mon coeur?
And in the little park with Nathan Hale on a pedestal, hands bound behind his back, I stopped and thought about the child Iris and I never had, who gave up his life before he was born. My little bumblebee. My little gumdrop.
I am a happy man. I have a duty to be.
Americans are meant to live, love, laugh, and be happy. The quintessential American philosophy: work it out—make the best of it—lighten up. We’re optimists. Leave agonized introspection to the Swedes and cynicism to the French and Weltschmerz to the Berliners and Ich bin nicht ein Berliner. Problems can be solved. Don’t sweat it. Play it for laughs. Where there is love, there’s comedy. Don’t hang out with unhappy people; don’t go into a profession full of the humorless. Be happy.
All through my younger days, I had morbid fears of drowning inside a car or suffocating in a coffin, or having my skull fractured by a giant vise operated by evil apes, or riding a train that derails on a high trestle over a rocky gorge, or going to the electric chair at Sing Sing, or skidding off the South Rim of the Grand Canyon to the horror of thousands of Japanese tourists.
And then I learned that music can postpone dread. And so can sex. The St. Matthew or the passionate nakedness of two happy adults.
A beef sirloin is good, too, slightly charred on the outside and reddish pink in the middle, nicely peppered, with mustard aioli.
And sleep. A good solid eight hours of Z’s in a room with a window open and a salt breeze blowing in.
Fresh melon from a roadside stand. An endive and pear and blue cheese salad. A rousing Broadway musical with some classy comic turns and a winsome leading lady and a terrific tap routine in Act 2 and a grand finale with the whole ensemble dancing with faces aglow and hands in the air. A good medicinal martini with a fellow martinist. Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. The Beatles’ White Album. A September day in St. Paul. A fine Episcopal mass in a sunny sanctuary and the organist plays quietly and the choir hangs together on the anthem and the homily is concise and your sins are lifted from your back and you come away from the Lord’s Table filled with grace and walk out into the sunny world with a fresh chance at life. And the snooze during the Scripture readings is good, too.
Many things have the power to make us happy. A good ball game, score tied, bases loaded, two out, bottom of the ninth, and the local hero punches a double into the right-field corner—but no! the first baseman leaps and spears the ball for the third out!—No! The ball caroms off his glove and into the box seats and knocks the commissioner of baseball’s rug off his head! The crowd rises, yelling, ecstatic. Walking around New York City on a summer night. Walking around the Minnesota State Fair. The Bach Mass in B Minor or St. Matthew’s or Handel’s Messiah and a big choir leaning into it like sled dogs on the tundra.
Moving can make you happy. America is a big country. If you’re unhappy in Minnesota, you should try Iowa, or Wyoming, Oregon. Any state with an O in it. California, or Washington, or Montana, or North Dakota. Illinois. Vermont. Colorado. The list goes on and on. Don’t accept grim fate. Dance on out of town, hop a freight train, ride the dog, borrow your mom’s car, and make a fresh start.
I walked around Ramsey Hill thinking about New York.
My agent had gotten me a cool $200,000 advance for the sequel to Spacious Skies, to be called Amber Waves of Grain. I had written to Mr. William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker, and asked if I could come to the magazine as a staff writer. He wrote back:
Dear Mr. Wyler,
Delighted to hear you’re considering moving to New York and of course we’d be tickled pink to have you here on the premises. Roger Angell says you’re quite the gent. Let us know your arrival date and we’ll order the flowers and the chorus girls and have West 43rd blocked off for the parade.
William
And in the little park with Nathan Hale on a pedestal, hands bound behind his back, I stopped and thought about the child Iris and I never had, who gave up his life before he was born. My little bumblebee. My little gumdrop.
I am a happy man. I have a duty to be.
Americans are meant to live, love, laugh, and be happy. The quintessential American philosophy: work it out—make the best of it—lighten up. We’re optimists. Leave agonized introspection to the Swedes and cynicism to the French and Weltschmerz to the Berliners and Ich bin nicht ein Berliner. Problems can be solved. Don’t sweat it. Play it for laughs. Where there is love, there’s comedy. Don’t hang out with unhappy people; don’t go into a profession full of the humorless. Be happy.
All through my younger days, I had morbid fears of drowning inside a car or suffocating in a coffin, or having my skull fractured by a giant vise operated by evil apes, or riding a train that derails on a high trestle over a rocky gorge, or going to the electric chair at Sing Sing, or skidding off the South Rim of the Grand Canyon to the horror of thousands of Japanese tourists.
And then I learned that music can postpone dread. And so can sex. The St. Matthew or the passionate nakedness of two happy adults.
A beef sirloin is good, too, slightly charred on the outside and reddish pink in the middle, nicely peppered, with mustard aioli.
And sleep. A good solid eight hours of Z’s in a room with a window open and a salt breeze blowing in.
Fresh melon from a roadside stand. An endive and pear and blue cheese salad. A rousing Broadway musical with some classy comic turns and a winsome leading lady and a terrific tap routine in Act 2 and a grand finale with the whole ensemble dancing with faces aglow and hands in the air. A good medicinal martini with a fellow martinist. Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. The Beatles’ White Album. A September day in St. Paul. A fine Episcopal mass in a sunny sanctuary and the organist plays quietly and the choir hangs together on the anthem and the homily is concise and your sins are lifted from your back and you come away from the Lord’s Table filled with grace and walk out into the sunny world with a fresh chance at life. And the snooze during the Scripture readings is good, too.
Many things have the power to make us happy. A good ball game, score tied, bases loaded, two out, bottom of the ninth, and the local hero punches a double into the right-field corner—but no! the first baseman leaps and spears the ball for the third out!—No! The ball caroms off his glove and into the box seats and knocks the commissioner of baseball’s rug off his head! The crowd rises, yelling, ecstatic. Walking around New York City on a summer night. Walking around the Minnesota State Fair. The Bach Mass in B Minor or St. Matthew’s or Handel’s Messiah and a big choir leaning into it like sled dogs on the tundra.
Moving can make you happy. America is a big country. If you’re unhappy in Minnesota, you should try Iowa, or Wyoming, Oregon. Any state with an O in it. California, or Washington, or Montana, or North Dakota. Illinois. Vermont. Colorado. The list goes on and on. Don’t accept grim fate. Dance on out of town, hop a freight train, ride the dog, borrow your mom’s car, and make a fresh start.
I walked around Ramsey Hill thinking about New York.
My agent had gotten me a cool $200,000 advance for the sequel to Spacious Skies, to be called Amber Waves of Grain. I had written to Mr. William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker, and asked if I could come to the magazine as a staff writer. He wrote back:
Dear Mr. Wyler,
Delighted to hear you’re considering moving to New York and of course we’d be tickled pink to have you here on the premises. Roger Angell says you’re quite the gent. Let us know your arrival date and we’ll order the flowers and the chorus girls and have West 43rd blocked off for the parade.
William
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