history books, and I learned something important aboutnAmerican scholarship: hardly anyone does any work. Nearlynevery account described Garfield’s assassin, CharlesnGuiteau, as a “disappointed office seeker.” “I am a Republicannstalwart,” he exclaimed as he fired upon Garfield, whonhad been elected as virtually the only honest man in thenGOP. How things have changed. Leon Czolgosz, on thenother hand, the murderer of William McKinley, is alwaysn”an anarchist enflamed by the doctrines of Emma Goldman.”nIt was enough to make you lose heart in a project,nmore than enough for Pasquale, who rarely finished anythingnlonger than a sonnet, albeit often a good sonnet.nFor all the trouble he got into as a result of a growingnaffection for the bottle, Pasquale retained an innocencenabout other people that it was hard not to admire, and whennhe was sober he could talk wonderfully about the things henhad seen when he was drunk. Most of us either cannotnremember or would rather not. Fitzgerald says somewherenthat people who are amused by a drunk the night beforenalways take it out on him the day after, because they resentnthe honesty he had enjoyed under the influence. Perhaps, asnFitzgerald got older, people were a great deal less amused bynhis “honesty” than he realized, but he had a point, andnperhaps our fear of honesty, of seeing things as they are,nexplains the new temperance crusade being waged bynAmerica’s ruling class. Gorbachev knows that drunkennessnand shirking are forms of counterrevolution that put glasnostnand perestroika to shame. “Wine,” said Alcaeus, “is anpeep-hole into the soul.” Small wonder that the Gongress ofnthe United States would like to levy an outrageous tax onnbeer, the workingman’s wine.nPeace is not the natural conditionnof human hfe, and for most of us thesenmoments are rarer than an uncloudynday. Peace is, however, another namenfor the land of heart’s desire.nPasquale was half Italian, half North Garolinian — not angood combination for a man who expected to make his waynin the world. Since the invention of air conditioning, thenItalians and American Southerners have shown a greatncapacity for enterprise, but both peoples are still sufficienflyncivilized to spend half their time eating and drinking, living.nIn his wonderful book on James Johnston Pettigrew, GlydenWilson describes Pettigrew’s reaction as he travels fromnGermany through France down to Italy. As the NorthnCarolinian passes into Italy, he recorded in his diary that itnwas like coming home.nIn much of Italy, as in Charleston, where Pettigrewnpracticed law, businessmen and lawyers still knock off fornseveral hours in the heat of the day, to eat or drink or laynaround in the shade. This habit of doing nothing is anvaluable trait that most of us have lost, along with the habitnof reflection and the sense of honor. I sometimes think I amnbetter occupied in staring out the window, my mentaln14/CHRONrCLESnnnscreen gone blank or showing at most a test pattern, than innany strenuous mental exercise. I know that it is only after Inhave been able to afford such a luxury that I am capable ofnthinking or writing something better than editorial copy.nWhen one of my colleagues caught me at such a moment,nhe quipped: “What do you think this is, a think tank?”nNathaniel West, in his most depressing book, The Daynof the Locust, has unintentionally captured what I amntrying to describe. A burnt-out simple man moves tonCalifornia and rents a house. He spends most of his timenkeeping house and sitting out in an old deck chair he finds innthe yard:nThere was a much better view to be had in anyndirection other than the one he faced. By movingnhis chair in a quarter circle he could have seen anlarge part of the canyon twisting down to the citynbelow. He never thought of making this shift. Fromnwhere he sat, he saw the closed door of the garagenand a patch of its shabby, tarpaper roof. In thenforeground was a sooty, brick incinerator and a pilenof rusty cans. A little to the right of them were thenremains of a cactus garden in which a few ragged,ntortured plants still survived.nNot much of a view, to be sure, although one wonders whatna Dutch or Flemish painter might have made out of it.nProust’s Bergotte (modeled on Anatole France) dies exclaimingnover a little patch of yellow wall he had just seen inna Vermeer painting. Although West himself takes thenopportunity to display his wonderfully clear prose, hisncharacter concentrates on the drama of a lizard catchingnflies. While rooting for the flies, he never interferes. Thennovelist obviously meant his character as a savage commentnupon a class of Middle Americans he neither liked nornunderstood, but I would prefer to take the poor fellow as ankind of sage who has learned to be content with his lot.nThis sort of Stoical acceptance of life as it comes hasnnothing in common with the Buddhist tales of the princenwho left his family and friends in order to find peace as anferryman. The only Oriental parallel that comes to mind isnthe Taoist parable of the ruler who wanted to abdicate hisnthrone in favor of a wise counselor. The wise man refusesnthe honor, explaining that each man has his station in life. Ifnthe cook abandoned the kitchen, he adds, the priests wouldnnot quit their duties and take his place. Everyone, so thenTaoist texts preach, must learn to make the best of hisnsituation in life, even if we find ourselves burdened—likenthe Emperor Marcus — with the responsibilities of empire.nOne more example to illustrate my Taoism for losers. Ancollege prank, when I was 17, led to a very minor brush withnthe law. The kindly Charleston police had a good timenthreatening me with 15 years in jail and — worse — a nightnin the “blue room” where they put the drunks, homosexuals,nand degenerates. This was no idle threat, by the way,nsince a year or so later some poor fellow passing throughnfound himself in the county jail, because he couldn’t pay antraffic ticket. Despite his many notes smuggled out to thenguards — who only laughed as they crumpled them up andntossed them away — he was held captive by homosexualnprisoners and repeatedly, continuously abused.n