Most Useful Information July 2024

Birds, Dogs, Boats, Walls, Lumberjacks, and Language

Pre-Useful Information

In the last newsletter I mentioned I’d be off my normal schedule during the summer months. Yet I still feel the need to apologize. Sorry this is late. August’s newsletter will come out sometime in August, but when exactly is a surprise to even me.

What’s the point?

In my neighborhood there are a few roaming cats. Tricksy is a petite calico. Birds don’t trust her. They swoop from powerlines squawking when she walks down the block. Garfield may or may not be named Garfield. He’s big and orange and always eating lasagna. His collar might have his real name on it, but I’ll never look. The Badger is a long haired tuxedo who roommates in a yard with two big always barking dogs. There used to be a gray tabby and another tuxedo but I haven’t seen them for a few minutes. Sometimes these cats kill.

Sometimes a dead bird appears in my backyard. When a dead bird appears inevitably it ends up in my dog’s mouth. When the bird finds its way into Jolene’s mouth I find a way to get the bird out of the mouth and into the ground. On the Northwest side of my yard, where the fence meets the house next to some raspberry bushes, I bury dead birds. I dig deep enough that Jolene won’t sniff and claw them out. I’ve buried three or four birds. 

Just opposite the fence in what I call the “front yard” there is a small section next to the house bordered with rocks. It’s a garden for Violet, my friend and dog who died last year. In a newsletter a long time ago I told a story about getting attacked by a dog. After that I was pretty scared of dogs. Didn’t think they were cute or funny. Didn’t want anything to do with them. About seven years ago I met Violet. We gave each other space. We got to know each other. Slowly we grew comfortable. We became very close friends. 

On walks we’d see other dogs on walks. I was unsure about other dogs. I was sure about Violet but she didn’t represent dogs as a species. The one dog that attacked me in Indiana represented dogs as a species. Unfair? Maybe, but that was the truth. 

Over time the other dogs we saw on walks started to look cute and funny. Sometimes Violet would run around and play with other dogs in the neighborhood, which was definitely cute and funny. I learned the other dogs’ names. And personalities. Dolly would lean against me while I patted her butt. Jake was always moving, always with a frisbee in his mouth. Big Benji was a bit much sometimes and I was a little uncomfortable around him. Violet taught little Benji to eat dirt and puke. Piper ran back and forth between picnic tables while all the other dogs chased. No one could catch Piper. Too fast. Violet had a crush on a Husky named Archer. She would smell a telephone post, smell Archer’s piss, start crying and running, pulling on the leash to the dog park. Archer was there running in circles. She chased him.

Without really noticing it I stopped being afraid of dogs. Started actively liking dogs. Now it’s difficult to imagine living without one. Thanks to Violet.

Like everything, Violet died. 

To feel less sad we made a garden. Planted some violet flowers. Painted a sign. Violet’s garden and my bird cemetery are side by side just a fence (or wall) dividing them.    

I mention all this because one book I read this month has a dead bird and the other a dead dog (and a wall). Both deaths/books are sad.

Enjoy!

The Wall by Marlen Haushofer. First published in 1968. Translated from German into English by Shaun Whiteside. Published by Penguin Vintage Classics in 2022.

A middle aged woman goes on a vacation with her cousin (Luise) and her cousin’s husband (Hugo). They are staying in a cabin in the woods. Luise and Hugo hike into a nearby town. The woman stays behind and goes to bed. She wakes up. No sign of Luise and Hugo. They must have stayed in town overnight. She goes for a walk until she runs into an invisible wall. 

On the other side of the invisible wall everything that was once alive is now dead. She can see a man sitting. Unmoving. Dead. The wall goes as far as she follows it. Maybe someday she’ll dig under the wall, she thinks. But not now.

Hugo had a dog. Lynx. Lynx is now her companion and friend. He becomes her sixth sense. Often he’s aware of her mood before she is. Along with Lynx there is a cat she doesn’t name. The narrator and cat are unnamed. A cow named Bella provides milk. A family. The Wall is the narrator’s written account of how the family came to be and continues to survive.

