Darling (20 page)

I'm sure the soldiers considered burning to be an appropriate destruction of a sacred artifact. Americans consider flame to be a purifying element. What the soldiers did not stop to consider was that destroying the Word of God is an affront to God.

How can God be affronted by a couple of GIs building a bonfire? It is the faithful who are affronted on God's behalf.

The danger of weighted knowledge is literalism.

The danger of weightless knowledge is relativism.

The manufacture of my iPad, despite the fact that it is a miracle of weightless synthetic information, has already added burden to
the misery of mankind. An item from the
New York
Times
(I can easily find the date on my iPad; here it is—January 25, 2012): “Aluminum dust from polishing iPads caused the blast at Foxconn's plant in Chengdu. Lai Xiaodong was among those killed. He had moved to Chengdu, bringing with him his college diploma six months earlier.”

Even now a pretty brown cow steps nymph-like through a green pasture in Shaanxi province; even now she takes the spirit of the living God into her delicate nostril. God knows she will soon be melted to glue, all unwilling, to bind this book.

In the beginning was the Word: the Word was with God and the Word was God. . . . The Word was made flesh.
 . . .

Jesus said to Thomas: Put your finger here; look, here are my hands. Give me your hand; put it into my side.

•   •   •

We will now rebuild the tree. The tree I have in mind will take thousands of trees and many years to build. I have a photograph before me of the Long Room of the library at Trinity College, Dublin, completed in 1732. The ceiling is a curved vault of candle-fumed wood. The floor is a plane of honey. The photograph shows a receding corridor on each side of which rise arched alcoves. Within the alcoves are shelves, from floor to ceiling. On the shelves are books bound in leathers of every hue, all brown. There are wooden banisters, benches, pilasters. The only appurtenances that are not brown are white marble busts of philosophers, poets, playwrights.

The room is massively silent. It ruminates upon a thousand forests and a thousand cities and personages, revolutions and plagues, ships lost and continents discovered. Sentences,
formulae, drawings—knowledge is the sap of this tree. The tree is alive though all the philosophers represented by all the busts are dead.

The room will speak if questioned.

•   •   •

One of the earliest English definitions of brown—Samuel Johnson's definition—is of any color compounded with black. We have come to think of brown not only as a mitigation of black, but as an alternative to black, or as an abeyance. Love is stronger than death, say. Death being black. Or, beer does more than Milton can. Beer being brown. As if brown were a separate consideration. (
And malt does more than Milton can / To justify God's ways to man
—A. E. Housman's assertion.)

Earth is itself a canted color wheel, a cycle of vegetable, mineral, animal, and atmospheric accommodations to the Earth's passage around the Sun. The segment, the turn of the Earth, that corresponds to brown in the Northern Hemisphere is autumn. Consider, for example, the brown field in autumn, the stubble field. In climates where winter is cold, the autumnal field represents at once Nature depleted and Nature bountiful. There is something about the indeterminacy of brown that lends itself to such paradox.

She is the matronly season, Autumn, comfortable in her warm landscape. Ripe Autumn can nearly be heard to sigh:
Here will I rest a bit, my bounty is suddenly very heavy.
Her lids droop. Her smile is pleasantly hazy. Her days are shortening. But the sun is delicious. Isn't the sun delicious? Thoughts turn to elegy and apples.
Try one of these,
she says. Then, she says,
What do you suppose death is like?

In September of 1819, the English poet John Keats, aged twenty-four, took a long walk before dinner. He was stopping for a time in Winchester. “I never liked stubble-fields so much as now,” he wrote in a letter to his friend John Reynolds. “Aye better than the chilly green of spring. Somehow, a stubblefield looks warm—in
the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.”

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

The ode “To Autumn” was written by a young man as if it were a young man's poem—Keats embracing his equation—as if the benediction of an ample day will not fail.

Still, not an autumn returns that I do not remember you by it, John Keats—that first day of which I am able to say: I can feel fall in the air. Though no longer young, I expect to rise in fall.

