In Samuel Johnson’s novella, Rasselas, a small group of people escape an ideal world of Eden-like safely, isolated from the whirly-gig of “real” life spinning around them: War, famine, disease, taxes—oh yes, politicians. Those folks in every capital who fish in troubled waters and only where there’s money.
The truth-seekers in Johnson’s novel wander throughout the known world in their adventure. Along the way, they find a hermit whose self-imposed exile promises peace and solitude. Instead, he discovers boredom and loneliness. He begs them to allow him their company. “I am in much need of conversation and the companionship of other humans,” he confesses. Johnson, who hated the darkness of night often himself wandered aimlessly through the London streets, awaiting sunshine and sanity. He slept much of the day, then arose, devouring books and writing articles till dinner hour at the tavern, where he happily joined friends, bound by common admiration—and conversation.
Johnson, who flourished in the 18th century, probably enjoyed conversation more than any other literary great in all of Europe. He sat at the end of a long table in The Dancing Wolf, drank gallons of tea [no liquor, however] and much like Lincoln, held forth for hours. Boswell, his famous biographer, spoke of a typical night at the tavern the night before: “Johnson tossed and gored some half a dozen tonight.”
The eccentric Johnson was each night what we call a "Bevo" [UT Longhorn mascot] to “Goldie”/Oliver Goldsmith. No one else, however, was allowed to pummel the little fat fellow. Sweet. The often slovenly Johnson usually arrived attired in an old robe and a pair of slippers, and led the conversation, quoting verbatim from the classics and the numerous newspapers strewn across the table. It was the age of the coffee/tea house and the newspaper, so Johnson’s disciples considered it an honor to converse, even if injured on occasion. Perhaps, shaving before departing for the tavern they thought, “Tonight, I would rather be gored by Johnson than simply ignored.”
The joists and bearing-wall of a night’s conversation with Johnson demanded risks and wounds. These men of letters gathered each night really define the word “conversation.”
In those days until the mid 1800s, the word “intercourse,” was used instead of the later word “conversation.” As time changes, words change. "Conversation" may have taken over, but the deeper Latin and then Old French roots, though confining the older word, “intercourse,” still carried the aura of intimacy with it. Now the exchange of words can continue to suggest words of warmth and feeling, as well as stimulating ideas that sometimes move into new intellectual spaces, to new perspectives, welcoming us to host new ideas. The night I finished Catcher in the Rye, I was not quite the same. The impulse to share that experience was so strong, I wondered Hinkley Halls looking for a conversation. Fortunately E. Mark Bench was a night owl as well, so we sat on the floor in my room and “talked the book” for a couple of hours.
Gentleman, do not forget that women love words. Only an idiot male does not know that our Venus gals like words and we boys from Mars cut to the chase—the fewer the words, the better, unless, of course, the conversation is about bowling scores or that 9th inning homer Kurt Gibson hit years ago.
When we courted them, we could never stop talking, continually risking run-ins with frustrated fathers who waited. Then when they said yes, the honeymoon over, we returned to our “shack” of choice, off-campus housing. And . . . . yes, we quit talking to them. Boys, we all know the helplessness of that moment when she says, “talk to me, . . . say something.” The Kama Sutra says “seduction begins early in the morning and continues until the moon shines brightly.” [Legal Disclaimer: Yes, I went there, folks, although I'm not formally recommending this or any other book, for that matter.]
Shortly before leaving my beloved 15th ward in Rexburg, I assured the brethren in priesthood meeting that it is acceptable to say, "I love you," in any room of the house. The kitchen, where both of you touch each other’s soapy hands, is always a sweet moment to discuss how the children and the Hausfrau are holding up; or conversing while bathing the babies. Those bouncing cherubs inspire words and stir the desire for the full intimacy of conversation.
According to Johnson the word “conversation” ranges wide over the linguistic and cultural plain. Whenever, for example, Paul or Peter use “conversation," they use the word in its widest sense: How we conduct ourselves. Today the more specific use of the word should help us realize that “how” we discuss and use our language in general, mirrors our lives. A person who resorts to swearing every third word betrays a narrowness in language and shallowness of character. “Watch your language," should still mean something. And that goes for women. “Let her not,” says William B. Yeats, "Consider beauty a sufficient end, / Lose natural kindness and maybe / The heart revealing intimacy” of which God’s daughters are so capable.
Johnson promote “kindness.” Anything that drifts south may turn out to be argument; such ego-driven, adrenalized verbal exchange can lead to anger.
I remember Jim Haeberle nearly jumping through me and out our bay window when I casually mentioned that I thought there was more to the Constitution than the Fourth Amendment. Words can hurt; they are sticks and stones.
Without realizing it, I was perilously close to what Johnson calls “honest conversation.” These word bouts often drift into argument. Literary critics describe the psychic distance between you and a film, book or a conversation as reader response theory. Some words are close to people’s hearts—like the word “gun.”
Lots of homicides begin with an “innocent” Bud Light and end in a knife fight. Actually, 65% of all murders occur among friends and family. I’ll bet a lot of divorces begin with what both partners call “honest talk,” which morphs into high-pitched accusations, parries and thrusts and all of a sudden the “D” word [divorce] is ricocheting around the kitchen walls. Unknown Thomas Fuller says that, “defining what you can help and what you cannot help keeps people from throwing things.”
For Johnson, the most facile kind of conversation is what he calls, “weather talk.” This level of chatting rarely reaches the second level. “We are in haste,” Johnson says, “to tell each other, what each must already know.” Johnson, however, misses the human/humane impact of a smile and a friendly chat with, say, a harried clerk. I always tried to say something nice or funny when I shopped at Winco over in Idaho Falls. For some reason the clerks were usually dragging bottom. My dad, who always defended the tradesman, would quickly bring grace to bear. One time I said, “boy, she was on one in there today.” My dad had followed up my utter silence in the store with a kind remark about “being on your feet all day.” She smiled. Such chit-chat may not be Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, but we are reaching out with our energy, one human sensitive to the difficulties of another human.
President Eyring cautions us to “look into the eyes of those you greet each Sunday and try and detect the pain, the heartache, the worry that often hide behind a cursory ‘good morning.’”
Years ago, I read of a man who each Christmas season paid the toll fee for the anonymous car behind. They would always pass him up, waving, smiling. I know my toll example is obsolete, but any form of “Paying it Forward” just might keep someone from coming home, taking fear and loneliness and exhaustion out on a child, beloved wife or a dog.
Surely there must have been at least one conversation [or a thousand] today that kept someone from jumping off a bridge.
Finally, Jacques Barzun’s definition of “true conversation” has helped me to gauge my friendships. Are they moving from the surface to the deeper intellectual-spiritual selves we are? Are we engaging one another and, as Barzun says, “truly sifting opinion?" [Lora says it's always been impossible for her Dad to stay on "Level 1."]
This blog over, let me thank you for listening.
Thank you for this conversation.
