On Being a Gordon Wood Fanboy

"Hi Kevin"

“Me and my classmates have a most profound respect for you Mr., er, Professor Wood.”

Thus spoke a nervous 17-year-old Jack Butler on Labor Day weekend in 2010. A senior at St. Xavier High School, I should have had a much better command of the English language by then. But I couldn’t help it: I was anxious. I was talking to Gordon Wood, the preeminent historian of the Revolutionary period of American history, and author of the The Radicalism of the American Revolution, one of the most famous and well-respected books about that era, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in History the year I was born. Its argument is right there in the title: The American Revolution was radical. It “did not just eliminate monarchy and create republics; it actually reconstituted what Americans meant by public or state power and brought about an entirely new kind of popular politics and a new kind of democratic officeholder.”

The Radicalism of the American Revolution was assigned reading for the AP U.S. history course I had taken the year prior. For some reason, my classmates and I became more than just fans of the book. We adopted Gordon Wood as a kind of cult figure. Few of us had, at that time, seen Good Will Hunting, in which the title character mocks a Harvardian we are meant to believe is superficial by accusing him of “regurgitating Gordon Wood.” We didn't really know much about history, either. But in that strange manner of high-school boys, we became jealous guardians and passionate defenders of a thing that we had been taught to regard as our own. So when, shortly into the next school year, word got around my very lively and exciting social circle -- how, exactly, I do not recall; information traveled mysteriously in those pre-smartphone days -- that Gordon Wood was set to appear on CSPAN Book TV, I decided to call in and give it a shot.

Which is how I found myself on one end of the line with Professor Wood. You can find the whole Wood interview here. I first come in around 52 minutes in, reminding host Peter Slen and guest Gordon Wood of a question they had forgotten. Then, at 54:30, “Jack from Cincinnati” pipes up, pubescent voice quivering (though, blessedly, not cracking). But -- if I do say so myself -- the substance of my query transcended the shakiness of its delivery:

Like so many other things, in the past 100 years history itself has become politicized. And especially the Revolutionary Era, I think. And so I have to ask you, on the one hand you have historians on the left like Howard Zinn . . . and Charles Beard, who suggested that events of the Revolutionary Era were more a cynical power grab by elite classes. And then you have people on the right, as historians, like the author of The 5,000-Year Leap, whose name escapes me at the moment, who were claiming that the Constitution itself was one of the greatest innovations of mankind in its history. So which one of these sides do you think is closer to the truth? Or is the truth more in the middle than either of them would like it to be?

Rewatching this interview now, I get a sense that I transplanted some of my fumbling teenage awkwardness into the room with them. They seem to be nervously anticipating some unfortunate stumble on my part as I labor through my question. Maybe this is just the retroactive cringe I feel all these years later, observing my high-school self. Anyway, once I made it through, Wood gave an unsurprisingly intelligent answer: 

Well, I like to think that I’m writing the truth. I try to transcend these arguments if I can. I’ve been accused of being the liberals’ favorite historian, but then I’m attacked for being a defender of the right. So I’m attacked from both sides, so I feel I must be saying something somewhere in the middle, and probably, I hope, closer to the truth than either of the extremes.

He went on to say that the right has accused him of being the left’s favorite historian, and that the left has accused him of downplaying slavery and paying insufficient attention to women and minorities in this work. He continued:

From both the right and the left, history books get used by people who have agendas. Which is not part of my agenda, certainly, and I had no intention of writing for one party or another when I wrote my history or when I am writing my history.

He then argued that historical debate is important, but that excessive specialization among historians can lead to a kind of cloistering that deprives the public of the information they ought to have. His role, as he now saw it, was to address that public:

The general public does need to read history. And I see my role, and I think other historians should to: you have to translate that stuff that is going on among the historians into a language that can be read by an educated public.

My brief moment in the sun ended shortly after all that. In response to Wood’s call for the public to be well-versed in history, Slen observed that “we just had a high-school fellow call and say his class is reading The Radicalism of the American Revolution.”

“That’s very pleasing,” Wood replied.
“Is that common?” Slen asked. 
“I don’t know,” Wood answered. “I think some high-powered schools have used it, yes. But I don’t think that’s common. Otherwise, my sales would be much higher. Like Howard Zinn’s.” (Zinn is, among other things, favorably cited in Good Will Hunting.)

I was already a Gordon Wood groupie (if such a thing can be said to exist) before this interview. You don’t devote a day on Labor Day weekend to waiting by the phone to call in to CSPAN otherwise. But actually making it through, while a satisfying experience for me, an amusing one for my high-school teachers, and an envy-/respect-inducing one for some of my extremely cool and definitely not nerdy classmates, was not enough. I wanted to meet him.

Years later, when I figured out how Google News Alerts worked (though the one I have set up for my name mostly just yields interesting information about the world’s Jack Butlers), I set one up for Gordon Wood. My hope was that eventually I would learn of a Gordon Wood appearance in the D.C. area, where I have spent most of my professional life since graduating college, and be able to attend it.

A friend, not Google, made me aware of the opportunity. An early-morning event, it would be a close-run thing. I was set to be in New York City the night before. But I booked the last train back to D.C., and suffered through a sleepless late-night train ride, sleep deprivation when I got back, and downtown Washington traffic en route to make it there. You can watch the event here. Professor Wood, who will turn 90 this month, was in fine form.

And he was gracious. I had something of an in with the event organizers (thank you, Nicole Penn!), as it was being hosted by my former employer. They had informed Wood that a self-described “fanboy” would ask for an autograph (of my high-school copy of Radicalism, of course) and a picture after his remarks. He graciously obliged, and I pestered him no further than to ask for these. How could I ask for more from a man who has done so much for the field of history and for my own understanding of the Revolutionary Era? It was pure chance that I came to know of him at all; a different assignment and I'd perhaps never read a word of Gordon Wood. But I am immensely grateful that I was sent Wood-ward. All I can do in return is to treasure his scholarship and the invaluable perspective about our Founding that it advances. I fully intend to do so. Because I have a most profound respect for you, Professor Wood.  

Goodbye to Piper, the First Butler Family Dog

Piper as a puppy, me as a teenager (2008)

The Butler family always wanted a dog. When we were growing up, it was a majority opinion. But thanks to the mysterious "allergies" of a member of the family who shall go unnamed, it never ended up happening. So we had to make do with other people's dogs, especially those in the neighborhood, whom we watched, walked, played with, and enjoyed in lieu of having our own.

