Happy Saturday!
I write to you from Milwaukee, Wis., where Barack Obama will be speaking on behalf of Mandela Barnes and Tony Evers in a few short hours. May your weekend be more enjoyably spent.
This weekend’s short story is Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” a tale read in high school that has come to mind many times this past week. Published in 1886 following Tolstoy’s conversion to parts of Christianity, the story falls within the genre of ‘Faustian myth,’ whereupon a mortal knowingly or not enters into a deal with the Devil (crossroads occasionally included). The tale has been interpreted through theological, Marxist, and historical lenses — a testament to its brilliance and humanity’s universal difficulty in confronting greed. Hardly a unique thesis, but Tolstoy’s characters have breathed into them that same animation that awoke Adam, and even in translated short story we can relish the Russian’s brilliance in describing the human condition.
Tolstoy writes:
An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre, promenades, and entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparage the life of a tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.
“I would not change my way of life for yours,” said she. “We may live roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style than we do but though you often earn more than you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, ‘Loss and gain are brothers twain.’ It often happens that people who are wealthy one day are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant’s life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat.”
The elder sister said sneeringly: “Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your goodman may slave, you will die as you are living — on a dung heap — and your children the same.”
“Well, what of that?” replied the younger. “Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to anyone. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by temptations; to-day all may be right, but to-morrow the Evil One may tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don’t such things happen often enough?”
Pahóm, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven, and he listened to the women’s chatter.
You can read the rest here.
Watching the Senate debate in Pennsylvania earlier this week, “Land” was circling as I watched a sick man shoved in front of a camera and the public for his party’s ostensible benefit. John Fetterman should not be anywhere near that race, and the Democrats should be mortified by their abuse of the infirm. The same can be said of Joe Biden’s obvious dotage and the shamelessness of his enablers. So many of our politicians and their teams will not relinquish positions that are altogether too much for them. Even those who are still lucid like Ron Johnson, who announced he would be running again after promising two terms and out, should have stuck with his original plan. I don’t say this unkindly, but as someone who wants the best for them, their families, and the American public.
Cut that final corner and go, retire, and do something else with your lives. Quit moldering in the Capitol, please. As a retired Master Chief once remarked to my division, “No one is going to call when you’re gone. The second you separate or retire, the Navy moves on. Don’t destroy yourselves thinking you’re irreplaceable.” When the elders refuse to depart, young talent withers and tries for success elsewhere. It’s harmful and avoidable; pride is a wood tick — not easily prised but increasingly disgusting and engorged.
Anyhow, here’s Colter Wall — a phenomenal Canadian country talent — growling about his run-in with the Devil, and what the old man wore:
