The Growlery (September 2003) Essays by Michael Gilleland "Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. "This, you must know, is the growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here." Charles Dickens, Bleak House, chapter VIII
Alien Skies Doctor Fell Comfort Foods Brights and Dims Most Recent Essays Archives

Alien Skies

Actor John Depp is in the news because of some unflattering comments he made in an interview with the German magazine Stern about his native land. "America is dumb, is something like a dumb puppy that has big teeth -- that can bite and hurt you, aggressive," whined Depp.

Upset by the predictable fallout (he was instantly labelled Edward Puppyhands, and worse), Depp soon recanted, claiming that he makes his home in southern France only because his wife is French, not because he hates the United States.

Others are leaving because they do hate the United States. Freenet creator Ian Clarke is packing his bags and moving to Edinburgh, Scotland. Here is his parting shot: "As an Irish citizen living in the US, I have decided that it is time to leave this country. It is starting to look, smell, and act as Germany did during the 1930s." Lesser lights, such as Minneapolis puppeteer Mollie Ingebrand and Georgia State University student Thomas Hodges, disgusted with the United States, are seeking asylum next door, in Canada.

Of course, voluntary expatriation is nothing new. Poets Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fled what they regarded as the philistinism of the United States (Pound for Italy, Eliot for England). But Pound eventually returned against his will -- he made over a hundred treasonous radio broadcasts from Mussolini's Italy during World War II, until Italian partisans arrested him and handed him over to United States troops in 1945. Judged mentally unfit to stand trial, he was committed to St. Elizabeth's (a hospital for the criminally insane) in Washington, DC. Upon his release in 1958, he returned to Italy. And let's not forget another famous expatriate, President Kennedy's assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, who tried to defect to the Soviet Union. He lived there from 1959 to 1962, but was denied citizenship and came back to the United States.

Judging from the headlines, you'd think there was a veritable stampede to leave the big, bad United States. But I was struck by a recent Census Bureau report that the number of foreign-born residents in the United States was 33 million in 2002. An interesting table comparing emigration from and immigration to the United States from 1901 to 1990 shows that the ratio of emigration to immigration over that period was less than one third. If immigration were unrestricted, the ratio would probably be even more lopsided. Obviously more people want to enter the United States than exit.

Will those who leave find true happiness in their new homes? The Roman poet Horace (Epistles 1.11.27) said, "Those who run across the sea get a change of sky, but not of mind" (caelum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt), and he was right. Life under alien skies is unlikely to cure whatever is tormenting the latest crop of expatriates.

Philip Nolan, The Man Without a Country, in Edward Everett Hale's memorable story, cried "Damn the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!" He got his wish and lived to regret it. Maybe one day Depp, Clarke, Ingrebrand, Hodges, and all the others will get their fill of life abroad and come to regret their self-imposed exile from this fair land. Or maybe they never will.

In Vergil's Aeneid (10.782), a soldier dies on foreign soil, far from his homeland, and the poet says, "Dying he remembers sweet Argos" (dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos), a poignant line. No less poignant is the opening of Rupert Brooke's sonnet "The Soldier," also about death far from home:

If I should die, think only this of me;
  That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
  In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
  Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English air,
  Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

As a callow youth, I wanted nothing more than to escape from the suffocatingly dull New England town where I grew up, and within days of graduating from high school, I did escape. Now, of course, I want nothing more than to return to that very same town, so rich in history, natural beauty, and colorful personalities.

Many successful people, when they have achieved fame and fortune, turn their backs on the humble scenes of their childhoods, and dwell in the bright lights of Hollywood or Manhattan. It always pleases me to discover contrary examples. Horror-meister Stephen King, a phenomenally successful writer, could afford to live anywhere on earth, but he makes his home in Bangor, Maine. Radio personality Garrison Keillor briefly flirted with apostasy, living for a time in the Babylonian captivity of New York City, but now he's back in the vicinity of Lake Wobegon (Saint Paul, Minnesota) -- a friend of mine saw him in the Mississippi Market on Selby Avenue the other day, buying his own groceries.