But once the Butler kids left the house, the only thing stopping us, theoretically, from finally realizing our household dream was ourselves. And so, naturally, the eldest of the Butler children, the first to really leave the nest, ended up the first in the family with a dog: Piper, a mysterious canine cocktail (we think Catahoula and Australian shepherd, among other breeds), who came into the Butler family in late 2008, and just left it today.

Piper as a puppy

Everyone tends to think his or her dog is the cutest, or the best, or whatever superlative you want to pick. The thing is, everyone is usually right. And we were right about Piper. She worked her way into our hearts quickly, helped by the fact that she was absolutely, ridiculously adorable as a puppy. Even with the inconveniences of puppydom, Piper endeared herself to us. And even as she grew out of puppy cuteness and into adult adorableness, we loved having her in our lives. The span of time of which she was a part was a rather big one for the Butler family: It saw all of us grow into adulthood, leave our childhood home, embark on professional careers. We were ourselves constants to one another during a time of much change and tumult. But so was Piper, who made her family debut around Christmas in 2008, and who is both remembered and captured in photograph as part of our family affairs throughout the entire period.

Piper with the family on Christmas Eve

What few complaints one could have about Piper were merely a reflection of her chief quality as a canine: She liked to be around people. She didn't like to be left alone, and never quite got used to being put out in the backyard. She could get nervous, either when alone, or sometimes when around too many other people or dogs, and could reflect this in a bark that remained powerful to her last days. Yet she always knew how to show true affection, in the way that only dogs seem capable. When you were alone with her, she was fond of curling up beside you on the floor. When in a group of familiar people, she often plopped herself down right in the middle of all of them. When greeting you, along with that familiar tail wag, she would push herself right up next to you, as close as she could get, surrounding your body with hers; we called this her "hug." Piper also had the mysterious ability to know exactly when a given person needed a cuddle or a lick. We in the family can give many examples of times we were in emotional or physical distress, and Piper had a seemingly psychic ability to detect it and to give us some doggy love -- even when other humans were unaware of what was wrong with us. 

Piper giving us a good cuddle

What else do I think of when I think of Piper? I think of being in a car with her when en route to a familiar place, when she got that look of recognition on her face that signaled she knew she was coming to a place she knew, with people (and perhaps also with smells) that she loved. I think of how when she got a favorite treat, like ice cream, her preference was to gulp down the whole thing at once, as opposed to some of the daintier dogs out there. I think of the many times it was my privilege to watch her, when she would follow me around whatever house or apartment I was in as though I was her entire world -- and realizing that, on those occasions, I may well have been (and was totally unworthy of being so). 

And though Piper is now gone, I think of the clear impact she has had on the Butler family. Not merely in being part of our lives over the past decade-plus, and consequently inserting herself into our memories of that period. She also changed the way we think about man's best friend. Not long after Piper came along, I discovered that the unnamed family member's "dog allergy" was either not real (perhaps a noble lie concocted out of a belief, likely correct, that this person would end up the one taking care of the dog the most), or was being endured with an incredible stoicism. It doesn't matter now. Piper's legacy is clear in the Butler dogs that came after her. First, there was Frankie, the four-year-old Labrador retriever who has spent those four years in the same household as Piper, giving the latter the opportunity to act as dog elder statesman. Then there was Ringo, the rambunctious and affectionate Australian Shepherd who has more followers on Instagram than I do on Twitter (and rightly so). And last, and perhaps unlikeliest, there was Koda, a klei klei mini-wolf who spends most of her time in California but got a chance to visit Piper for the first time earlier this year. These are all the dogs of people who never had one as children, but who were convinced by the example of Piper to take the leap into canine ownership. That is the legacy of Piper.

Piper on her last day, tongue proudly askew

There's another explanation for the mysterious canine allergy in our family that seems to have vanished, one that requires divulging an anecdote from our collective childhood. Once upon a time, we attempted to raise a tadpole into a frog. It may have been for a school project or something. Well, whatever it was, we didn't succeed; not long after our little tadpole sprouted legs, we found it floating atop its tank. The sadness was enough to compel its own funeral ceremony; we buried our amphibian friend in an Altoids case, near the Virgin Mary statue in the backyard, and balled our eyes out as we did so (or maybe it was just me). I seem to remember a similar experience with the various Hermit crabs we tried and failed to raise as a family over the years. So perhaps this family member, seeing how we reacted to the deaths of these tiny creatures, just didn't think we could handle the death of something a bit more substantial. Indeed, for a while, when I was younger, thanks to the euphemisms of various adults around me, I thought dogs actually were immortal. Piper has achieved a kind of immortality in our family, yes, one that will always help us to remember her. Even though she is now gone, even though I wish now that those euphemisms were true, even though I find it hard to believe such a fixture of my life since 2008 is no more . . . what time we had with her remains precious.  

A picture from my last time with Piper, in March of this year

If this all seems too much to say about a dog (as some more cynical people are fond of believing these days), well . . . get a dog first, then you'll see. You'll see how a little furry creature, one that cannot speak, can't really think (at least not in the way we do), develops its own personality, with its own quirks, likes, tricks, ups, and downs. You'll see how having a dog can provide solace, comfort, and companionship, and force the owner to look outside of him or herself for perhaps the first time, entrusted with the responsibility for another being. And you'll see how, improbably, such a creature can work its way into even the hardest of hearts. Piper certainly did that, for each member of the Butler family. As our first dog, she will be missed, but she will not be forgotten. 

And this is the happy dog I will remember her as.

There and Back Again: A Butler's Tale

Er...Jack Butler

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

--T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

It is a trope in culture, high and low, for great journeys to end in some way or another where they started. Common enough, at any rate, for Joseph Campbell to have identified “the return” as part of his monomyth, the hero’s journey by which one accepts a call to adventure, leaves the known behind, endures significant hardship, accomplishes great things, and, eventually, is reacquainted with something like old life but forever changed by the experience. Just think of your favorite books or movies and it will be hard to come up with something that doesn’t somehow bookend. Campbell’s attributes are general enough to be applied to virtually anything, which has always been a problem with them (at least for me). But it is hard to deny that they capture a certain universality.

It can be risky to try to think of one’s own life literarily. The real world is rarely, if ever, as pat as a work of fiction. We naturally think of ourselves as the protagonists of our own lives, but our world is full of protagonists whose lives constantly intersect with one another. If it’s true of all of us, can it really be said to be uniquely true of any of us? To think of life literarily also risks delusion; imagining oneself as the “hero,” in search of evil to vanquish or quests to complete can lead to a life in which anything even approaching the workaday seems like a hindrance at best – or, at worst, a condescension of sorts, a reminder that one’s life somehow fails to measure up. It can also distract one from realizing the greatness and the wonder in the everyday.