Hugo was a doomsday prepper. The cabin is stocked with plenty of supplies. Not enough for the rest of her life though. She quickly gets to work. Plants beans and tomatoes. Milks Bella. For the cow’s comfort as much for milk. She builds Bella a byre. She explores the surrounding areas. She doesn’t have a car, only goes as far as she can walk. Lynx, the cat, and especially Bella depend on her, so she can’t venture too far away, “I had realized that this cow, while certainly a blessing, was also a great burden. There could no longer be any question of long reconnaissance missions.”

Like any meaningful relationship it’s a blessing and a burden. It doesn’t take long for the narrator to see the blessing, take pleasure in the animals, “She [Bella, the cow] somehow looked cheerful and young. The way she turned her head in all directions when she tore leaves from the bushes reminded me of a graceful, coquettish young woman looking over her shoulder with moist brown eyes. I immediately took the cow to my heart, it made me so happy to look at her.”

It doesn’t take long for the narrator to start work either. Much of The Wall reads like a farm diary detailing work done in a day, the progress of plants, the health of the animals, and what needs to be done tomorrow. Daily chores need to be done for physical survival. She needs food and water. She needs to care for Bella so Bella can provide milk. She can’t take a day off. More than that, daily chores need to be done because she’s

afraid that if I could do otherwise I’d gradually cease to be a human being, and would soon be creeping about, dirty and stinking, emitting incomprehensible noises. Not that I’m afraid of becoming an animal. That wouldn’t be too bad, but a human being can never become just an animal; he plunges beyond, into the abyss. I don’t want this to happen to me. Recently that’s what has made me most afraid, and it is out of that fear I am writing my report. Once I’ve reached the end I shall hide it well and forget about it. I don’t want the strange thing that I might turn into to find it one day. I shall do all I can to avoid that transformation, but I’m not fool enough to believe with any confidence that what has happened to so many people before me could not happen to me. 

Two things. 

One. Ceasing to be human does not equate becoming an animal. Becoming an animal isn’t something to fear. I don’t know if I’ve ever read a book that demonstrates such unwavering respect to animals with real sensitivity to the complexity of the relationships between humans and animals.

Two. She knows what’s coming. Either she’s going to transform into a creeping non-human, non-animal abyss monster, or she’s going to die. She looks her inevitable future in the eye. Doesn’t flinch. It’s the only way to prepare. She knows she is going to die, but she doesn’t know when or how. Early in the narrative she mentions that Lynx died. For nearly the whole book we know that Lynx will die but we don’t know how or when. The narrator and the reader are forced to confront similar realities. 

Her daily chores help her avoid thinking about the past. It’s a survival mechanism. If she thought about Luise or Hugo, or her two daughters she might despair. She can’t despair because she needs to care for Bella, Lynx, and the cat. Thinking about the future and her inevitable demise is easier, less dangerous than thinking about the people she’s lost since the wall.

The cat gives birth to a white kitten. Pearl. Immediately the woman knows that the white kitten will be eaten by a bird. White fur in the woods is a death warrant. It’s not long before the woman is proved right. When it happens the old cat runs away for two days. She returns and lives her life as normal. Some time later the cat gives birth again. Tiger. It’s not too long before Tiger dies as well. Like the narrator, the cat had two children. Like the narrator both those children are lost. Still, they live their lives.

Bella also gives birth, which complicates the situation. Another mouth to feed. Another body to care for. 

Caring for these animals fundamentally changes the way the woman feels, thinks, and relates to animals:

I have always been fond of animals, in the slight and superficial way in which city people feel drawn to them. When they were suddenly all I had, everything changed. There are said to have been prisoners who have tamed rats, spiders and flies and begun to love them. I think they acted in accordance with their situation. The barriers between animal and human come down very easily. We belong to a single great family, and if we are lonely and unhappy we gladly accept the friendship of our distant relations. They suffer as we do if pain is inflicted on them, and like myself they need food, warmth and a little tenderness.

