Truth, Folly and the Democratic Way

In Folly to Measure Truth and Error, M explores the limits of human understanding. “[T]here is no more notable folly in the world than to reduce these things to the measure of our capacity and competence.” Fair enough; it’s hard to argue with the proposition that there are things of this world that we cannot comprehend. What happened before the big bang? What exactly is this consciousness we experience? However, in light of what we know today, it’s difficult to accept where M next takes this argument. Given the limitations of human knowledge, M insists that we not be critical of those who report events we cannot explain. In short -- miracles. Now it’s one thing not to understand where the universe came from, and quite a different thing to be skeptical of the miracles reported in Augustine’s writings. Did God really stop the sun for Joshua in the valley of Ayalon?

The strange thing is not that M, who after all was a product of his pre-enlightenment times, and apparently a devoutly religious man, argues in favor of the existence of miracles. The odd part is that the very same essay seems to explain how the gullible and uneducated are more prone to accept such reports at face value. “[T]he softer and less resistant the mind, the easier it was to imprint something on it.” But on the heels of this observation, M soon warns against dismissing reports of miraculous events, simply because we cannot explain them, or accept them as likely occurrences.

Even stranger is to examine this essay in conjunction with Repentance. In Repentance, M recognizes the inherent difficulty in knowing anything. “I cannot fix my object; it goes muddled and reeling by a natural drunkenness.” And so, when making decisions in the realm of morals or ethics, M advises us not to look elsewhere for counsel, but rather to trust our own judgment. Now back to the conclusion of Truth and Error, where M advises that, “It is not for us to determine what position of obedience we owe to [the ecclesiastical government].”

Clearly, there is something very odd in the juxtaposition of these two essays. In Repentance, we are urged to trust our own instincts, and not to follow the collective judgment of others. But when we are faced with religious matters, our own instincts and judgments have nothing to say to us. We are instructed to follow the orthodox teachings. Perhaps the problem is that we see M through the lens of our own time, when the churches are no longer absolute, and when the collective judgment of society has become the sovereign. By social compact, we have agreed to govern ourselves by the collective will, and short of the most extreme circumstances (think Nazi Germany), we are bound to submit to that will, whether we like its judgment or not. This elevation of collective judgment, this governance by democratic process, has been accompanied, in large measure, but the sense that, insofar as religious matters are concerned, we can do a pretty fair job of sorting out what’s true and not true. Of course, that too may be a conceit; and our rational examination of these matters may be no closer to the truth than it would have been in M’s time. But I’ll finish with M’s observation that we should, in the final analysis, trust our own judgment about ethical matters: “Do not hold fast, therefore, to their judgment, hold fast to yours.” That seems to apply, in this instance, to the master’s own teachings.

Theo the Second

Theo is back. In case anyone has been on Mars this winter, here’s what happened. The Sox and Theo were renegotiating; something happened; and after being so close to reupping, Theo quit. He walked away. Papers reported some kind of schism with ownership, perhaps a feud with Lucchino. In the meantime, in Theo’s purported absence, the Sox made a couple big signings; but maybe he wasn’t totally gone; maybe he was still in touch? The pitching staff was supposedly improved. Beckett was signed. Of course, exactly how good the pitching staff is won’t be known until we find out if Foulke and Schilling are healthy. And while Theo was absent, the lineup seemed to dissolve. Damon, Mueller, Millar, all gone. Manny again asked for permission to go. And the Sox suddenly found themselves without a shortstop or a centerfielder. Then, a couple months passed, and Theo came back.

In reporting this story, SI calls this tale Shakespearean. Say what? Did I miss something? When I wasn’t paying attention, did someone get stabbed in the night? Poisoned in the ear? More like a comedy, I suppose. How about Much Ado about Nothing? Or maybe it was somewhere between comedy and tragedy, something hard to categorize, say: The Tempest. More likely it was just history: Theo the Second.

Not content to have botched one pretentious allusion, SI then goes on to describe Theo’s negotiations with the Sox as Freudian. How about Jungian? And isn’t there room in here for some reference to Kafka? Kafkaesque is always the favorite adjective of every nitwit who wants to make believe he actually read something in college, although we all know that he just read the classic comic book of The Metamorphosis. Anyway, now we know this story is just a comedy. One written by Homer Simpson. Of course, in a comedy, everything turns out well in the end, and it seems unlikely that we’ll have another epochal happy ending in 2006. So maybe it was just a soap opera.

On a sadder note, a much sadder note, Wilson Pickett died today. It’s not just that he’s gone; after all it had been a long time since Pickett recorded much. But with his passing, who is ever going to sing like that again? Ever. Opera fans are always waiting for the next Caruso, the next Bjorling, the next Pavarotti. But are we ever going to hear the likes of Pickett, or Ray Charles, or David Ruffin again? Not likely. Not in this lifetime, or the next. And we’ll all miss that.

The Virtue of Idleness

“The mind that has no established aim loses itself; for as the saying goes, to be everywhere is to be nowhere.” At first blush it seems hard to argue with the Master's propositions, but on closer inspection, perhaps they're not necessarily true. And it’s also not true that we’ve had no established aim over the past several weeks; the question is more whether it’s been a laudable aim, or just a waste of our time, and by extension then, our minds.

What we have been doing, and a pretty good job of it, was indulging ourselves. First and foremost with good food. By now everyone on the planet knows how we sat outside on Christmas Eve day, smoking trout and steelhead, drinking whisky, and watching the Bills or the Giants on a portable TV. A couple days later, we partook of the smoked fish, along with foods cooked in oil, chiefly latkes and falafel, red wine, John’s whisky and rum sours (made from scratch naturally), and scotch (always scotch), to celebrate the festival of lights, Chanukah. New Year’s Eve we stayed in with Mike, made our own tapas, and then heralded the New Year with Dan, Randy and Highland Park 25.

