Adams said that our own revolution was really an
evolution, in that the final decisions leading to war
had a history that was definable, digested and well-ordered.
I’m on the second volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, and I
appreciate his talent so much. It’s a joy to learn how to use
language from him. And thank you for this review.
I do think a Nation grows weary. I’m not sure if we’re tired or
not, but I suspect we are.
I read a piece recently that called for a complete reordering;
a hard and fast break back to a stark and undeniable
federalism. And though I’m sure the writer didn’t intend it,
his piece read like an assault against civilization as it
exists today, in the concrete. He wrote that, no doubt, there
would be pain, but what can that mean for us as a Nation
comprised of so many millions of souls? What will that mean
concretely?
A Union fought the Cold War, not 50 disparate States, each of
its own accord, deciding that the Evil Empire had to fall. For
better or worse, we’re a Union now in body and soul. Was it
Chesterton who said we were a Nation with a soul?
I think our biggest strength, as long as it holds, is that
we’re an idea. We’re also not Manicheans. Voegelin found refuge
here. Popper found hope in America when he’d despaired of it
elsewhere. These men were not only influential, they were at
odds.
The Puritans are thought to have been Manichean, but I’m not so
sure. In one of his books, C. S. Lewis noted that a correct
view of the Puritans would have to be one that was opposite of
the one we presently hold of those who currently bear that
name.
NYS is a very underrated State in terms of its beauty and
variety. Letchworth State Park and some of the surrounding
hamlets let you easily peek back into history. Homes, a few as
old as 150 years, meticulously built and maintained. Minor
details that transform merchant class homes and even some
agrarian homes into veritable works of art. Precision and
beauty without bombast; I’m intensely attracted to that.
My dad is a stone-cutter and his handiwork dots the small town
that I grew up in. It will remain long after he’s gone. We
always had a pile of burgundy sandstone and a pile of sand in a
small area in our back yard. And there my dad would be with his
chisel, and there I would be sitting on one of the stones, and
being with my dad. I love the heft and cool feeling of stone.
Yet when I travel to Italy I make it a point to visit a small
church in a town called Pescocostanzo. For whatever reason this
town avoided the Allied bombings. The Altar, the pulpit, are
all wood. Beautifully worked wood. Warm and lively wood. It was
as beautiful as St. Peter’s to me. Maybe more so.