And yet, with all of those qualifications – I certainly do not see myself as a Campbellian “hero” – I cannot help but to think of the past few months of my life in something like this fashion. For at a time of great disruption, a unique combination of circumstances prevailed to return me to places where I began. I bring this up not to brag, obviously, but to show my gratitude, and to provide an account of what has occurred in my life since last anyone who cares to has heard from me.

***

In March, I provided an account of my early reckoning with the disruptions of life from coronavirus: the steady creeping of concern over the disease that accompanied the first weeks of my life in New York (where I had just moved); my quick departure from that city; and the first days of my time back home in Cincinnati. I came there having no idea how long I was going to stay. It ended up being four months, during which time coronavirus and measures to mitigate it affected the lives of virtually everyone in America (and the world), much as I feared they would when I rapidly exited New York City. Even though nowhere was a true refuge from all of this, I considered myself fortunate to be able to ride it out among family, in a place I knew better than any other.

I occupied my time back at home in various ways. Working, obviously, mostly in a basement of which I came to grow quite fond. Running, unsurprisingly, though less than I would have liked; the vanishing of the prospect of racing deprived me of motivation more than I expected. Reading, of course, though, again, less than I would have liked. Videochatting regularly with friends, and – occasionally – even interacting with a select few in person (!), mostly outdoors. Hanging out in downtown Loveland, whose wide array of outdoor environs made it an ideal place just to be. Playing Star Wars Battlefront 2, a copy of which I acquired early on during this period, allowing me to play a game I never did when it originally came out (made in cooperation with . . . Pandemic Studios!). Letting my beard grow out (then shaving it). Occupying myself with various projects, including the creation of my own version of the opening of Season 2 of LOST (coronavirus life bore a certain resemblance to the Hatch-bound existence of Desmond Hume).

Working in the basement

And, of course, hanging out with my parents: watching movies, eating dinner, attending Mass (both real and, when allowed, virtual), and much more. They were kind enough to let me back into their lives and our home for the longest I had been there since high school – a period during which we learned much about one another and profited from the mutual company.

With the parents

My time back home had to come to an end at some point, however. Though an uncertainty loomed over me for much of it: What would I do about the New York apartment I abruptly abandoned in March? For complicated reasons, I had to make a decision on whether to reoccupy it or not by the end of June. Meanwhile, the very room in the D.C. apartment that I left in February would again be vacant at a time that, if everything worked in my favor, meant I could simply return to it. It seemed impossible to believe it would all work out, though I obsessed over the possibility that it might.

And so it did. Thus, my departure from my real home precipitated a return to a place that I adopted as one: the apartment in the city that I have come to know better than anywhere other than that real home. Besides the symmetry of this, there was a certain irony to it. When I left D.C. in February of this year, I thought it was permanent, or at least, that it would be a while before I returned in any meaningful capacity. This fact led me to pen a heartfelt valediction to the Swamp, a place I once hated in the way that many still do (and they are in many senses right to do so). But what I thought would be years turned out to be only a few months, virtually of which I spent at the only other place in the world I knew as well.

But it was not a matter of merely returning to Washington. First, I had to make a different return: to New York City, to move out of the apartment I moved into a mere six months before (and in which I had only actually lived for about six weeks). To do this, I flew back to the city, existed among the trauma it still faces from its outbreak, ran, worked, and otherwise spent all of my time packing up to leave. On the day of my departure, a few of the friends I had who remained in the city graciously came to my fifth-floor walk-up and helped me move my stuff into the van I had rented. One of these friends had helped me do the same on my way into the city – another bookend for a journey that seems to involve many. Upon that task’s completion, they left. And not long after, I did, on a journey that first for some reason took me through the heart of the city – a place I had not spent much time during my brief return – but then placed me on the same route I had traveled in February but in reverse. There and back again, a Butler’s tale.

I took this moments before leaving my  NYC apartment

I thought about much during the four-hour trip. Mostly my thoughts concerned what had occurred in my life over the past few months, and, of course, disbelief that I really was getting exactly what I wanted out of all this. July 26 was a beautiful, if hot, summer day; the traffic along the eastern seaboard was relatively sparse. Though the drive seemed to drag at first, eventually the journey itself gained the kind of temporal momentum that long drives often seem to – that point when one loses true consciousness of time’s passage and the miles just seem to fly by. For me, this happened around the time I saw the first highway sign indicating the number of miles I had left until D.C., and seemed to accelerate the closer I got to our nation’s capital. My phone died shortly after I passed by Baltimore, but it didn’t matter; it would be hard for me to get truly lost the rest of the way. I ended up taking back into the city basically the same route I did to get out of it. The symmetry abounds.

I returned to the house I had left in February around 4:30 pm, not having stopped on the trip. It was locked and appeared empty when I arrived, though my worries were quickly allayed in that respect. The first words I said to the roommate who greeted me were, “Well, I’m back,” which are the last words in Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. When I left in February, the last words I had said to this same person were, “I will not say: Do not weep: For not all tears are an evil,” another famous closing quote from the same work. Yes, perhaps I am falling into my own advised-against path of an over-literary life; or perhaps I am just trying to create little literary moments of my own. There’s no harm in that, I don’t think.

Some more symmetry for you

As I write this, it has been a week since my return. I have spent most if it in disbelief – disbelief that I am actually here, disbelief that I get not just my old house but also my old room back, disbelief that everything seems so familiar to me, as though I never left. As I have unpacked, organized, and restored my old routines, I have felt these things even more strongly. And so it bears repeating: I can’t believe I am actually back.

***

But I do not think this is merely a return to the status quo ante. It can’t be, not according to the Campbellian monomyth. And for all my problems with it, and for all my warnings about trying to live too literary a life, I think that literary trope applies here. My returns to my literal and figurative homes did not simply make me the same person I was the last time I was at either of them. As is often the case in my life, this reality was reinforced for me by music: two songs that inserted themselves into these experiences in two distinct ways whose import seems more than merely accidental.

Near the end of my time in Loveland, I was packing my things. Though I spent most of my time working in the basement, I slept upstairs. Though I did not sleep in what was my bedroom, which for complicated reasons has simply turned into a storage area for my life's accumulated detritus. I was playing some music while I did this on Spotify shuffle play. As I walked into what was my bedroom for the last time before departing, I heard the following lyrics from Arcade Fire’s “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)”:

But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms
And our parents' bedrooms
And the bedrooms of our friends
Then we think of our parents
Well what ever happened to them?