Some verses by the Renaissance Latin poet Marcantonio Flaminio (1498-1550) well express the feeling of nostalgia of the exile for his homeland:

Formosa silva, vosque lucidi fontes, et candidarum templa sancta Nympharum, quam me beatum quamque dis putem acceptum, si vivere et mori in sinu queam vestro! Nunc me necessitas acerba longinquas adire terras cogit et peregrinis corpusculum laboribus fatigare. At tu Diana, montis istius custos, si saepe dulci fistula tuas laudes cantavi et aram floribus coronavi, da cito, dea, ad tuos redire secessus. Sed seu redibo seu negaverint Parcae, dum meminero mei, tui memor vivam, formosa silva, vosque lucidi fontes, et candidarum templa sancta Nympharum.

Beautiful forest, and you clear fountains, and holy shrines of shining Nymphs, how blest I would think myself, how favored by the gods, if I could live and die in your embrace! Now bitter necessity compells me to travel to distant lands and to wear out my poor mortal frame with toils abroad. But you, Diana, guardian of this mountain, if I have often chanted your praises with sweet piping and crowned your altar with flowers, grant me, goddess, a speedy return to your retreats. But whether I come back or whether the Fates refuse, so long as I remember myself, I'll live mindful of you, beautiful forest, and you clear fountains, and holy shrines of shining Nymphs.

Update on some more contemporary Philip Nolans:

• Randall Robinson, advocate for reparations for blacks, has moved to St. Kitts. He tells why in his book Quitting America: The Departure of a Black Man from His Native Land.
• Actress Gwyneth Paltrow will raise her first child in England rather than the United States because "At the moment there's a weird, over-patriotic atmosphere over there, like, 'We're number one and the rest of the world doesn't matter.’"

Doctor Fell

Unless you're a saint, you've probably felt at times an instantaneous, intense, visceral, irrational dislike for another human being. Hate at first sight, one might call it. Maybe it's a defensive mechanism, to prevent incompatible personalities from mixing and causing an explosion, like incompatible chemicals.

In seventeenth century Oxford, a wayward student named Tom Brown (1663–1704) was on the verge of being expelled, when John Fell (1625-1686, Dean of Christ Church and Bishop of Oxford) offered him a pardon, on the condition that Tom translate on the spot a Latin epigram by Martial (1.33). Here is Tom's extemporaneous translation:

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this alone I know full well,
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.

I don't like you, Sabidius, nor can I say why;
This only can I say, I don't like you.

Despite the temporary reprieve which his clever translation won him, Tom Brown's further career at Oxford was not a success, and he eventually left without taking his degree.

I'm far from being a saint, and I confess that on occasion I'm guilty of hate at first sight. One person I viscerally dislike is Senator Joseph Biden from Delaware, a pompous, insufferable windbag. Another is President George W. Bush, whose physical mannerisms (perpetual smirk, swaggering gait) irritate me like a sour smell. Whenever I see either of them on the telly, I reach for the remote control, to mute them or change channels. At least my hatred is ecumenical, equal opportunity, and free of party rancor -- Biden is a Democrat, Bush a Republican. I'm sure that both of them are fine gentlemen, beloved by family, friends, and pets -- I just can't stand the sight of them. A blanket condemnation of their policies doesn't necessarily follow from my irrational dislike, though. Also on my little list are the human bobblehead, Jesse Ventura, and actor Hugh Grant, who's just as creepy offstage as on.

What's the antidote for hate at first sight? Abraham Lincoln once said about someone, "I don't like that man. I must get to know him better." I'm unlikely to have the opportunity to get to know Biden or Bush better, and so perhaps a better antidote for me is "Love thy neighbor as thyself" (Leviticus 19:18). And who's my neighbor? Well, there's a famous story about that. It starts out: "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho..." (Luke 10:30-37). It's also salutary to remember that there are probably those who dislike me at first sight.

Not all religions share Christianity's emphasis on loving one's neighbor. Rabbi Meir Y. Soloveichik recently wrote a controversial essay for First Things, the Journal of Religion and Public Life 129 (February 2003) 41-46, entitled The Virtue of Hate, and it's a bit of a shock to hear the ancient Greek goddess Athena say in Sophocles' Ajax (line 79): "Is not laughing at one's enemies the sweetest laughter?"

