COVID-Diary, Week Ten

The prize for Scripture’s least celebrated rhetorical question should probably go to Zechariah ben Berechia ben Iddo, one of the three prophets who presided over the initial stages of Israel’s mid-sixth century BCE return to Zion after captivity in Babylon.

Looking out at the unfinishedness that characterized basically everything his eye could see—the so-far-only-partially-rebuilt walls of Jerusalem, the so-far-unsuccessful effort to rebuild the Temple and turn it into a functioning place of worship, the so-far-fruitless effort to place a scion of the House of David on the throne of Israel, and the so-far-failed effort to bring the descendants of the original exiles en masse back to the Jewish homeland and there to re-establish themselves, if not quite as a free people in its own place, then at least as a semi-autonomous ethnicity within the vast reaches of the Persian Empire—looking out at all that (and possibly remembering his older prophet-colleague’s promise that theirs was to be a day of “wholly new things”), the prophet acidulously asks his best question. Mi baz l’yom k’tanot? Are you really going to disrespect our moment in history as a nothing but a yom k’tanot, as “a day of small things” and negligible accomplishments?

It won’t matter in the long run, he promises, because the naysayers and scoffers will eventually all abandon their pessimism and rejoice in the nation’s future successes in all of the above undertakings. And, the prophet adds, the eyes of God are truly trained on the people at this specific juncture in their history, taking it all in and watching to see whether the people can summon up the will to do the right thing, to persevere, to keep at it…even despite the overwhelming nature of each single one of the tasks facing it. And who can say that small successes won’t turn into big ones? If I can summon up optimism in the face of the overwhelming nature of the tasks facing us all, the prophet almost says out loud, so why shouldn’t you also feel at least slightly hopeful? Is that really asking too much?

It’s one of my favorite passages in all the prophetic books, bringing together all my favorite COVID-era themes: guilt, irony, hope, resilience, and courage. And this truly is a day of small things, of small advances that feel unimportant in the larger picture. Last week, I wrote to you all about the dangers of magical thinking. This week, I’d like to write about a different danger facing us all: the danger of sinking into depression born of what we perceive to be realism, of doing precisely what the prophet forbade: being dismissive of small things because they aren’t big things, thus missing the opportunity to build on what already exists and, at least possibly, make small accomplishments into large ones.

The plague has taken a lot from each of us and some things from us all. Pleasures that once seemed have-able merely for the asking—heading out with a friend for a walk or a coffee somewhere, successfully finding an hour in an otherwise jammed week to work out at the gym, or to go for a swim, or to stop by the kids’ place to take the grandkids for an unexpected ice cream—even these simplest of life’s pleasures have all been taken from us. And yet these horrific weeks in which deaths in New York State have almost hit the 30,000 mark (of which almost 2,000 in Nassau County alone), these weeks that have taken so much from us and made us afraid to turn on the news at night lest we hear even more bad news, these weeks have also brought us small things—Zechariah’s k’tanot—to be grateful for.

There are lots of things I could mention. The curve has clearly flattened. At least some of the most dramatic efforts to deal with COVID—the transformation of the Javits Center into a US Army-run COVID hospital, for example, or the setting up of a field hospital for COVID patients in Central Park—have been abandoned as local hospitals have become more able to deal with all the COVID patients who require hospitalization. The transformation of society—something I once thought Americans, and particularly New Yorkers, would balk at taking seriously—feels almost completely successful: I went for my daily 2-mile walk yesterday and do not believe I passed a single person in the street who wasn’t wearing a protective mask. We’ve all learned how to deal with risks that must be taken—learning how to go shopping at 6 AM, for example, or how to order groceries without venturing into a grocery store—and the disruption feels, to me at least, minimal. Yes, these are all small things. Yes, well over 80,000 Americans have died in the course of the last few months. Yes, almost 1.4 million Americans have been confirmed as COVID-ill, which number is definitely far too low since, as of today, a mere 9,623,336 Americans have been tested for the virus…out of a population of over 331,000,000. Yes to all the above! But mi baz l’yom k’tanot? Are we really going to look past the successes because they are, in the end, our latter-day version of the prophet’s small things? It wasn’t a good idea in ancient times. And it’s not a good plan for today either.