Incidentally, my affection has very little to do with understanding. In my dreams I bring children into the world, and they aren’t only human children; there are cats among them, dogs, calves, bears and quite peculiar furry creatures. But they emerge from me, and there is nothing about them that could frighten or repel me. It only looks off-putting when I write it down, in human writing and human words. Perhaps I should draw these dreams with pebbles on green moss, or scratch them in the snow with a stick. But I can’t yet do that. I probably won’t live long enough to be so transformed. Perhaps a genius could do it, but I’m only a simple person who has lost her world and is on the way to finding a new one. That way is a painful one, and still far from over. 

She has an instinct to care, to take on responsibility. When she tries to explain it, it comes out gross because she’s trying to explain a non-human relationship in human language. Of course it doesn’t fit.

Elsewhere the narrator says that it is much harder to love than to destroy something. Indulging impulses or desires for hate and destruction is lazy. In the process of caring for something/someone, in the process of loving our orientation toward the cared for thing is changed.

Sometimes people ask me what my favorite book is. It’s a hard question to answer. I’ve started thinking of books in terms of reading experiences. So rather than think of the book in isolation I think about what it felt like to read a particular book. In the past I’ve said over and over that Most Useful Information doesn’t care about spoilers. The Wall is my exception. We know what happens. As long as we’re reading the novel she is alive because the novel is her written report. She can’t die in the end. We know that Lynx dies. She mentions it again and again and again. So in that sense the book cannot be spoiled. Still, it is the best reading experience I’ve had in a while (probably since Ulysses - summer 2018). I was moved by it. Genuinely. Nothing would be better to me than if other people were able to have similar experiences. The more I talk about it the less it seems possible. Maybe because I only have human language. 

The Birds by Tarjei Vesaas. First published in 1957. Translated from Norwegina into English by Michael Barnes and Torbjorn Stoverud. Published by Peter Own Publishers in 1995. Reissued by Archipelago Books in 2016. 

Mattis lives with his sister Hege. Hege knits and sells what she knits to folks living nearby. Mattis tries to work odd jobs, but he isn’t suited for it. All the farmers around know it and prefer not to offer him odd jobs. When a farmer does invite Mattis to help it’s not long before Mattis is overwhelmed, tires out, and quits work.

People call Mattis “Simple Simon” because he struggles to communicate his interior life and struggles to meet the expectations of a typical exterior life. Concentrating is hard. Physical labor is hard. Making money is hard when you can’t do physical labor or concentrate. Hege does her best to accommodate Mattis but she doesn’t understand him. He doesn’t understand her. “It was as if she were speaking a language he didn’t understand.” 

The problem comes from Mattis’s general struggle with language. Language doesn’t belong to him. Language is dangerous. 

This gave him another opportunity to use one of those words that hung before him, shining and alluring. Far away in the distance there were more of them, dangerously sharp. Words that were not for him, but which he used all the same on the sly, and which had an exciting flavor and gave him a tingling feeling in the head. They were a little dangerous, all of them.

In another situation using a word makes his mouth bitter. “It was like chewing the bark of an aspen tree.” 

The narrator of The Wall lamented only having human language. She needed another language. An animal language to express her relationships with animals. She said maybe a genius could do it.

Mattis might be a genius. While he struggles with human language and human connection. Bird language and bird connection comes naturally. After hearing and seeing a woodcock almost instantly they’re entwined. 

But suddenly came a tiny little sound! A strange cry. And at the same time he could just make out a quick flapping wings in the air above him. Then came more faint calls in a helpless bird language… The wings were high up in the mild night air, but at the same time they touched the very center of Mattis’s heart. The soft dark touch of something beyond understanding. It spread right through him. Me and the woodcock, sort of, ran his formless train of thought.

Where the bird flew, beams of light linger, so Mattis knows the path of the bird. On subsequent nights he knows when the bird has been by and when it hasn’t. He follows the bird’s path to a hidden place in the words. Here he finds out that bird language consists of more than bird calls. More than sounds. Bird language is etched into the ground. Written and representing a dance.

In the smooth brown surface of the marshy soil were the faint imprints of a bird’s feet. A number of tiny, deep round holes had been dug up as well. The woodcock had been there. The deep holes had been made by the woodcock’s beak which it thrust down into the ground to dig up morsels of food, or sometimes just to prick out messages.

