Tag Archives: Julian Barnes

Leeches, Balloons, Gods Descending

In 1850 Dr. George Merryweather designed a “Patent Tempest Prognosticator” that used leeches to predict approaching storms. The device, which was lovely to look at, housed individual leeches in a dozen glass bottles partly filled with rainwater. It had long been observed that when the barometric pressure drops, as with the approach of a storm, leeches tend to get excited. The genius of Merryweather’s invention was to harness the muscle-power and barometric consensus of numbers of leeches together so that when the pressure dropped and they all began to skip and frolic in their glass bottles the combined activity would trigger the ringing of a bell. “Leechdom hath prophesied,” the bell said, “now fetch an umbrella.”

I bought a new umbrella this past Monday, a black collapsible one that cost me ten dollars and which in six months or so will give out in a stiff wind or permanently misplace itself. But it was a timely purchase. The local leeches are no doubt cavorting enthusiastically just now. It’s a real event here in northern California when the rain finally comes. It arrives about November or December and continues, sporadically, into May, after which there is no rain to speak of until November comes round again. One can only assume that the merciless summery interlude is a cheerless drudge for the leeches.

I owe my acquaintance with Dr Merryweather’s leech barometer to Richard Holmes and his new book Falling Upwards, which I recently finished. Not that the book has much to say about leeches. It’s concerned instead with the history of manned ballooning from the Montgolfier brothers in 1783 to the Wright brothers in 1903. In his excellent earlier book, The Age of Wonder, Holmes briefly skimmed the subject while exploring the relationship between Romanticism and the second, post-Newtonian scientific revolution. In the present title, he unloads all his ballast and soars into the ether on the subject. It’s a terrific pleasure to read.

If you’ll forgive me, it seems that balloons are in the air these days. Julian Barnes’ new memoir, Levels of Life, also has something to do with the history of manned ballooning. I’m currently reading Rose Macaulay’s The Minor Pleasures of Life, a sort of commonplace book of thematically arranged quotations, which includes under the category of “Celestial” several passages about ballooning. The little chapter book I recently wrote for my daughter also involves two cats making an adventurous balloon trip. (My daughter herself, we recently discovered, has a substantial “dead balloon collection” made of up deflated helium balloons from various birthday parties and other events.)

Speaking of cats, according to a pamphlet from 1784 quoted in Macaulay’s Minor Pleasures, the aeronaut Vincenzo Lunardi, on tour in England, “was accompanied in his aerial passage by a couple of pigeons, a cat, and a favourite lap-dog.” Over Northaw, at an undisclosed altitude, “he threw out his cat… which was taken up alive.” The Montgolfiers also used animals in their early test-flights. They preferred sheep to cats, though it’s worth noting that in the 1960s the French space program did send a cat named Félicette up in a rocket. American balloonist John Wise liked to drop cats in little parachutes from his basket. This throwing of cats from airships is not something my daughter would approve of but she might like the image of them descending in colorful parachutes.

It’s difficult to imagine the shock people must have felt in those early days when the first aeronauts climbed into baskets suspended from gas bubbles and flew off into the clouds. It must have been doubly shocking to see them unexpectedly descend in a sky chariot like angels or visitors from the moon. Jean Pierre Blanchard, describing his third flight in 1784, said that when coming in to land he and his companion were met by a group of astonished French field laborers. “The most courageous contemplated us and exclaimed: ‘Are you Men, or Gods? What are you? Make yourselves known!'” To prove their humanity Blanchard and his friend removed their coats and threw them down. “They seized on them eagerly,” Blanchard says, “and began to divide them in pieces,” like holy relics.

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Novelistic Imprecision

Philosophical exactitude is not required of novels, though novels are by nature philosophical.  Precise theories and grand conclusions are suspect in works of fiction in the same way they are suspect in real life: too strictly adhered to they’re symptomatic of willful delusion or at least wishful thinking.  But personhood and experience (being this thing rather than that -and knowing it-, and suffering change over time) are the stuff of novels, just as they’re the stuff of every human life –and these defy systematization.  If there is a final synthesis beneath it all, it tends to elude us, or the certainty of it does.

Perhaps that’s why among philosophers I prefer Montaigne to Spinoza, for example.  Spinoza is undoubtedly the more precise and systematic thinker and his scope is broader than Montaigne’s, but Montaigne is no less keen an observer of human nature while also being an appreciator of those things that don’t lend themselves so easily to system.   Spinoza’s perspective (with faint irony, perhaps) is godlike: all things fall under his gaze, and he is not surprised.  Montaigne has the spirit of a novelist, and his view is the more human: he is surprised by everything.

In Nothing to Be Frightened Of, Julian Barnes writes that “Memory is identity.”  Being a positive statement, it sounds more philosophically definitive than Joseph Butler’s contention (uttered 250 years earlier in response to Locke) that “Memory may reveal but cannot constitute personhood.”  Both are right.  Like Gregory Peck in Spellbound, Barnes’ amnesiac loses his identity along with his memory (“It’s like looking in a mirror and seeing nothing but mirror”).  Despite that loss of memory, however, Butler’s amnesiac is no less himself as a discrete object or package of DNA.  But where Butler, as a theologian and philosopher, describes the view from above, from the perspective of God or science, Barnes as a novelist describes the scene from below, from the perspective of human personhood and experience.

Totalizing schemes of all kinds tend to live only by perpetual expansion, and sooner or later most fall prey to Bonini’s Paradox: in order to accommodate an infinitely diversifying host of disparate facts and observations, they become as unintelligible and unsystematic as the world they want to define. The only perspective natural to us – and the only one finally satisfying – is the philosophically inexact ground-floor view through a smudged window.

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Marginalia, no.67

We are all amateurs in and of our own lives.

~ Julian Barnes, Nothing to Be Frightened Of

It’s when you forget it and start imagining you’re a professional that you get to grumbling about the pay.  Death is poor compensation for life, but everyone cashes the check.

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