A great joy came to me yesterday: copies of Volume 7 of Contrariwise arrived in the mail! That this philosophy journal, which I founded with my students at Columbia Secondary School in 2013, still thrives almost a decade later, would be astounding in itself; but even more wondrous is the Contrariwise spirit coursing through it, a combination of probing, humor, beauty, challenge, and whimsy.
I left Columbia Secondary School in June 2016 to write my second book; at the time I had no idea that I would be coming to Hungary a little over a year later. Leaving did not mean breaking all ties; I have stayed in contact regarding Contrariwise, the Orwell project, and more, and have kept in touch (more or less) with certain individuals. What I didn’t know was that going away would actually make for a new connection with the school. Nine of my students at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium have pieces in this issue; the Orwell project, for its part, brought students from both schools together for joint online classes. In other words, a break can allow for an unexpected continuity.
Continuity, on the whole, seems more responsible, more honorable than breaks, but a person needs both (and maybe the situations do too). I have been wondering lately why I feel busier than in past years, even though the past five years have been intensely busy. The reason is that responsibilities and projects accumulate. There’s teaching, and along with it, Folyosó and the Shakespeare festival; there are the synagogue responsibilities; there’s a large translation project; there’s my writing and music; there are associations such as the ALSCW; and then there’s life itself, which deserves a bit more than an afterthought. All of these have been with me for a while, but not necessarily all at once. Last year at this time, I was focused on putting the Pilinszky event together, and after that, on preparing all the details for the trip to the U.S. in October for the conference on “Setting Poetry to Music.” I was so focused on these that the daily preparations seemed like nothing. But they also took over for a while; once they were over, I had some catching up to do in other areas.
Once in a while a person has to drop something: not abruptly, if that can be avoided, but with advance notice and planning. This might disappoint, but there’s no point in living to please others. There is honor in bringing joy to others, fulfilling responsibilities toward others, or best of all, making it possible for them to do something they couldn’t otherwise have done. But pleasing others can lead to the opposite of honor; you become merely an instrument of something others want.
Behind every project, there is a person with thoughts, hopes, health, sickness, dreams, disappointments, meals, travels, sleep. No one knows what lies beneath a seemingly ordinary life; no one knows, either, when this same life will rear up. Everyone has muffled rhythms, ineffable proportions; no one can know another’s, let alone judge them.
Take Away the Takeaway 