Blog Post #6 – Aphorisms of Modernity
Living in modernity is taxing in every sense. The constant “day to day” living of work, home, sleep, and repeat, of time as simultaneously fleeting and abundant, can lead, as we see with the protagonist Lizzie in Jenny Offill’s novel, Weather, mental illness, and a detachment to the world in a sense. The novel is structured less like your traditional prose and more like a book of witty and clever jokes, in the same vein of something you’d find at the airport bookstore. Something quick, pithy, and briefly entertaining. Offill’s book, though, is anything but briefly entertaining. What is offered in the novel are semi-brief descriptions, ponderings, and anecdotes of the psychological toll that modernity places on somebody.
Who is Lizzie though? Lizzie is a middle-class, educated, college librarian living and, in some sense, maintaining her classicalist, turned coder husband Ben, and inquisitive son Eli. Ben, like many of the other academics in the book, has had to find other means, whether pertaining to their fields or not, to find work. Lizzie and all the people in her circle fit the white, metropolitan, NPR-listening Gen-X/older Millennial type. They run podcasts, take their kids to gifted schools, and enjoy creature comforts. This bourgeois world of comforts, activities, and distractions, which have come to define our “everdays,” is at every turn stagnant and detached. Take this revealing passage, where Lizzie says:
Henry and Catherine come over for dinner. She brings giant sunflowers and I try to find a vase to hold them. She seems unnerved by all the books. “Have you read all of these?” she asks me. Later, she starts a conversation based on the idea that we’re living in unprecedented times.
I can see Ben hesitate. He has a complicated relationship to modern things. On the one hand, he makes educational video games. On the other, he has a PhD in classics. Two bad years on the job market and then he quit and learned to code.
I decide to comment for him. I recount some half-baked story about Lucretius. This guy lived in the first century BCE but claimed that in his time there was too much bored rushing around. Terrible fears one minute! Apathy the next! Catherine looks at Henry and then at me. “I just meant politics,” she says. (Offill 37).
For context, this passage is the entirety of the scene; as one perhaps would perceive this as being part of a bigger scene, its entirety is an anecdote that analogizes Lucretius with Ben, but also everyone. In this one scene, the many sorts of contradictions and banalities with modernity and time are sort of on display. Firstly, her being a librarian, the inferably large mounds of books they have, and the “idea that we’re living in unprecedented times” point to the way modernity modulates between productivity, urgency, and leisure. This is later supplemented by the second part of the anecdote, the all too real work force experience of Ben. He studied for years in a very contemplative, critical field that is some parts leisure, some parts productivity, and perhaps little urgency into a field that is perhaps all productivity and all urgency. The final part of the anecdote uses the story of Lucretius to capture the precise modulation between dread and malaise, but the sort of ‘volta’ or punchline, if you will permit me, is Catherine’s own sort of apathetical dismissal of the analogy Lizzie was trying to make.
As if to say, “I was just referring to politics; it’s not that deep.” What we hear in this aphoristic anecdote is a display of the inability to historize, so key to the postmodern condition. ‘ So many books, yet so little time to read them. So much knowledge, all of it useless when all you really need to know is how to use Python. Lucretius, an important poet and philosopher, is just a relic of the past. The politics of today are just the politics of now. Nothing ever happens.’ Yet as we’ll see later in the novel as Lizzie starts to integrate this condition she finds herself in, things indeed are happening, slowly but surely.