I have lately sought solace in familiar places. You all know that I read a lot, that reading is my refuge from the world, my go-to place when I need to withdraw for a bit from the maelstrom and regroup internally and intellectually. It’s been that way with me my whole life, even when I was a boy and certainly when I was a teenager. And in this way too the boy became the father to the man—but it’s the direction of my reading that the age of COVID has altered. I’m usually all about new fiction. In my usual way I will share with my readers—possibly in this very space—an account of the books I have read in the past year and recommend as summer reading. And I’ve read some new authors this year that I’m eager to share with you all—American authors like Richard Morais or Madeline Miller, but also writers from more exotic climes like Cixin Liu, Yrsa Sigurdardottir, or Daniel Kehlmann. For the last few weeks, however, I’ve been finding solace and calm by returning to some familiar places and expanding those specific horizons slightly.

I somehow realized that I had read all of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novels but one, so I found and read a copy of his first book, Fanshawe, a work he was later on so ashamed of that he personally bought up all the unsold copies he could find and burned them in his own oven. That led me to notice that I had read all of Herman Melville’s novels (regular readers of these letters will know how great a fan I am) except for The Confidence Man (his last novel other than the unfinished Billy Budd), so I read that too. And now I have moved on to Mark Twain.

I am among those who think of Huckleberry Finn as the single greatest American novel. Like most people my age, I first read it when I was in high school. (I’m sure I had no real idea what it was about, which was true of any number of books assigned to us back in the day.) My idea was to re-read it, possibly after re-reading Tom Sawyer. But then I began to realize just how many holes there were in my effort to read all of Twain. It turns out there are “other” Tom Sawyer novels, books I don’t recall even hearing about and am certain I never read. So I decided to read them now…and then moved on to my current plan to read or re-read all of Twain. And it’s working, too: the more I read of Twain, the more comfortable I’ve been feeling, the more grounded, the more calm, the more ready to contextualize this whole corona-thing and see it in the context of the larger pageant of life in these United States over the last century and a half. 

I began with The Prince and the Pauper, yet another of Twain’s books I somehow never actually read. Does reading the Classic Comics version count? Probably not. Nor should it matter that I remember watching the book’s three-part adaptation on Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color with my parents in 1962. Nor that I loved the 1977 movie version featuring Rex Harrison, Charlton Heston, Ernest Borgnine, George C. Scott, Oliver Reed, and Raquel Welch, which was for some reason distributed in the U.S. under the title, Crossed Swords. Twain didn’t write any of the above: he wrote a novel, published it in 1882 (just after the birth of one of my grandmothers and just before the other’s), and that is what I set myself to read.

On the surface, it’s a funny story about two eight-year-old boys, one the crown prince of England and the other an impoverished beggar living with a violent, angry father, and about how they manage (almost believably) to trade places and try on each other’s life for size. It’s well done, too—lots of surprise plot twists and a very engaging style that held my interest for as long as I was reading even despite the fact that I knew how it ended. But on a deeper level, it’s about something else entirely—about the nature of identity, about the question of whether you are how you perceive yourself  or how others perceive you, about the fragility of individuality, and about the fluidity of the sense of self we all take for granted when we look in the mirror and, seeing ourselves looking back, take that experience as reflective of immutable reality.

And, for readers in the age of COVID, it’s also about finding a way to retain our sense of ourselves as unique beings when the entire world changes on a dime, when the palace vanishes and you find yourself suddenly on your own in a world you barely recognize, when you wake up one morning and—for reasons even you yourself can’t really fathom—nothing is as it was and your sole choice is between negotiating a brand new normal or being left behind as the universe moves forward. It’s a clever book about the nature of self-awareness, about the durable nature of personality, about the ability of the background to alter the foreground—but also about the limits that inhere in that ability when the people standing at the front of the stage insist on maintaining their allegiance to their own personalities even under the most peculiar and unforeseen circumstances.

If you’ve never read it, I recommend Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper as a good place to re-introduce yourself to one of our greatest authors. I plan to keep reading too, and I’ll report back to you as I make progress. When summer comes, I’ll share with you my recommendations for summer reading as I always do. But in the meantime, it’s just me and Sam Clemens on my back porch when the afternoon coffee is ready and I find the courage to turn my phone off for forty or fifty minutes and step into the world of a great man’s imagination. Within the context of appropriate social distancing, I invite you all to join me!