For all the time I lived in that room, I had never listened to that song there. It comes from Arcade Fire’s first album, Funeral, which is mostly about what it’s like to grow up, to realize you’re not a kid anymore, and to confront the meaning of aging and adulthood for both yourself and those around you. I shouldn’t need more explanation to convey why happening to hear that as I walked into my childhood bedroom bore more meaning than a typical listen.

The other moment of musical meaning came in the final moments of my drive back to my D.C. apartment. Having resorted to the radio after my phone had died, I was channel-surfing when U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” came on. Of course, I had to listen. This standout track from U2’s most famous album, Joshua Tree, describes a powerful spiritual longing that afflicts all of mankind, an unconquerable striving for more that humans can find difficult to fill. Often when I have heard this song on the radio in my life, it seems to come at moments when I am unsure of my direction – or perhaps I am always a bit unsure, and hearing this song on the radio makes my overly-literary mind want to impose a significance to its playing that is not actually as present as I believe. Either way, it typically inspires in me an acute wistfulness, an inner ponderousness that makes me wonder about the course of my existence.

But not this time. For as I was hearing it this time, I was moving confidently forward, exactly in the direction I wanted to go: Back where I came from. And while I have returned, I do not think I am the same person I was when I left. I have been changed by my experiences, and have grown from them despite their relative brevity. And as most directly concerns my return to Washington, D.C., I come back here after having determined exactly what I like most about the city. I am not sure how long my time here now will last; I have no plans to move again any time soon. But I do not intend to make it a kind of “greatest hits,” doing only what I know I truly enjoy about the place. I will approach new experiences with an openness that comes from maturity, a wisdom that comes from experience – and an appreciation for where I have come from and what I have done that comes from gratitude and humility.

I have arrived where I started. I look forward to coming to know the place for the first time.

A Journal of My Plague Week

Not quite a year, and (let's hope) not quite a plague.

In 1665, London experienced an outbreak of bubonic plague, the same disease behind the "Black Death" that had devastated Europe a few centuries before. Over 18 months, 100,000 Londoners -- about a fourth of the city's population at the time -- died from it, despite widespread closure and quarantining measures. (One such closure, of Cambridge University, forced student Isaac Newton into self-taught homeschooling, during which he developed his theory of gravity, among other things.) Several decades later, in 1722, author Daniel Defoe (of Robinson Crusoe fame) published A Journal of the Plague Year, a deeply-researched account (arguably one of the world's first novels) of life in London during that horrible time.
Here, I have no pretensions to be anywhere near as exhaustive, as my far more modest title should suggest. Nor will I attempt to feign expertise. But the sheer weirdness of the 2020 outbreak of COVID-19, the fact that it has already affected my life in several ways, and -- perhaps here pretension sneaks back in --  the desire to create an account for myself and for others (present and future) all compel me to describe the first week that this novel coronavirus has actually affected my life.

***

Throughout January and February, as the virus began its journey from a wet market in Wuhan, Hubei Province, China to America, I vaguely followed news of its spread from afar. But it was not always my foremost concern. I spent most of January and February preparing to move from Washington, D.C. to New York City for a new job, actually moving there, and then getting used to my new life. Because of this, and the fact that it had not yet come to America, I didn’t pay much attention to it. Only when American cases began to appear did it become more than a secondary concern for me.

It became a much more real story at the beginning of March. One of the first significant American outbreaks was centered around the New York City suburb of New Rochelle, not far from where I now lived and worked; one of the first known infected commuted into midtown Manhattan daily. Because of the delayed-onset nature of this coronavirus, he may have done so before he was diagnosed. As a result of this, during the first week of March, I began to take the outbreak a bit more seriously. I became a compulsive handwasher, and felt a newfound gratitude for the bottle of hand sanitizer that my new apartment’s previous occupants had left behind. I had two phone conversations with distant friends, both of which featured coronavirus heavily (with cameos by coronavirus conspiracies positing even more malice by the Chinese government than is yet known). I was somewhat nervous about using a bathroom in Central Park on a run (but did it anyway). I tried to avoid actually touching door handles as much as possible. And I also tentatively told my Cincinnati family that, if I felt things were starting to get bad, I would probably come home. And on Sunday evening (after I won a 10k, where I nervously used portapotties), my anxiety increased when the priest at St. Josephs’s in Yorkville gave a series of coronavirus guidelines: no communion on the tongue, no holy water in baptismal fonts, no sign of peace. This was the first time the virus actually affected my life. 

At the start of the 10k I won. 

Over the second week of March, my concern became much more elevated. In the prior week, I had begun to wonder if I should alter my commute, for which I had been using the Times Square-42nd Street Station, surely one of the busiest -- and germiest -- in the city. That Monday, though, I did not end up doing so. But as the number of people wearing medical masks around the city -- and on the subway -- continued its ominous (and foolish) rise, my paranoia likewise increased. I tried consciously to touch what other people did as little as possible, and also, obviously to avoid accidental brushes up against others. I even tried to stop two of my worse habits: touching my face, and spitting on sidewalks (the latter ingrained from many years of running). I did all of this on Monday, March 9, the first day I would say I was truly anxious about coronavirus.

This ended up being the last day I commuted into my midtown office. My employer had already offered working from home as an option before any of this began, and it was already part of my regular routine. The conversations I had about the outbreak at work that day, and the news of its growing spread, ultimately convinced me not to go into the office for at least a day or two. On Tuesday morning, I ran through Central Park, as had become part of my incipient New York routine. Near the end of the run, though, I felt a pain in my right hamstring. A combination of coronavirus commute anxiety and a desire to be able to stay home to ice and rest kept me out of the office that day. During my day at home, I happened to page through my copy of Paradise Lost . . . and opened it right to the page where Adam is shown all the diseases that the Fall of man will unleash into the world.  

Heretical bibliomancy.

I spent most of Wednesday taking in news about the outbreak’s spread, only leaving my apartment once that day. By the end of the day, I hadn’t decided yet whether I would leave New York. But the increasing spread, and measures, both real and rumored, of the local and state government, began to make me nervous.

