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I was pleased to read Adam Gopnik’s report this week on Richard Reeves’s new biography, John Stuart Mill: Victorian Firebrand (Overlook). Mill (1806-1873), writer of On Liberty and The Subjection of Women, is most famous for his arguments for the equality–regardless of race or gender–of all peoples, and for insisting upon freedom in all human activity, beginning with the activity of thought itself. As Gopnik puts it, Mill’s life and work was and remains an object lesson in a maxim infrequently conceded: “Nothing is worse for being looked at.”
One thing no worse for being looked at is Mill’s writing itself. The story of Mill’s style, of its great nuance and purity, is the story of his being the child of social reformer James Mill. Mill père had his son begin learning classical Greek at age three–and never let up after that. As such, the son’s manifest native gifts, when molded by his father’s didactic extremism, forged a little Mozart whose instrument was the mind itself.
That story is told nowhere better than by the son, in his own Autobiography. It is one of my favorite books, a drama of self-invention under extreme duress, the pressure of a father of whom Mill writes, “The element which was chiefly deficient in his moral relation to his children, was that of tenderness.” And:
If we consider further that he was in the trying position of sole teacher, and add to this that his temper was constitutionally irritable, it is impossible not to feel true pity for a father who did, and strove to do, so much for children, who would have so valued their affection, yet who must have been constantly feeling that fear of him was drying it up at its source. This was no longer the case, later in life and with his younger children. They loved him tenderly: and if I cannot say so much of myself, I was always loyally devoted to him. As regards my own education, I hesitate to pronounce whether I was more a loser or gainer by his severity.
Taken in whole, Mill’s Autobiography shows the uneasy inner balance of that great mind’s inarguable gains warring with the losses that such a mind too sustained, tethered as it was to an enormous heart. I propose Mill’s short and superb book, available for free here, in a nice scanned book, as your weekend read.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Fleming awoke in the dark and his room felt loose, sloshing so badly he gripped the bed. From his window there was nothing but a hallway, and if he craned his neck, a blown lightbulb swung into view. The room pitched up and down and for a moment he thought he might be sick. The word “hallway” must have a nautical name. Why didn’t they supply a glossary for this cruise? Probably they had, in the welcome packet he’d failed to read. A glossary. A history of the boat, which would be referred to as a ship. Sunny biographies of the captain and crew, who had always dreamed of this life. Lobotomized histories of the islands they’d visit. Who else had sailed this way. Famous suckwads from the past, slicing through this very water on wooden longships.
A welcome packet, the literary genre most likely to succeed in the new millennium. Why not read about a community you don’t belong to, that doesn’t actually exist, a captain and crew who are, in reality, if that isn’t too much of a downer on your vacation, as indifferent to one another as any set of co-employees at an office or bank? Read doctored personal statements from underpaid crew members — because ocean life pays better than money! — who hate their lives but have been forced to buy into the mythology of working on a boat, separated now from loved ones and friends, growing lonelier by the second, even while they wait on you and follow your every order.
Number of people stopped and frisked by the NYPD in 2011 for “furtive movements”:
The faces of Lego people were growing angrier.
Four people were arrested for using a remote-controlled hexacopter to fly two pounds of tobacco to prisoners inside the yard at Calhoun State Prison in Georgia.
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Our congratulations to Alice Munro, winner of the 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature