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|  Hello Blog! This is the weekly email digest of The Marginalian by Maria Popova. If you missed last week's edition — uncaging the bird in the mind, the two kinds of seeing, and a defense of joy in a world rife with reasons for despair — you can catch up right here. And if my labor of love touches your life in a meaningful way, please consider supporting it with a donation — it remains free and ad-free and alive thanks to reader patronage. If you already donate: I appreciate you more than you know.
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I once asked ChatGPT to write a poem about a total solar eclipse in the style of Walt Whitman. It returned a dozen couplets of cliches that touched nothing, changed nothing in me. The AI had the whole of the English language at its disposal — a lexicon surely manyfold the poet's — and yet Whitman could conjure up cosmoses of feeling with a single line, could sculpt from the commonest words an image so dazzlingly original it stops you up short, spins you around, leaves the path of your thought transformed. An AI may never be able to write a great poem — a truly original poem — because a poem is made not of language but of experience, and the defining aspect of human experience is the constant collision between our wishes and reality, the sharp violation of our expectations, the demolition of our plans.  Illustration by Olivier Tallec from Big Wolf & Little Wolf We call this suffering. Suffering is the price we pay for a consciousness capable of love and the loss of love, of hope and the devastation of hope. Because suffering, like consciousness itself, is a full-body phenomenon — glands secreting fear, nerves conducting loneliness, neurotransmitters recoiling with regret — a disembodied pseudo-consciousness is fundamentally incapable of suffering and that transmutation of suffering into meaning we call art: An algorithm will never know anything beyond the execution of its programmed plan; it is fundamentally spared the failure of its aims because failure can never be the successful execution of the command to fail. We create — poems and paintings, stories and songs — to find a language for the bewilderment of being alive, the failure of it, the fulness of it, and to have lived fully is not to have spared yourself.  Falling Star by Witold Pruszkowski, 1884. (Available as a print.) In his exquisite reckoning with what makes life worth living, Nobel laureate Elias Canetti captures this in a diary entry from the late spring of 1942. Under the headline "very necessary qualifications for a good Persian storyteller," he copies out a passage from an unidentified book he is reading:  In addition to having read all the known books on love and heroism, the teller of stories must have suffered greatly for love, have lost his beloved, drunk much good wine, wept with many in their sorrow, have looked often upon death and have learned much about birds and beasts. He must also be able to change himself into a beggar or a caliph in the twinkling of an eye.
A generation before Canetti, the philosopher-poet Rainer Maria Rilke articulated the same essential condition for creativity in his only novel, reflecting on what it takes to compose a great poem, but speaking to what it takes to create anything of beauty and substance, anything drawn from one life to touch another: For the sake of a few lines one must see many cities, men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings which one has long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents that one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illness that so strangely began with a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars — and it is not yet enough if one may think of all of this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, one must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises.
 Art from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days, also available as a stand-alone print and as stationery cards. Couple with Carl Jung on the relationship between suffering and creativity, then revisit Annie Dillard on creativity and what it takes to be a great writer and Oliver Sacks, writing thirty years before ChatGPT, on consciousness, AI, and our search for meaning. donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.monthly donationYou can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch. | | one-time donationOr you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. |  | |  |
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At the bottom of the abyss between us is the hard fact that to be a person, a particular person, is so profoundly different from what any other person can suppose. This is why one of the hardest learnings in life is that you cannot love — or scold, or coax, or palter — anyone out of their personal suffering or into their personal potential, cannot shepherd anyone else's becoming. We may live our lives in parallel, but at the most fundamental level we experience aliveness alone, in the solitary chamber of the self, our experience a Möbius strip of consciousness folded unto itself, our becoming the most private, most significant work we have. Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819–March 26, 1892) made public art of this private work, his poetry so eternal and universal precisely because it came from a place so personal. Animated at once by a profound existential loneliness and a deep feeling of connection to every atom, every person, and every blade of grass, he spent his life writing and rewriting Leaves of Grass — the record of his becoming — always addressing the person in the reader, always owning the person in himself.  Walt Whitman circa 1854 (Library of Congress) While on the other side of the Atlantic Nietzsche was admonishing that "no one can build you the bridge on which you, and only you, must cross the river of life," Whitman was reckoning with the rapids of responsibility for your life. He writes in one of the poems: No one can acquire for another — not one,
Not one can grow for another — not one.
The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him,
The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him,
The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him,
The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him,
The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him,
The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him — it cannot fail.
Echoing Hermann Hesse's insistence that "no prophet or teacher can relieve you of the need to look within," Whitman urges us to heed the singular call of our own becoming bellowing beneath the din of the world: Underneath the lessons of things, spirits, Nature, governments,
ownerships, I swear I perceive other lessons,
Underneath all to me is myself, to you yourself.
