Nostalgia, I always find it curious to note, originally contained a sense of grief, though most people today seem to associate the word with a more whimsical sensation, closer in kind to mere recollection. Yet the root algia lingers inside the word, with its atavistic meaning of pain still present today, so that anybody can notice that nostalgia always arrives with a feeling of loss. And perhaps that’s why so many people seek out an analgesic—a loss of pain, an insensibility, an escape, available in both liquid and pill—as one way to diminish the difficulty of nostalgia.
July and August aren’t known as months when people are especially nostalgia—though they certainly have nostalgia for those months. The times of childhood exploration. The memories of past vacations. The summers that now appear so innocent. And I don’t believe that I was feeling even a hint of nostalgia when I wrote an essay with a few personal reflections recently—Sensations of Childhood—as it felt joyful, carefree, even propitious to write. Yet I also noticed that, this month, I wrote about the receding of a political sensibility, the changes in storytelling because of technology, and that I quoted from Annie Ernaux, who, in an unfair summary, is an expert at excavating memory.
So I’m left with the contradiction of feeling reasonably upbeat, while noticing that the record of my recent work might point in the other direction. Such is the curiosity of comparing the page with your memory of writing the page. Readers, of course, will make up their own minds.
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Issue 172 — The Value of Art
Artists in the contemporary world aren’t ever asked to justify their work, nor is there ever any condescension about the purpose of a creation, as there is now universal agreement on the value of art.
Issue 173 — Pretending to Listen (🔒 Paid Subscribers)
Conversation is the art of pretending to listen while waiting to speak. The objective is to remain calm, to appear poised, attentive, interested, to contort your face into a caring, thoughtful expression, while you anxiously await just the right moment to interrupt.
Issue 174 — The Proper Distance
A lot of trouble could have been avoided if Mr. Darcy had simply sent a text. Or if Don Quixote could have looked up a few facts along the way. How about if K. had GPS in his pocket? Even a single email would have made Odysseus’ journey more pleasant. Certainly both Romeo and Juliet would have appreciated short, informative, and timely voicemails.
Issue 175 — True Fiction
There is now less space between fiction and non-fiction in my mind. These were once completely separate shelves, which had clear distinctions that didn’t intersect, yet that divide seems, at this point, for me, both less accurate and less important, though this change has happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, in a gradual coalescing of categories.
Issue 176 — 1968 Has Ended
The year 1968 has started to recede in recent times—in the thrust of its political arguments, in the timelessness of its art. And after such a long time as a cultural pivot, I can finally and definitely state that 1968 has ended.
Issue 177 — Abandoned Novels (🔒 Paid Subscribers)
It will always be a tedious fact that the most satisfying pleasures come after a bit of labor—with instant success, immediate victory, and uncontested conquest feeling, in some ways, a little flat. The pursuit of pleasure seems a whole lot more enjoyable than actual, supposed pleasure, which comes pretty close to the paradox that pleasure isn’t pleasurable.
Thank you, as always, for reading.
For what it's worth, etymology lessons are always appreciated.
I think the the degree of “algia” in nostalgia is a function of distance — geographical, chronological, historical. For emigres & exiles, probably most famously Nabokov, the impossibility of return to place is central but even if he could have gotten to St. Petersburg, say, the pre-1917 world he was born in was gone.
But time itself can do some of that too. I’m approaching 60 & working on a memoir, so I’m brought up short sometimes when I’m writing about my childhood. Not because of my toys or tv shows or whatever, but by the aunts & uncles, friends & neighbors who are gone now, & so are many of the places they lived & worked too. It can produce a very weird sensation, as if I’m looking at a vanished civilization.