***

After my Thursday morning run, I decided I would leave New York, shortly after receiving an official recommendation to work from home indefinitely from my employer and securing position to do so. I’m not sure what was the final straw for me; if I’m being honest, it may have been the unsubstantiated rumors I was hearing of a citywide shutdown. But my ultimate rationale was something like this: New York may or may not completely shut down. The same could happen in Ohio. But most of my family and many of my friends were in Ohio, and it was a place I knew well. Whereas I had just gotten to New York, and was still figuring the place out. New York has many merits. But it was not the place I wanted to be in the worst-case scenario, a reality I reasoned we were approaching. So back to Ohio it was. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, and was hoping that flights would be cheap, as I’d heard they were due to plummeting demand for tickets. This didn’t end up being the case, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get home. Which is why I also hailed an Uber to get me from my apartment to LaGuardia airport. A few weeks earlier, navigating to that airport for the first time, I underestimated the duration of the trip and missed a flight; I did not want to do that again. This would also avoid having to use the subway again before leaving, a boon for germ avoidance.

Before my departure, I packed carefully, but quickly. I tried not to think about it too much, because I just knew that I wouldn’t be able to take everything I had worked so hard (and so recently!) to get into my apartment back with me, and would have to be parsimonious. I left with only a travel suitcase and a carry-on, which seemed almost embarrassingly sparse, but I could not imagine an alternative given my circumstances. I also consumed as much of my perishable food as I could manage, and told my roommate that the rest was fair game for him. He had not yet made plans to leave, though I suggested he do so (I have learned since that he did). I left my apartment without much ceremony. Perhaps I should have given it more of a last look, since I truly didn’t know when I would return. But I suppose I didn’t want to give myself enough time to think about all of this.

I got into the Uber at around 4:30 pm for a 6:55 pm flight. It wasn’t supposed to be rush hour yet. But the Upper East Side, through which most of the trip took place, was quite crowded. At this time, already pretty much fully consumed by coronavirus paranoia, my feelings grew somewhat ominous. As I sat helpless in unmoving traffic somewhere between my apartment and the airport, a scene popped into my head, unbidden: a passerby walking unassumingly but quickly up to the car I was in then suddenly smashing the glass of one of the windows. I don’t know why I thought of this. Fortunately, it ended up being nothing more than a dark imagining, and I arrived at the airport without incident.

The airport, however, presented a new obstacle. There aren’t many more germ-intensive environments than airports; coronavirus had already taken advantage of them in its spread. So I made some resolutions before entering: to touch directly as little as possible; to wash my hands compulsively; and to open my mouth only when necessary. Despite some deeply ingrained habits, and the exigencies of the TSA line -- where my luggage had to be screened twice for some reason, and where I received what I considered an unusually aggressive pat down from a TSA agent (just a few days after news reports revealed that a TSA agent at one airport had tested positive for coronavirus) -- I mostly succeeded at this. Though my paranoia about every stray cough and sneeze, building over the past few days, was now peaking as a result. And I tried as best as I could to avoid overly close proximity with people when I could.

Now, I just to wait for my flight. While doing so, I half-watched airport CNN and half-read the book I had brought with me (The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov). More important, I finalized my arrangements upon arrival to Cincinnati, my destination. I asked one of my sisters who still lived there if she could pick me up; she said yes. Demonstrating a knowledge of COVID-19 more developed than my own, she then suggested something I had not even considered: that I should stay either with her or my other Cincinnati-residing sister, at least for the first few days of my return home, to minimize any possible transmission risk to my 60something parents, as older demographics tend to be more susceptible to serious damage from the disease. I decided she was right, and agreed that she would take me to my older sister’s home from the airport (as she had a guest room with a bed). But I still had to get to Cincinnati. Once I boarded my flight, my anxiety to depart increased. And was not relieved: a half-hour after the plane was supposed to take off, it was still idle on the runway. I began to worry that some bizarre event would prevent its departure. Fortunately, this was another dark imagining, and a great weight lifted from my shoulders when it got into the air. On the flight, I opened my mouth only for occasional deep breaths, but otherwise did not even refill my water bottle or take a drink from it. I was very thirsty by the end of the flight (and very bored, since I finished my book early on in the flight; and thank goodness, because it was pretty bad).

***

My sister greeted me at the airport -- along her dog, a 20-week-old Australian shepherd named Ringo. We spent the drive back to and then through Cincinnati to my other sister’s house keeping Ringo occupied, discussing coronavirus, and listening to music (the SiriusXM Beatles’ station; Ringo is named after Ringo Star). She confessed to me that she had been listening to many podcasts about it, the source of her elevated knowledge. We proceeded in this fashion until we arrived at my older sister’s house, where Ringo briefly interacted with Piper and Frankie, my older sister’s dogs. I then went to bed not long after this, and awoke to Friday, my first day in Cincinnati, still a little bewildered I was there at all. But I tried as best as I could to maintain my routines: running in the morning (in an area somewhat but not entirely familiar to me), working during the day, etc. I was home by myself with my older sister’s dogs for most of the day, and they made good but quirky company (though Frankie’s habit of chewing on toilet paper has taken on a curious valence in this time, for reasons I shall explain below).

Frankie liked The Gods Themselves more than I did. Before this, she was playing with it in her mouth. 

Saturday was a day to relax, unwind . . . and figure out what I wanted to do running-wise. I delayed the starting of my run, typically a workout of some kind on Saturday, long enough to receive an email that the Cherry Blossom 10-miler, a race I’d registered for which had been scheduled for April 5, was canceled. This threw my training into uncertainty; I tend to be somewhat unfocused and unmotivated when I don’t have a race I’m training toward. I eventually just decided on a fartlek, a non-specialized, segment-differing/rest-constant workout of the sort I can always do for at least some benefit. I had also waited long enough for a kind of wintry mix to begin (reinforcing how underpacked I was for colder weather). I did the workout in this weather at Otto Armleider and Lunken parks, popular running areas that were not entirely empty today, but which nonetheless gave off a strange, apocalyptic vibe to me. But the world didn’t end while I was out there, and I eventually returned, doing little for the rest of the day.

