling flat lies, whereas memoirs are expected to tell the whole truth, though they rarely do. The first part will be the “He” section, the second the “You,” the third the “I.” I’ve written the first two (there’ll be many rewrites, of course), but the third—a search for the joy in living at age 82—or 83 by the time it’s finished. I’m keeping a diary of small things, and it makes me appreciate being alive.

But I can’t keep my mind from chewing on the election. I remember Carter’s “malaise” speech: surely one of the most honest and most disastrous speeches in political history, falling victim to Reagan’s can-do smile. But its message is now repurposed: a candidate is saying America is doomed but “I can fix it all,” and this is taken by millions as the answer to the fact that the world is changing, that not everyone is a blllionaire or even respected. But the candidate is respected for his courage in telling obvious lies.

I know we’ll live through it, me or at least my kids. It’s been worse, and life has gone on. The election might even turn out fine, to my taste, though I’m not a betting man. My politics are frankly way left of center, though I’m constantly critical of the rhetoric of my tribe, and ideologues don’t like to be nit-picked. But I’m trying to chronicle the small moments, since that’s mostly what life is. Not that life’s not affected by politics—you don’t have a great time if you’re starving or getting blown apart or even if you’re living, in Thoreau’s phrase, a life of quiet desperation.

Oddly, my purpose was reinforced by watching a 1973 film Visions of Eight —eight short films of the 1972 Olympics, each by a leading director. It chronicled the winners, of course, and the tremendous strain of the competition. But also the losers: the massive weight-lifter who can’t quite make it and lets the barbell fall; the boxer who rants in defeat; the stretcher cases in track and wrestling. And the marathon runner, long after most have finished the race, running in the dark, determined to finish. These are never seen, and must be.

I feel that many of us lead lives of defeat, made so by our expectations, born of our culture’s values. Not that we shouldn’t all shoot for the moon—just that if we get no higher than clearing the bar on the pole-vault, we deserve respect (and self-respect) for the vault. In eighth grade, there was a city-wide track meet. I ran in the fifty-yard dash against other eighth-graders. I came in last. When I caught my breath, I went on to other things.

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