•   •   •

In 1625 John Donne, the English poet and Anglican priest, in a sermon at St. Paul's Cathedral, London, expounded on creation, as thus: When God made the world, he put into it
a reproofe, a rebuke, lest it should seem eternall, which is, a sensible decay and age in the whole frame of the world, and every piece thereof.

In Los Angeles, on the hottest day of the year, the electrical grid surges upward in a digital tsunami, crests, browns out. The Kumtag Desert in China drowns the Silk Route, flows onward toward the city. Earth warms. Blankets of snow are thrown off. Rivers sink into their beds. Seas rise vertically like bamboo forests. Human activity forms an interesting brown cloak that floats over Lagos and Bangkok. Treacle-colored, coal-heated nineteenth-century London sounds wonderfully atmospheric in novels. But it was not wonderful. Eyes, throats, lungs burned; mouths blistered.

The first Earth Day was proclaimed, rather than astronomically calculated, by Senator Gaylord Nelson (D) of Wisconsin, at a conference on overpopulation in 1969. That same year, at a UNESCO conference, John McConnell, a California environmentalist,  proposed a global Earth Day to coincide with the March equinox. Earth Day has evolved into an antihistorical celebration of prelapsarian Nature—Nature before human intrusion. The ideal human relationship to Nature, therefore, becomes one of corrective restoration. In the words printed on my cereal box: “Always leave the earth better than you found it.” Green spring is an appropriate metaphor for the ambition of a perfectible world. Do not the branches of trees flounce about in pubescent green?

It becomes ideological to see brown as the harbinger of the end of Nature. But the bark of the tree—the wise part—forms protectively about the livid core. Surely autumn is as necessary a part of Nature as spring.

And brown has always been the sum of our breathing and eating and moving about. Even in the days of yore—days of
Odyssey,
days of
Gilgamesh
—smoke floated over villages and towns, heartening the traveler, still many miles distant.

•   •   •

There is a relationship, as young Keats noticed, between autumnal hues and warmth. One can certainly find a cold brown landscape. I grew up in such a landscape, one that might have been painted by Millet. When the fog rose from the fallow field, it was very cold in December. Even so, mine in the Central Valley of California remained, even in winter, a baked landscape. Nothing about it was raw. If only for its hue, it never appeared desolate to me. The earth was rich beneath its crust. I knew that if I dug down far enough—as far as gravediggers dig—I would find a room as warm as April.

I retain my liking for baked landscapes. For desert and the caramelized cities. Once, in an Italian hill town, on an uncomfortably warm August afternoon, I entered a restaurant, the only restaurant, where several clay ovens were blazing and citizens were ordering platters of roast pig for their Sunday dinners and drinking from
earthenware jugs of cool wine. It was insanely warm. By and by, the room grew tolerable. I now declare I find the memory of it to be of exactly the right temperature.

There is evasion involved in cuisine, as with all human embarrassments, an evasion not of our cursed biblical state as grain-and-root-eaters (
from the soil shall you
 . . . etcetera) but of our evolutionary, renegade taste for blood. Of ourselves as hunters. For we have not only the necessity to eat, the capacity to hunt, but also to pity our prey. Who does not pity the lamb?

Nor do I like to eat pale things. Poached eggs or fish or fowl. I want a buttered crust. I had an aunt who used to make a meal of boiled chicken with yellow skin and white gravy—and it nearly drove me mad to watch her. I prefer my warm-blooded fare to be certified cruelty-free, to arrive in unrecognizable “cuts” and yet to be served up with a purgatorial crust. I want malt
and
Milton.

In Kathryn Davis's novel
Hell,
there is a recipe for blancmange: Almonds are pounded to extract their milk, the milk is then strained, then sugar and transparent gelatin are added. The alloy is filtered once more through a white napkin.

. . . The resultant mixture . . . will be in fact utterly without texture, without substance, almost, you might say, without material existence, so that . . . to swallow it would be to swallow nothing, to attempt communion not with the body and blood of God's son but with the holy ghost itself . . .

