Essays in Idleness

Like other useless old men, I find myself celebrating anniversaries that do not command the attention of the world, for I am surrounded, increasingly, by the dead. For instance, today is the one-hundredth anniversary of the birth of my father — who took his leave from this world about sixteen years ago. I am, like every surviving son of every father, more and more alone with him; and he, in his way, more and more alone with me. This is because I knew him as he was, before the world began to become unrecognizable.

Like his father before him, my father was “radically liberal.” Papa’s adult life began in a uniform, flying sorties in Spitfires against Hitler; grandpa’s began in the mud-fields of France (though happily elevated on a horse), against the Kaiser. Mine I speak about too much, but it was not heroic like theirs. Perhaps only men can understand this: that you cannot be a man until you have risked your life. Nor can you be a good man until you have risked everything in a noble cause.

Papa’s, and also grandpa’s life, as artist, was also fraught with difficulties, which are put in the way of every honest man.

In contrast to the “neo,” or modern, who lives more spontaneously, for comfort.

I wrote, “radically liberal,” but here, too, I am using terms that cannot be understood today. Canada, and the other English-speaking countries, grew up in defiance of the socialist and totalitarian principles that guided many of our neighbours. Our instinct was always to freedom — even, if necessary, from each other. Only very recently in history was this instinct — expressed across a range from moderately liberal to reasonably conservative — compromised, and progressively suppressed. (We exist for the government, now.)

One speaks with the dead, in reverence, through silence. My sense is that papa is still listening.