Mattis bent down and read what was written. Looked at the graceful dancing footprints. That’s how fine and graceful the bird is, he thought. That’s how gracefully my bird walks over the marshy ground when he’s tired of the air.

You are you, that was what was written.

What a greeting to receive!

He found a twig and pricked an answer in an empty space on the brown surface. He didn’t use ordinary letters; it was meant for the woodcock, so he wrote in the same way as the birds. 

The woodcock’s bound to notice it next time he’s here. I’m the only one who comes here and the only one who writes.

It was a quiet, well-hidden spot. Impossible to imagine a better meeting place. Tall trees stood round the little patch of bog, and the sunshine found its way into a small clearing, falling thickly and warmly onto the marshy ground and drying it up so that graceful, shy creature could dance upon it.

And

It was easy to express oneself in bird language. There was so much they were going to tell each other. There were more footprints here now. To mattis it looked like dancing. Something had made the solitary bird dance.

Human speech is hard for Mattis. Bird language is easy.

He used ordinary human speech. It felt course and commonplace. He would have liked to have started using bird language for good - to have gone back home to Hege and never spoken in any other way. Then she might have begun to understand some of the things that were now hidden from her. 

Mattis is frustrated by the language barrier between him and his sister. If only she had something other than human language, then maybe she would understand. Everyone thinks Mattis is simple, lacking, but Mattis is the one using human language and bird language. No one even tries to understand bird language. Everyone else is simple.

Often Mattis struggles to contain his excitement about the woodcock. Nobody understands it, but still he tells everyone. Including a hunter. Mattis knows telling the hunter was foolish. Soon enough he sees the hunter shoot the bird. Like everything, it dies. Mattis picks up the bird before the hunter. He refuses to give it to the hunter. The hunter is a young kid. Frightened by Mattis. Mattis buries the bird. Places a stone on top of it.  

One day Mattis rows his boat out to an island. It’s the best day of his life. Or the best day of his life since the woodcock. His boat has holes. Water seeps in, “Glug, the water said, and it began running into his shoes.” Water has a language. Mattis understands water language too. He bails water out of the boat until he makes it to shore. 

On the island he meets two young women, Inger and Anna, on vacation. They speak to Mattis. Mattis speaks to them. More importantly, they hear one another. They listen. They understand, “Yes, we’re listening. This was no ordinary moment.” For the first time Mattis has friends. Human friends. 

Anna and Inger row Mattis back to shore. Drop him off in a public place. Everyone sees. Everyone is surprised. Impressed. Two normal humans, pretty girls, paid attention to Mattis. Seem like friends. Maybe they were wrong about Mattis. They start being nicer to him.

Mattis decides to fix his boat and ferry people across the fjord. He only ever gets one passenger. A lumberjack. Jorgen. Jorgen moves in with Mattis. Starts sleeping with Hege. He tries to teach Mattis how to be a lumberjack. Tries to provide Mattis with knowledge and skills he can use to make money. That way he and Hege won’t need to take care of Mattis forever. Jorgen and Hege have Mattis’s best interest in mind. Hege tries to explain it to him, but “Mattis hardly noticed what she was saying.” The failure to express meaning and importance in the world goes both ways.

Troubles with language might just be the symptom. The real problem comes from troubles of understanding. Brief moments of understanding come when Mattis doesn’t try to explain himself and instead touches his sister. “It was impossible to explain what he meant, but at least he could lay his hand on her arm.”

Maybe the trouble isn’t the lack of understanding, but the dependence on it. If Hege and Mattis accepted one another without understanding they might have a better relationship. The narrator of The Wall specifically says that her affection and responsibility for the animals she cares for doesn’t come from understanding. Mattis tries to get people to understand him, but they can’t. If everyone let go of understanding they might find a way to survive.

Instead Mattis knows he doesn’t fit in Hege’s life anymore. He can’t explain his life. She can’t explain hers. Their relationship has become a burden to them both. Mattis is a burden to Hege. Jorgen is a burden to Mattis. The narrator of The Wall said Bella was both a blessing and a burden. Mattis has become only a burden. No blessing. So he rows his boat out into the fjord one night. The boat fills with water. Mattis drowns. Like everything, Mattis died. It’s too bad human language is the only language we have.