First thing on Sunday, I went for a long run almost entirely on the Little Miami Bike Trail, a rail-to-trail that hugs the Little Miami River from Xenia to its feeding into the Ohio River. I ran north, and the trail was mostly empty. I couldn’t stop myself from spitting, though I tried to avoid doing it while people were around. But as I did so, I kept thinking that, if I were vector of coronavirus, I would be conveniently spreading it 9 miles throughout the East Side of Cincinnati. But I felt fine, and eventually finished the run, spending a good deal of time eating afterward. Later that day, my sister returned to her house, and so did one of my cousins, just a few years younger than I, for a family dinner. While we hoped not to be violating the new cultural imperative of “social distancing” (a strange formulation urging people to avoid large groups and close contact), we talked, unavoidably, about coronavirus. And near the end of the dinner, both my cousin and I confronted coronavirus-related decisions. Mike DeWine, the governor of Ohio, had just announced the bars and restaurants would soon be closed, with only carry-out allowed (the state had already closed all school buildings, with schools now forced to educate online indefinitely). A student at a local college, my cousin wanted to join his friends at their favorite local bar, thinking it may be his last chance to do so before the end of the school year. And I had to decide whether to attend church. Every Ohio archdiocese had formally dispensed Catholics of the requirement to attend Mass for the rest of the month. But Catholic guilt is a powerful force. Eventually, my cousin decided to go to the bar. And I decided to go to church.

It was a strange experience. The mass may or may not have been more populated than usual; everyone was so spread out that I couldn’t really tell. There was no music. There was no communion wine. And, most important, there was no sign of peace. Nor was there even any acknowledgment of its absence; Father simply proceeded as though it had never been a part of the mass. I nonetheless made liberal use of hand sanitizer in my sister’s car before mass, in the church after mass ended, and in her car again when I returned to it. Though it probably wasn’t necessary to go there, I’m glad I went. (And was made even happier when I learned later that all masses in the archdiocese of Cincinnati had been canceled for the rest of Lent.)

On Monday, I hoped to restore a semblance of normalcy to my life. And for the most part, I did: a morning run, followed my first office conference call since arriving in Cincinnati. Amusingly, it went somewhat longer than usual, probably because these calls were having to do a lot more heavy lifting now that we were all remote from each other indefinitely. I did my work from my sister’s home while keeping the dogs entertained. My sister brought home food ordered carry-out from The Works, a local restaurant we both love and wanted to support in this unusual time, and had that for dinner. It felt . . . almost normal.

I had my first real coronavirus reality interruption of my Cincinnati life the next day. After a fairly normal day, my sister came home and said I could go to the grocery store if I wanted to get things that she hand’t. I decided I did want to go, partly for the more prosaic reason . . . and partly because I wanted to see if all the things I’d been hearing about grocery stores without pasta, hand sanitizer, or, for some reason, toilet paper were true. So I went. It was true. All of it. And even more: I discovered upon entering the Mariemont Kroger that it had imposed a two-item limit on loaves of bread, gallons of milk, and cartons of eggs. 

I thought this was America. 

And I also found that nearly all of the spaghetti had disappeared (except for a gluten-free brand, and a select brand that, in a kind of cosmic insult, cost exactly as much as spaghetti does for me in New York, thus defeating my hope to take advantage of Midwestern prices while I am here).

They'll never run out of this. 

Meanwhile, most of the lasagna, rigatoni, and other pasta types that people don’t really understand was still there.

People really don't know to make lasagna.

And yes, there really was no toilet paper. Not a single roll. (Hence the danger of Frankie’s habit.)

I forgot to take a regular picture of the toilet paper section, so you'll have to make do with my Snap story.

I had never seen anything like it. Cincinnatians occasionally make runs on the grocery store in anticipation of snowstorms (many of which never actually come). But this…this was something different. I was still able to get most of what I had come for, but it was still surreal to see something like this in real life.

Wednesday was as normal a day as I can expect to have in this strange time, with one exception. Well . . . three, actually. That was the number of times I used the videoconferencing software Zoom to have conversations with people I was not physically present with. The first of these was for work, and is a normal part of my professional life in this new job. Though again, this call went longer than is typical, as it must now substitute for a great deal of other social interaction. The second was with former coworkers and now friends from my previous job. We often ate lunch together there, and one of them had the idea to simulate it by holding such a call during the lunch hour. It was a useful catchup, and a window into life in D.C., from where many of them were calling.

The first Zoom. 

And the last conference call was of my instigation, with a separate group of friends from D.C. My old D.C. apartment was the setting of what we called “Boys’ Night,” a gathering of “the boys” on Wednesday evenings just to hang out. In the wake of social distancing and public closures, Boys’ Night had been canceled physically. While I had accepted the reality of no longer attending in person, I sensed an opportunity when it was disrupted completely, and arranged for a digital version. It was a success; the boys were brought back together, and it was almost like we were in person together again. Almost.

The day's second Zoom. 

***

And that brings me to today. By COVID-19 standards, it’s been a pretty normal day: morning run, morning conference call, hanging out with the dogs, carry-out dinner brought home by my sister -- this time, from Paxton’s, another local favorite. But today, I also decided to end this phase of my coronavirus life by returning to my parents’ house. My sister has been kind to me, and would surely continue this kindness indefinitely, but I no longer wish to burden her, and am more confident of my capacity to function autonomously at my parents’ abode, as my intent is not to burden them either. And most important, I feel no symptoms for what might be coronavirus. I will still be very careful around them when I am home. But I do not think that, by doing so, I am being one of those selfish youths who thinks himself indestructible and forgets that he interacts regularly with those who are not.

Undoubtedly, this will not be the end of COVID-19’s impact on my life. It has already dislodged me from my living arrangements and forced me into an entirely new routine, though one made slightly more comfortable by the fact that I get to build it in a familiar environment. But I think I will soon grow accustomed to this life, for however long I have to live it, and thus it will increasingly grow less worthy of comment (unless these perpetual rumors of statewide "shelter-in-place" prove true, which I doubt). My experience has not been unusual, but it doesn’t have to be weird for something this bizarre in the first place. Unlike any news story I can remember, this is a real factor in the lives of just about everyone I know, and we are all affected by it in some way, and also striving to live as normally as possible -- a strange combination.

At such a time, it seems weird to say, but I am, on the whole, grateful. For having left New York. For having a job I can do remotely (something unavailable to many). For having a place where I could go in the presence of family (and friends, once I am comfortable seeing them again). For having time to complete a project that, while I doubt it will rival the work of Isaac Newton, will be of great importance to me -- and, eventually, to others, I hope -- once finished. And I am grateful, obviously, that I have avoided the disease so far, and hope that as many people as possible share this fate. We don’t know yet whether COVID-19 will prove as devastating as either the London plague or the Black Death; we can pray that it is not. But either way, it has already earned a place in history, one that it is our strange lot to live through.

The Closing of the American House (for me)

Lording over what was my domain. 

I lived in four apartments during my time in Washington, D.C., which has now come to a close. But I only lived in the most important one of them for two months.

