Portrait of the artist at 47
A professor in class today said, “the young look ahead, the old look back, and the middle-aged look tired.” I got a smile out of that – I’m feeling a bit tired on turning 47. I wonder if I’m feeling old because I’ve been reading Nabokov’s Lolita for the first time, and realized that “the old man in that book by Nabokov” is in fact only 36 (maybe 37) when he meets Lolita (see also this post on Sting and Nabokov).
Perhaps I think I can no longer pretend I’m not middle-aged. I am nonetheless younger than my parents at this same age, since they were already grandparents. My problems thus differ from those of my parents. I have, by one reading of the social security system, 18 productive economic years left, in which I must both save for my (likely forced) retirement and engage in the great transfer of wealth that is college for my children. I shall do this at a time when my chosen profession suffers an historic disruption in its business model, and when a Great Convergence seems to be disrupting the world economy (I felt smart today when the professor also said we were heading towards a Great Convergence). I like to think this convergent tide will raise boats, not swamp them. But the Great Convergence could damage the standard of living in the world’s wealthy economies (perhaps because a global game of labor arbitrage is driving the Great Convergence).Today I wrote up a small mission statement for what could become my next journalism project. I sent it to someone who might know someone who might want to fund something like it. From small beginnings…I jogged a mile for the first time since I injured my calf in December. No recurrence, though I had some other odd pains in my calf. Note to middle-aged self: remember to exercise and stretch regularly.
I also listened to a much older man than me discuss Nabokov’s “Lolita,” not for its disturbing content but for its lush and inventive aesthetic prose. He called it the first novel of the American suburbs, the first to recognize and depict this then-new (1955) way of life. He acknowledged Nabokov’s taboo topic but compared it to the murder of the king in Macbeth. In a sense he is correct – great works often are great because they engage our taboos. If we can speak about the unspeakable, does it make us better? Or does it send society careening off into some less stable place?