Chocolate, on the other burner, is one of the densest, brownest, most guilt-ridden substances we have learned to put into our mouths. It is also, curiously, one of the most refined—refined not from straining, but by compaction. Cacao was cultivated and eaten throughout Mesoamerica. In 1528 the Spanish explorer Hernán
Cortés transported the first cacao beans to Europe from Mexico. The refinement of chocolate proceeds as follows: The cacao tree puts forth pods. The seeds are harvested from the pods, fermented, dried, bagged. The chocolate manufacturer blends several strains of the beans for flavor and color. The beans are roasted and ground, then ground again to release their butter, then rolled around in drums and I don't know what all.

We relish taking in what most closely resembles—excuse me—what comes out. We are slow ovens. Ninety-eight point six. Brown is our biological point. Being alive depends on keeping warm. A warm room can be of any color, but heat feels brown, even though exhalations of breath on a cold morning are ghostly white. A bed as white as blancmange can feel as brown as a stable or a nest.

There exists a warm-blood club, no question. Warm blood might summon to your mind an albino bunny with red eyes, but the concept, you've got to admit, even if you have never taken a nap with your dog, even if your dog is black, is brown. And from warm blood comes sentimentality, which must be a vestige of fur.

No sober discussion of brown should omit mention of Marcel Duchamp's painting
Chocolate Grinder (No. 2),
1914, wherein three inexorable brown drums rest on a chassis that is elevated on decorative antique-moderne legs. The painting is beautiful; it is an accurate depiction of the physics of pressure. And it is ridiculous.

•   •   •

Now we will cut the wind from the tree. This entails killing the tree. Cut at the base. Birds fly upward. The tree may experience sorrow after its hundred amber-blooded years.

Cut the tree in sections, twelve feet long. Cut one of the sections lengthwise to appraise its grain—its diseases, indecisions, parsimonies.

Some years are deep brown cellos. Some, lithesome violins.
Some years are mantels or pillars or transoms. Some are ploughs and spoons for stirring. The rest is broom handles, toothpicks, clothespins. The rest is firewood and paper.

Take a block of the finest grain and carve of it a scroll. Make a thin slice of a softer grain, as thin as ham. And then another. And cut from these two scarab shapes for front and back. Cut it some gills. Bow its belly and thump its back. Seal, sand, varnish. String chords through the frets of its neck.

We will then recompense the wind and the leaves. We will make music.

•   •   •

In Manhattan, Billy Baldwin designed a brown study for Cole Porter—a famous room in the annals of décor. Ebony shelves were supported by brass piping. The dark walls were of tortoiseshell design on Chinese lacquered paper. There was a piano, several club chairs—this was a first-class cabin with no apparent clutter of creation.

The “brown study” is a term that originally referred to a state of mental absorption or abstraction. Etymologically, in this case, brown equals gloom. The fictional detective Sherlock Holmes was described by his fictional chronicler, Dr. Watson, as “in a brown study,” a state of intense rumination, often accompanied by tobacco smoke, morphine, or Paganini. I wish now to conflate the term with the site. When Holmes and Watson first engaged rooms at 221b Baker Street, Watson described “a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows.”

Through many subsequent volumes of stories, the rooms darken considerably with the clutter of newspapers, chemical experiments, and notebooks—the clutter of overgrown boys—but also with an atmospheric residue of the contemplation of evil.
So that, in the ultimate volume, after many adventures, “it was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy room . . . He looked round him at the scientific charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle which contained of old the pipes and tobacco.” Holmes's study is a type of the necromancer's tower. Prospero's cell is another. The scriptorium of Saint Jerome. Merlin's cave. Faust's gothic chamber. Even Henry Higgins's library. The room represents the workings of the mind. The room must be untidy in order that mental abstraction will be orderly.

Sigmund Freud had two brown rooms. The first, in Vienna, where he invented a psychoanalytic method in much the same way that Conan Doyle invented detection—through an accumulation of case histories. The second in London. In either of Freud's brown studies, in both, books as well as prints and antiquities are displayed with an abacus-like precision. The seat of disorder in the room is a divan, covered with an irregularly patterned, plum-toned oriental carpet. Disorder enters Freud's study through a subject's subconscious.