great ornithologists of the century. Or look at the morenfamous J. Henri Fabre, the son of small farmers in Provence,nwho recognized in the imperfect observations of the waspnCerceris by Leon Dufour an opportunity for entomologicalnstudy that he was to pursue his whole life, despite a largenfamily, little money and little free time; his assistant professorshipnat Avignon paid so badly he had to take on extranlessons, even after being inducted into the Legionnd’Honneur. But he like Mrs. Nice made use of his backyard.nThose of us wise enough to cultivate our own gardensnwill find we have plenty to do. As Lytton Strachey observed,nthis advice of Voltaire’s is one of the very few pieces ofnpractical wisdom ever uttered by a philosopher—philosophersnbeing a group that generally deserts the concrete fornthe universal. But for writers or rulers, businessmen ornentomologists, it is the undiluted specific at your elbow thatnalways has the greatest lessons to teach, not the wateredndown generalism; after all, the first is the root of the second.nIf Machiavelli had written general tracts on government,ndistilling the lessons he’d learned from Florence but leavingnthe Florentine examples out, he would not be as convincing.nThe experiment proves the hypothesis, not the othernway around. It’s not just that the good news is at your elbow,nbut all news.nWoody Allen says somewhere, “I’m astounded by peoplenwho want to ‘know’ the universe when it’s hard enough tonfind your way around Chinatown.” What we have to ben18/CHRONICLESnThe last of my fathers liesntubed and proppednunder an oxygen tent.nHe’s dressed for the moon,nor just come backna solo trip his heartnwon’t let him repeat.nThe plaque on the door saysnI.C.U.nKnock Before EnteringnDo Not Enter.nI’ve heard all that allnmy life, and stillnwonder who sees me, who knowsnwhen I am sleeping.nSanta Claus isn’t here —nthere’s no sign of anyonenhere but us. I knocknand do not enter,nlook through the squarendouble-paned portholenin the door, wipenFor Goodness’ Sakenby Dabney Stuartnnnoptimistic about, as anybody who’s lived in New York canntell you, is that it is possible — just — to know Chinatown.nHence not only is it necessary to work your garden, butnmuch more importantly it can be done — something thosenof us striving to recreate the Garden of Eden forget at ournperil. I am not arguing against ambition, or even againstnambitions that are too large, only against the humanntendency to despair of doing anything when we cannot do itnall. What is left for an idealist whose forty years of toil in thenvineyards of world peace have not improved so much as thenblock he lives on but a nihilistic old age? And the unavoidablendisappointments of old age are tough enough.nSam Johnson’s Rasselas, prince of Abisinnia, leaves thenHappy Valley in which he has been anything but to searchnfor happiness and wisdom in the world at large. In Johnson’snfinal chapter, “The Conclusion, in Which Nothing IsnConcluded,” Rasselas speaks of the kingdom he would likento rule, his sister of the women’s college she would like tonfound, and the lady Pekuah of the abbey over which shenwants to be prioress. “Of these wishes that they had formednthey well knew that none could be obtained,” Johnsonnfinishes. “They deliberated a while what was to be done, andnresolved, when the inundation should cease, to return tonAbissinia.” Rasselas has found the same answer as Candide,nand it is not much of an answer as far as revelations arensupposed to go. But it is all the answer we are allowed tonhave. nmy breath off the glass.nHe must think I amnwaving, because he waves back,nor is he just brushingnmist from the tent?nHis life appearsnbeside me, looking fit,nremarkably like he didnjust yesterday. No onenelse could make itnthrough this little window,nbut he does—Old Bellylaughnhimself doesn’t gondown the chimney with morengrace. He fadesninto the tent as if nothingnhas happened. The I.V.nsilently drips;nthe small dot on the monitornlights its rownof miniature rooftops,nmarking a song without words.n