You know by now that I am somewhat of a Luddite and often rail against the effect that technology has had on our lives and our minds. But, of course, there are many ways that technology has enriched our lives. I was thinking recently about Willa Cather and Benjamin Franklin in this regard.
Willa Cather loved music. In her fiction and in her letters, she recalls a time when music was hard to come by. Surely there were local musical groups and piano players, but without the technology of records or tapes, symphony music was not available on the prairie, and when a touring symphony orchestra deigned to play in a place like Lincoln, Nebraska – well, people went and wept. In 1917, Cather wrote this in a letter to a friend:
I never heard any music at all until I was sixteen, that means really none, and when I was seventeen I heard an orchestra and a symphony for the first time; —Theodore Thomas and the New World Symphony in Lincoln, Nebraska. He happens to mention that day and that performance in his published letters to his wife. It was a great day for me. (Letter to Katherine Foote Raffy, 1/17/1917)
There is a similar scene in Song of the Lark, and this touching scene in a story about a woman coming to the big city from the prairie and being taken by her nephew to hear a Wagner concert for the first time:
My aunt wept quietly, but almost continuously, as a shallow vessel overflows in a rainstorm…. The deluge of sound poured on and on; I never knew what she found in the shining current of it; I never knew how far it bore her, or past what happy islands. (“A Wagner Matinée”)
I think also of more recent times – as in 1957 when Glenn Gould played his first Bach concert in Russia. The hall was sparse for the first half, and then after intermission – and many hurried phone calls by the listeners – the hall was overflowing. No Gould recordings were available in Moscow, and every subsequent performance was SRO. And now, anytime and anywhere, I can put in my earbuds and listen to any music as interpreted by any musician. I can flood my home with the noise of a symphony or hear Glenn Gould muse over Bach while I read my e-mails. I take this for granted – we all do. And, unfortunately, it also makes the music less exciting. It shouldn’t.
Part of the reason Ben Franklin became a printer was because it gave him proximity to books. Even as a child, he grabbed whatever books came his way in the days before free libraries or cheap editions:
From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money that came into my hands was ever laid out in books…. My father’s little library consisted chiefly of books in polemic divinity, most of which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time when I had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had not fallen in my way since it was now resolved I should not be a clergyman. (Autobiography)
Later, he became part of a club in Philadelphia that shared their books, and Franklin soon expanded that into what is often credited as this country’s first lending library:
Those who loved reading were obliged to send for their books from England; the members of the Junto had each a few. We had left the ale-house, where we first met, and hired a room to hold our club in. I proposed that we should all of us bring our books to that room, where they would not only be ready to consult in our conferences, but become a common benefit, each of us being at liberty to borrow such as he wished to read at home. This was accordingly done, and for some time contented us. Finding the advantage of this little collection, I proposed to render the benefit from books more common by commencing a public subscription library. (Autobiography)
Books were rare and precious commodities in earlier times. Now we have immediate access to millions of books, and many of the classics of fiction and philosophy are available for free. There are free libraries in most towns and those libraries often have inter-library loan privileges within the state – they also often have sites where digital books can be downloaded. There may be a waitlist for current bestsellers, but for the really good stuff, there is no wait. (This truism could stand in almost all circumstances, I think!) We are indeed fortunate.
On top of all this, we can hear the best of lectures and podcasts any time – and look at art from almost any of the world’s collections. But do we appreciate it? Does the ubiquity of music and art and culture demean its worth? If so, it is our own fault. That wonderful book is not less wonderful because you can pull it up on your Kindle within seconds, and Bach and Gould should not be diminished because I can listen to them while doing the dishes.
In a way, this is a metaphor for all of life. Miracles surround us every day, but we are used to them. Nature creates far more splendid miracles than technology, but we are also jaded to that. We are like spoiled children, who have too much to appreciate anything. But we can change. We can listen to the music, read the book carefully, be appreciative for the good things that technology makes available to us – and perhaps that will help us discard the parts of the digital world that compromise that appreciation. If we old people – who remember what life was like before downloadable music, books, and movies – can’t appreciate the treasures that are there for us, surely there is no hope in this regard for the younger generations.
I’m as capable as the next old person of looking back fondly at the good old days, but I am also a person who suffered through the measles and mumps before vaccines. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to foster an appreciation of what is good in these troublesome times, to nurture the sense of awe that Nebraskans felt when they heard their first symphony concert, but also to choose more mindfully from the digital cornucopia.
I have posted often about resolutions and the New Year – New Year’s Resolutions in Old Age, Baby New Year and Old Father Time, and New Year’s Re-Solutions. On the subject of appreciating the world we’re living in, I would also recommend an article by Charles Mann, “We Live Like Royalty and Don’t Know It.”
When I Come To Be Old 