Accompanying the food was a steady stream of red wine and assorted whiskies. Malts, as usual, but also some great bourbon, Mike’s beverage of choice. Our favorites among them being the Van Winkle’s. Mike prefers the 12, but I especially like the 15, at 107 proof. It’s just a bit strong, but what an explosive flavor. For the sours, we used blended Canadian whisky, mostly Crown Royal. And one night, John impressed everyone by repeatedly distinguishing between Seagram’s Crown Royal, and 1776, that special edition whisky in the tiffany decanter, which we found in the basement of Susan’s folks’ home.

Aside from food and beverage, the chief pursuit of the past few weeks has been SU basketball. Still the preseason, but better pre-conference games than in years past. We’ve enjoyed the re-emergence of Louie McCrosky, and the lane-clearing exploits of Arinze Onuaku. When that kid clears the boards, they are swept clean; there’s no one else left standing. Who knows what the big east will bring, but for now, we’re guardedly optimistic. Hopeful. Expectant. Isn’t that one of the great things about sports? Every year is a new beginning.

Upon reflection, we haven’t really been losing our minds, and I’m not even sure we’re wasting them. By indulging ourselves, and enjoying each other’s company, we are admittedly leaving little time for reflection or intellectual growth. No epiphanies; no life changing insights. But how bad was it, after all, just to enjoy life? Was it really a waste of time to eat well, and drink fine whisky, and listen to jazz music, and spend evenings with family and friends? I think not. Montaigne didn’t live in today’s hectic world; and I doubt his kids lived 400, let alone 4,000 miles away. I won’t lose any sleep worrying that I’ve wasted the past several weeks.

Starting the Year off Right

It’s a new month, a new year, and what better way to start things off than to pontificate about a bunch of new scotches? Not new in the sense that the distiller just brought them to market, but new in the sense that they have recently arrived in our liquor cabinet. And really, what good is a scotch if it isn’t in the cabinet?

Bruichladdich 17: We’re big fans of the laddie, as regular readers of this blog would know. Everyone picked up a bottle of the 15 for Chanukah, as the 15 was the crowd favorite at the tasting last fall. The 17 is perhaps a tad smoother, but the same big taste, an explosion of flavor, with an understated shade of peat for the base. I’m not sure it would be worth whatever extra dough the 17 would cost, particularly in light of the fact that the 15 is so good. But certainly, one would never refuse a glass of the 17. Funny thing about Bruichladdich is that it’s real tough to find out. In fact, I’m not sure I can recall a single bar that features this scotch, in any version.

Lagavulin, Distiller’s Edition. The bomb. I first found this malt in Toronto, at a couple bars that carry good collections of malts. A bartender explained that, at bottling time, the distiller tastes from all the casks, to make sure they are up to proper standards, and in the process, if he finds a cask that is exceptional, it gets put aside for this special distiller’s edition. That sounded like a fine theory, until the next bartender explained that it was double distilled. I don’t think so. But then we picked up a bottle at the duty free, when returning to the States, and the label says this is double matured. And I’ve tried unsuccessfully to find out from the web exactly what is up. In any event, whatever is going on is working just fine. This malt is even smoother and more velvety than the regular Lagavulin 16, already a personal favorite. And the flavor is enormous. Vast. A vast flavor to this malt. (I still recall my third grade teacher, when instructing us on vocabulary, explaining that while many words meant big, we had to pick the right one for each occasion. For example, you’d never say you had a vast pudding for dessert. Maybe not, but this malt does have a vast flavor.) More good news is that it really wasn’t much more expensive than the regular 16. And of course the real good news is that Lagavulin is far more available this year than in the past. So one needn’t save it for special occasions, but can now drink it whenever.

Glenmorangie 10. Breakfast scotch. When we went to the Bruichladdich tasting , Andrew, from the distillery, explained that the scotch folk have a glass of laddie 10 with their breakfast, and then move to the heartier 14 and 15 later in the day. Just joking, that Andrew. But I have concluded that there is a grain of truth to what Andrew had to say. For example, the big Islay malts are really better after dinner, after one’s palate has been bombarded with a variety of flavors. And before the meal, a lighter scotch is better. Or if one is out for the evening, it would be best to start light and then move to the heavier and stronger malts, as the night progressed. So for starting out light, Glenmorangie 10 is perfect. It has a mild, slightly citrus flavor, and is surprisingly smooth for a ten. And cheap, as far as malts are concerned. I’ve been finding it regularly in the $32 to $33 range.

Highland Park 25. I only get to report on this magnificent scotch because Danny got a bottle for Chanukah. It was spectacular. Highland Park is made on Orkney Island, north of Scotland, in what is reputed to be the northernmost distillery in the world. I think that means that the Coriolus force is less there than anywhere else in the world, thus causing as little interference with the distilling process as possible. Andrew claimed it tastes like the Islay scotches, but he’s wrong. It tastes like a hearty highland, but has a suggestion of peat somewhere in the background. I’ve been a fan of the 18, which is wonderfully smooth and flavorful, and a decent buy for an 18. But the 25 was off the chart. Or as Joe Garagiola once said before the world series: “The chemistry tonight is right off the Richter scale!” You can’t really measure how smooth and flavorful this was. Poor Danny doesn’t know that when he was in the lavatory last night, I emptied the 25 into an old Hennessey bottle, and refilled it with a mixture of iced tea, grain alcohol, and liquid smoke. Happy New Year Danny.