Comfort Foods

They're not exactly healthy, but then again I don't eat them every day:

1. Pea soup. Not the unappetizing green ooze that goes under the name of split pea soup, but the hearty soup made of whole peas soaked overnight, with diced onions, sliced carrots, and a ham bone. Best eaten with a crusty loaf of French bread.
2. Fish chowder, with white fish, milk, onions, and a bit of salt pork, served with a pat of butter and pepper. A veritable dish for the gods, which improves with re-heating. I used to think that no one could make it like my mother, but my wife's is every bit as good.
3. Cretons, a French Canadian paté made of ground pork, diced onions, and allspice. Barely cover with water, simmer over a very slow fire, pour into custard cups, and put in the refrigerator. Serve cold on toast or Saltine crackers.
4. Tourtière, a French Canadian pie filled with a mixture of ground pork, diced onions, and grated or mashed potatoes, seasoned with nutmeg and cinnamon. Christmas just isn't the same without it.
5. Blueberry pie, made with uncooked blueberries and no upper crust.
6. Whoopie pies, two devil's food cookies surrounding a marshmallow filling. A Maine delicacy.
7. Moxie, a carbonated soft drink invented by Dr. Augustin Thompson of Union, Maine, and marketed as "Beverage Moxie Nerve Food" in 1884. Definitely an acquired taste, it has a fragrant bouquet and robust flavor, with rich hints of cough syrup and Coca-Cola. The town of Lisbon Falls, Maine, hosts a Moxie Festival every summer.
8. Fried clams, whole clams (not strips) in a light batter. If you order fried clams in most restaurants outside of Maine, you get what tastes like a little clam juice fried in a gob of thick batter, which is a travesty of the real thing.
9. Mock drumsticks, strips of veal wrapped around a small stick, dipped in egg and cracker crumbs. My grandmother (Mémère) used to make them when we visited. I haven't had them in years, but just thinking about them makes my mouth water.
10. Pastrami sandwiches on pumpernickel or rye, with potato salad. I recommend the pastrami sandwiches at Cecil's on Cleveland Avenue in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and Bagel Central in Bangor, Maine.

Brights and Dims

Paul Geisert and Mynga Futrell have formed an organization of people known as Brights, who have the following characteristics:

1. A Bright is a person who has a naturalistic worldview.
2. A Bright's worldview is free of supernatural and mystical elements.
3. The ethics and actions of a Bright are based on a naturalistic worldview.

You can proclaim yourself a Bright by signing up at Geisert and Futrell's web site. Among those who have done so are

1. Biologist Richard Dawkins
2. Philosopher Daniel Dennett
3. Magician James Randi
4. Nobel laureate Richard Roberts
5. Helen and Edwin Kagin, founders of Camp Quest, a summer camp for the children of atheists

The rest of us mental midgets, who don't subscribe to the Bright creed, are presumably Dims, or worse. Dawkins even charges that those who give their children a religious upbringing are guilty of child abuse.

I'd guess that many of those who call themselves Brights are employed in scientific and technical professions. In my twenty years in the computer business, I've met few who admit to being Christians, but many who loudly trumpet their atheism. It's refreshing to happen across computer scientists who aren't afraid to confess their faith, such as:

1. Frederick Brooks, author of The Mythical Man-Month: Essays on Software Engineering, who became a Christian at age 31 and is faculty advisor of a chapter of the InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.
2. Larry Wall, creator of the Perl programming language, who is an evangelical Christian and web master of his church's web site.
3. Donald Knuth, author of the monumental Art of Computer Programming, who is a Lutheran and church organist.

One of my favorites Dims is the composer Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). A large portion of his oeuvre consists of religious cantatas, performed in his lifetime as part of the Lutheran liturgy, in which of course a Bright would never participate. Bach was so far from holding a "naturalistic worldview" that even in his secular works he insisted on writing such comments as JJ (Jesu juva = Jesus, help me), SDG (soli Deo gloria = to God alone be the glory) and INJ (in nomine Jesu = in the name of Jesus) in the margins. Mystical, supernatural claptrap, the Brights would say.

A hallmark of Christianity is that you don't need a high IQ to join. You don't need to be a Nobel laureate, or a professor at a famous university. It would be supremely unfair if you did, and it might even be a disadvantage if you do, since "God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty" (1 Corinthians 1:27). There's no age requirement. You can start being a Christian when you're a child, and a childlike demeanor is even recommended to adults: "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 18:3).

In the book of Job (chapters 38 and 39) God posed some questions suitable for those with a "naturalistic worldview," whose "worldview is free of supernatural and mystical elements." Here are just a few of the questions:

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding. Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? or who hath stretched the line upon it? Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner stone thereof; When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? (Job 38:4-7)

Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings toward the south? Doth the eagle mount up at thy command, and make her nest on high? (Job 39:26-27)