 Illustration by Margaret C. Cook for a rare 1913 edition of Leaves of Grass. (Available as a print.) He distills this first and final truth of life in the closing stanzas of "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" — one of the greatest poems ever written, and one of the most perspectival takes on time. Insisting that you must abide "no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself," he observes that at the end of life, we all invariably face… …the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.
A generation later, another of the world's most original poets would come to compose the best manifesto I know for the courage to be yourself. Complement with Virginia Woolf on how to hear your soul and Marion Milner's superb field guide to self-possession inspired by Woolf, then revisit Whitman on what makes a great person and how to keep criticism from sinking your soul. donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.monthly donationYou can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch. | | one-time donationOr you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. | | | |
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Prediction is the sharpest tool the human animal has devised — the chisel with which we sculpted survival out of chance, the fulcrum by which we lifted civilization out of survival. Among the greatest gifts of the imagination, that crowning curio of consciousness, is our ability to alchemize hindsight into foresight, to chart the most probable course of the future by drawing on our experience of the past. And yet, like the tragic flaw of the Greek hero, our great strength is also our great vulnerability. It is salutary to remember how often our predictions have been wrong, how again and again they have withheld entire regions of reality from us as we have continually mistaken the known for the knowable, our ways of knowing for the path to truth. The shape of the Earth. The organizing principle of the Solar System. The bat.  Art by Tove Jansson from her Moomins series. (Brooklyn Public Library) If we fed what we know about mammalian anatomy and the physics of avian flight into a predictive algorithm, it would fail to produce a flying mammal. In theory, which is how we model reality in the mind, bats should not exist. And yet every evening, all over the world, winged improbabilities scribble across the gloaming sky their stenography of the possible. Metabolism is what makes all life possible and the metabolic engine of animals hinges on breathing — hemoglobin carries oxygen from the lungs throughout the bloodstream, where it reacts with sugar from food to produce energy. Our mammalian lungs resemble a bagpipe that inflates with each inhale of oxygen and deflates with each exhale of carbon dioxide. Birds have an entirely different respiratory system — air sacs acting as bellows move oxygen through the pipe-like lungs during both inhalation and exhalation. This unidirectional air flow allows birds to fly across great distances at high altitudes where the oxygen concentration is low.  Bat by Paul Sougy. (Available as a print.) Bats have mammalian lungs. They should not be able to fly. And yet they do, their flight more metabolically efficient than that of hummingbirds. Ranging in size from the lightest known mammal — the tiny Craseonycteris thonglongyai, weighing a mere 2 grams — to the Asian flying fox with its 2-meter wingspan, they have adapted to extreme environments thanks to their virtuosic oxygen and carbon dioxide regulation. A study of Chile's eight species of bats found that they have a respiratory area sixfold that of other mammals and lung volumes 72% greater. Their heart — the transport system for oxygen in the blood — is larger than that of any other mammal relative to body size. At rest, their breathing rate is similar to ours. But as soon as they take flight, it increases up to seventeen-fold, reaching as many as 400 breaths per minute synchronized with their wing beat frequency to minimizing energy expenditure by combining muscle contractions. These almost supernatural lungs are sheathed in a blood-gas barrier much thinner than that of other animals, allowing oxygen to enter the bloodstream rapidly, disposing of carbon dioxide just as rapidly.  Javan slit-faced bat (Nycteris javanica) and reddish-brown lip bat (Noctilis rufus) from Natural History and Illustrations of Mammals by Heinrich Rudolf Schinz, 1824. (Available as a print and a postcard.) This respiratory and cardiovascular ingenuity allows bats to conserve energy during cold periods, not paying the metabolic cost of generating body heat that other mammals would — they are among Earth's few true hibernators, capable of dropping their heartbeat sixteen-fold and their temperature to that of the cave walls that encastle them in their kingdom of darkness.  Greater false vampire bat (Megaderma lyra) from Natural History and Illustrations of Mammals by Heinrich Rudolf Schinz, 1824. (Available as a print and a postcard.) These astonishing adaptations are the sum total of myriad small defiances of prediction — chances taken on the improbable and the untested, wild guesses at the shape of the possible — without which bats would not exist. But they do, and we need them. We need bats — "swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together," D.H. Lawrence called them — for the same reason we need apricots and lichen and the great blue heron: to remind us that the universe could have remained one homogenous sea of matter swimming in light, for nothing in the laws of physics demands that the world be beautiful or could predict the dazzling diversity of forms that makes it so. The bat is just as defiant of prediction as the Big Bang — small winged evidence that the possible is always vaster than the probable and the imagination of life is always greater than that of the living. donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.monthly donationYou can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch. | | one-time donationOr you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. | | | |
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| Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so on this page. |
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BIRD DIVINATION OF THE WEEK
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