We call it Allan Bloom, for reasons too idiosyncratic to explain here. But the fact that it had a name at all might suggest its importance. It's relatively common on college campuses for houses to be named; outside of that bizarre world that often skews young adults' perception of how reality ought to work, it's rare that youthful urban dwellers even get a building to themselves, much less desire to name it. But against all of this, Allan Bloom stands as a glorious exception.

For almost a year before I actually lived in this Northeast D.C. house, Allan Bloom was the staging ground of my social life. I was there at least once a week. And it gave me plenty of reasons to stop by. Boys' Night on Wednesdays, a casual gathering of just guys being dudes, giving each other the kind of companionship and camaraderie that sadly too many these days lack. Regular parties, for which our surprisingly spacious abode is strikingly well-suited. And perhaps best of all, the impromptu trips, times I showed up when I had nothing else to do and just wanted to do it with friends. I even slept on the couch and cooked there...and all of that before I even moved in!

Naturally, I was thrilled by the opportunity to move in. It seemed I had found the perfect place. The most space I'd yet had in Washington, and I got to share it with people I considered good friends. A convenient location, with all the necessary amenities, and many good running routes. Regular chances to see friends of mine who didn't live there. I imagined that I would live there, happily, for as long as I lived in Washington, D.C.

The boys of Allan Bloom 

And that was true. It's just that my time in D.C. didn't end up lasting as long as I thought it would. When a dream job offer came my way that would take me out of D.C., one of the biggest factors influencing me to stay was Allan Bloom, and the social world of which it was the focal point. I had worked and waited years for such an ideal situation. I suddenly found myself in a cheesy romantic comedy, where I literally had to choose between my personal life and my career. But this was a false dichotomy. For even though I leave the house, I do not leave the friendship of its residents.

Hint hint...

Still, I cannot deny that my time at Allan Bloom has come to an end. On the surface, it seems like a kind of farce. Going through some of the painful motions of moving, it has felt that way at times. Moving stuff down our main staircase, I relived very recent memories of moving those same things up it just a few weeks prior. I only had a week or two, really, of actually living there, with all of my stuff in its desirable configuration, under the assumption that I would stay indefinitely. I  As my housemates helped me move out, I recalled their recent efforts helping me move in, doubling the debt of gratitude I owe them. But none of this can make the reality, the finality, of my departure any less sad.

Though leaving Allan Bloom should not be only an occasion of sadness. I thought it was going to be my Shire; instead, it ended up as my Rivendell, a place where I could rest for the next stage of my journey. I ended my time in D.C. in the best possible position: among friends, in a place that I loved.  For despite living there for only two months, the brunt of my non-professional life was there: hanging out, partying, eating, sleeping, doing nothing, and more. In this respect, Allan Bloom reaches a status much like my old college house, one that is now sadly long gone. I didn't think I'd ever again live in a place of which I would be that fond. And unlike that one, I'll be able to come back and visit, and someone else will get the chance to enjoy it. Maybe I'll even find occasion to sleep here. Though next time, I'll have to sleep on the couch.

Again.

My even older domain 

Waiting for Skywalker

Table read for The Force Awakens. How bored was Mark Hamill?

I have written a lot about Star Wars on this blog, far more than I expected. The second thing I wrote for it was a long "preaction" to The Force Awakens that was originally a Facebook note, but which was so long and unwieldy in that format that I decided to make a blog to house and similar thoughts. In the years since, I've defended The Force Awakens, made the case for my casting as Han Solo, attempted to predict what Episode VIII, what became The Last Jedi, would be like, and even defended that movie despite its straying from many of my expectations. There have been other things as well; you can peruse them all, if you like.

In all that time, though, there is at least one thing about Star Wars I have not noted, perhaps because it is a trifling observation that may not even be worthy of transcription. But it's my blog, so you will not stop me. Take another look at the picture at the top of this page. This is the table read for The Force Awakens, the first time the cast members for that 2015 movie read through the J.J. Abrams and Lawrence Kasdan script for the first Star Wars movie since 2005, and the first to move the story forward since 1983. This was, if I recall correctly, the first production image for the movie. We had no idea what to expect of it then. What a heady time it was!

We know a bit more now. And one thing we know specifically about The Force Awakens is that Mark Hamill, who portrays original trilogy hero Luke Skywalker...does not actually have any lines in that first new movie. He appears at the very end, wordlessly staring at the lightsaber presented to him by new trilogy hero Rey. And then...the movie ends. Given that he was actually present for the entire table read of the new movie, I have begun to wonder: How bored was he, just sitting there, waiting, as everyone else said lines? Who knows. But that's it. Now that that's out of the way, I've nothing left to say about Star Wars...

...I'm kidding. Of course I do. Everyone does. Nowadays, it's just one of those things you're expected to have an opinion about. How Star Wars reached this status, I'm not exactly sure. You could call it a consequence of the conquest of pop culture by nerds, or by nostalgia, by both, or a variety of other things. But in no way can I pretend to be immune. I grew up watching the prequel trilogy, the true extent of whose badness I did not fathom until after my childhood. Before them, I saw the original trilogy, though I think for some reason that the first one I saw was Return of the Jedi. And if anything, my fandom was cemented by many hours wasted playing Star Wars: Battlefront on PS2 both in my basement and the basements of many friends. I was successfully propagandized into Star Wars fandom years ago, and was, as a result, one of many people who eagerly bought tickets for The Force Awakens in 2015.

My ticket to The Force Awakens

But the place of Star Wars in popular culture has become a complicated thing since then, adding a new wrinkle to a fandom that hasn't really been completely happy since 1980. The Force Awakens, though one of the most popular movies of all time, quickly came under criticism for being derivative, which I thought was a bit unfair; I became a defender of the movie. And in 2017, The Last Jedi became one of the most controversial movies in recent memory. Why exactly this was, I'm not sure; I more or less enjoyed it, despite not being a huge fan, and after not knowing exactly what to make of it after my first viewing. If I had to guess why The Last Jedi has been so divisive, I'd say it's that the movie's decision to attack or alter some fundamental aspects of Star Wars, such as they are, made people more open to seeing the flaws that had been present in every movie.

And so The Rise of Skywalker, the concluding entry in this new trilogy, enters theaters under a cloud of skepticism. Star Wars fans once again feel like they can't trust the people making their movies, which is an oddly familiar feeling for a supposedly venerable franchise. I will be seeing it tomorrow, and I genuinely have no idea what to expect. But before I do, I want to attempt to make sense of this new trilogy's reception, and of Star Wars more generally and its place in popular culture.

