Tag Archives: Francis Parkman

Marginalia, no.338

Her fortitude was perfect in bearing the sufferings of others and defying dangers that could not touch her.

~ Francis Parkman, Montcalm and Wolfe

Kings and their concubines (Parkman refers to Madame de Pompadour) are no different from the rest of us in this regard. What a burden we find it to see precisely what needs to be done only when it’s impossible or ridiculous that we should do it ourselves.

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Marginalia, no.297

Most human things have their phases of the ludicrous…

~ Francis Parkman, La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West

Reading the news most days will tempt you to conclude that humanity itself just is the ludicrous phase of the universe.

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Marginalia, no.282

[A]nother neophyte, at the point of death, asked anxiously whether, in the realms of bliss to which he was bound, pies were to be had comparable to those with which the French regaled him.

~ Francis Parkman, Pioneers of France in the New World

The native medicine man of New France was helpless against the wily Jesuit patissier. Food is still employed as a tool of proselytism. The homeless are lured to downtown missions by the promise of a hot meal, but forced to hear a sermon first, while suburban churches compete for membership by constant refinement of their espresso techniques.

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Sympathetic Imagination

Sympathy, according to Dr Johnson, is “fellowfeeling; mutual sensibility; the quality of being affected by the affection of another.” That’s a lovely, generous definition, broader than we commonly allow the word. Today sympathy is often used as a synonym for pity, which at least in American usage has come to have a negative connotation (“I don’t want your pity!”). Empathy, a word which doesn’t appear in Johnson’s Dictionary, is sometimes employed to do the work that sympathy once covered, but it’s not as musical a word to my ear.

I think a lot about the idea of sympathetic imagination. By sympathetic imagination I simply mean the mental work of putting oneself in another person’s place, imaginatively entering someone else’s perspective. It’s the stuff of cliché (walking in another’s shoes, seeing through another’s eyes, etc.) but without it life and art, I think, become unbearable. Exercising sympathetic imagination means withholding judgment, extending charity, allowing (either by stepping forward or by not retreating) the gap that separates us from others to close at least a little, for a least a little while.

Lack of sympathetic imagination is a prevailing flaw of our civil discourse. It’s a negative temptation for international relations. The partisanship of perspective is total. We’re not only uninterested in the way our intellectual or political opponents view things, we’re doctrinally forbidden from granting their basic premises even for the sake of argument. We don’t dare allow ourselves to believe they can have anything other than hateful, destructive intentions. This is nothing new, I’m sure, but it has consequences.

If only we could learn to be better readers.

It’s strange to reflect that sympathetic imagination can be extended to fictional persons but it can. As readers we’re asked to do it all the time. Of course it helps when the prose is pleasant and the story a good one because characters can disappoint. Not all perspectives deserve sympathy (nor all books reading) but the effort is rarely a total waste. As an exercise of sympathetic imagination the reading of a book, no less than the writing of one, becomes a moral action. How well we read books can affect how well we read people. The library is a school for sympathy.

I recently read The Oregon Trail, Francis Parkman’s autobiographical story of the summer of 1846, which he spent in part with a band of Oglala Sioux in the Black Hills. For all his professed fascination with the “savages,” it’s remarkable how little curiosity he exhibits. He considers them occasionally amusing, physically impressive, but mostly stupid, cruel, stubborn, backward. There are a hundred questions we wish he’d asked or, if he did ask them, that he’d bothered to report the answers.

In his review of the book, Herman Melville gave Parkman some righteous chastisement for his lack of sympathetic imagination. In his own masterpiece, Melville largely avoids the pitfall. His Tashtego and Queequeg, among others, are equal possessors of earth and sea with Ishmael and Ahab. This is not to say that the things people share in common trump their differences. Quite the opposite; difference is always enlightening. But I suppose I believe, as Melville did, that human nature is one and that the accidents of culture and civilization can accrue or melt away in a mere few generations.

As Melville acknowledges after he’s put the stick away, The Oregon Trail is a wonderful book even so. It’s a rich, detailed, companionable travelogue, expertly written. Parkman has blind spots, but he still manages to see an awful lot. And though there’s less sympathy than we might have hoped for, there’s even less sentimentality. To my mind this illustrates the point I’m clumsily trying to make. Parkman’s limitations don’t let us off the hook. In enjoying the book it becomes necessary for us to exercise our sympathetic imagination, as readers, for the benefit of Parkman, who sometimes failed to exercise his own.

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Marginalia, no.247

I little suspected that at that very moment my unlucky comrade was lying on a buffalo-robe at Fort Laramie, fevered with ivy poison, and solacing his woes with tobacco and Shakespeare.

~ Francis Parkman, The Oregon Trail

On an afternoon hike last month I went down a gully to inspect the rusted husk of an ancient Ford that had been dumped there God knows when. For my curiosity I got a bad case of poison oak. There’s only a relic itch now but at its worst my swollen, blistered forearm looked like a piece of meat that had been turned on a barbeque. Next time I’ll try Parkman’s prescription (it can’t be any less effective than calamine lotion). But what’s the proper dosage? An act of The Taming of the Shrew maybe? A choice scene from MacBeth? I was so desperate for relief three weeks ago I might even have re-read A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

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