In certain ways, the first Star Wars movie, now known as A New Hope, was truly groundbreaking in 1977. Its popularity changed the movie industry, maybe forever. And many people who saw it then, as well as subsequent generations of people who saw it as children later, wrapped up their youthful conception of the movie inextricably with childhood itself. Some people of my generation have come to regard The Phantom Menace and the prequel trilogy similarly, though this is a bit more dubious. (Don't let anyone tell you those movies are good. They're not. Nor are they somehow more worthwhile because they attempted to do something new; they didn't.) Either way, though, Star Wars has come to mean a great deal to many people.

A long time ago, all the way back in 1977...

It was many of these people, the ones who were children when the original movies first came out, who have reacted most strongly against this new trilogy. Some part of their inner self holds these movies to an impossibly high standard, and rebels against the very idea that anything could possibly be as good as what they knew when they were younger. For these and other people, this new trilogy probably never would have been good enough. Make the movie too familiar, and they'd decry its lack of originality; make it too unusual, and they'd say their childhoods had been ruined. This specific sense of ownership of Star Wars by its fans likely accounts at least partly for why many have "criticized" the new movies by supplying the fan fiction they would have rather seen filmed instead (something you could accuse me of doing, but I wrote mine before the movie came out, and did my best to judge what was ultimately released on its own terms). For now that someone other than the original creators is working on the movies, they don't see the need to respect what is on screen, and perhaps imagine that they could do a better job "playing with the toys" than some Hollywood rando. This is not to say the new trilogy has been perfect, or to excuse its faults. But I question the possibility that it could have ever truly satisfied everyone's idea of what Star Wars should be.

This is in part because I have come to believe that Star Wars has never really been great. At its best, the movies have themselves been derivative, of things like Flash Gordon, the World War II bomber movie The Dam Busters (from which the much-ballyhooed climax of the first Star Wars movie steals much of its dialogue word-for-word), of Akira Kurosawa and David Lean, of Frank Herbert's Dune, and much more. Indeed, before the original trilogy was even over, it was already being derivative of itself, what with another Death Star, returns to Tatooine and Dagobah, etc. This is to say nothing of Star Wars' creator George Lucas' insistence that his prequel trilogy "rhymes" with the original trilogy, or the extent to which the original movie itself would have been a mess if not for studio-enforced discipline and editing. Hence I question how much one can really say that Star Wars ever really was great.

I also question how much scope for truly interesting things there actually is in this universe. So far, virtually the entirety of Star Wars has dealt with a roughly 60-year period in a civilization thousands of years old. And even in the now-decanonized expanded universe stuff, the things that happen both before and after this narrow sliver of Star Wars history ultimately recur in a cyclical pattern that just keeps resetting. The good guys rule. Then the bad guys come in, mess everything up. Then the good guys come back against long odds and win again. Then then good guys rule. Then the bad guys come in, mess everything up. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Until Darth Jar Jar comes along, that is. 

Things may never change in Star Wars. But they have in my life. Since 2015, when The Force Awakens came out, I have done, watched, and read many things. But the two most relevant for this discussion are two book series I have read, one for the first time in a while, and one for the first time ever. In the fall of 2018, I reread The Lord of the Rings trilogy for the first time since 2003 (I was a nerdy kid, I'll admit it). Doing so, I noticed again all of its wonderful world-building detail, and reminded myself that, for a few years, I was much more of a Lord of the Rings nerd than a Star Wars nerd. And I was also reminded how much more depth there was to that series, both in book and movie form (though the two are more distinct than I remembered). I think this has made Lord of the Rings return to primacy in my inner hierarchy of fandoms.

But if it's not Lord of the Rings, then Frank Herbert's Dune and its first three sequels now reign supreme for me. I had known about Dune for a while, but only in the summer of 2016 did I actually get around to reading it. I was immediately plunged into an immersive, mystical world, featuring a millennia-old quasi-religious sect attempting to manipulating events to its end on a grand cosmic scale, sandworms, a desert planet, a tribe inhabiting it, and a young hero who goes on an epic quest, learning great powers along the way, and ultimately defeating a great evil. Further books introduce elements such as a pair of twins with psychic powers, a worm with a human face, an evil organization attempting to manipulate events to its end on a grand cosmic scale, and...okay, all right, surely you get the picture by now. Dune came out in 1965. Star Wars came out in 1977. I can't accuse George Lucas of outright plagiarism, but...come on. Even better, Dune is immensely more complex than Star Wars, despite attempts by some to make Star Wars more intellectually sophisticated than any legitimate reading of its universe can sustain. All of this is to say that next December, when a new adaptation of Dune comes out, I will be insufferable, and ready to forget Star Wars completely.

Pictured: Better than Star Wars. 

In the meantime, I will still see The Rise of Skywalker. I may like it, or I may not. But I will not be angry if it is a bad movie. Nor am I closed to the possibility that it may be a good one. These are just movies, in the end. They not need be psychologically-charged affairs, whose perceived failure is some great affront to people's childhoods, or a sign that society is decadent, or any number of things that too many adults have read into movies ultimately made for children. Star Wars has never really been anything more than a Dune ripoff monomyth story with some good cinematography. And the reaction to the movies that have come out in the past few years, more than the movies themselves, have made me tired of these movies, and of anyone believing they ought to be more than they are. Disney, one of the world's biggest corporations, doesn't need me to defend Star Wars. But I will also not be dragged into the world of Internet hyperbole in attacking them. If this means I am a hypocrite for abandoning what some could sensibly perceive as a recent Star Wars obsession, or one with a greater vintage, then so be it. Because people who are waiting for a Star Wars movie, of all things, to make them happy will be waiting for Skywalker for a long time.

In closing, I think again of what Alec Guinness reportedly thought of Star Wars fans after his role as Obi-Wan Kenobi made his later years quite comfortable. They are words that are worth recalling as yet another generation produces its takes on Star Wars:

In the final volume of the book A Positively Final Appearance (1997), Guinness recounts grudgingly giving an autograph to a young fan who claimed to have watched Star Wars over 100 times, on the condition that the boy promise to stop watching the film, because, as Guinness told him, "this is going to be an ill effect on your life." The fan was stunned at first, but later thanked him (though some sources say it went differently). Guinness is quoted as saying: "'Well,' I said, 'do you think you could promise never to see Star Wars again?' He burst into tears. His mother drew herself up to an immense height. 'What a dreadful thing to say to a child!' she barked, and dragged the poor kid away. Maybe she was right but I just hope the lad, now in his thirties, is not living in a fantasy world of secondhand, childish banalities."