coldity

The koi pond in the atrium where I live displayed a thin layer of ice this morning. Winter has come for her yearly visit. The cold bites into any exposed skin and makes its way deep into my blood, coursing through my veins. And it's only November! The cold has come to stay and I find myself in my second winter in Corea. The knees begin to buckle a bit and red noses are found all around. But the winter sky is beautiful. It's clear. Clean. Fresh. It's piercing. Funny how the winter sky is so different from the summer sky. Maybe it's the bare branches that wave around in the air.

I recently wrapped up "Farewell to Arms." Frankly, I found it fairly disengaging until the dialogue between Henry and Count Graffi. I believe this conversation sums up the brilliance of Hemingway. Here it is:

"Would you like to live after death?" I asked and instantly felt a fool to mention death. But he did not mind the word.

"It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever," he smiled. "I very nearly have."

We were sitting in the deep leather chairs, the champagne in the ice-bucket and our glasses on the table between us.

"If you ever live to be as old as I am you will find many things strange."

"You never seem old."

"It is the body that is old. Sometimes I am afraid I will break off a finger as one breaks a stick of chalk. And the spirit is no older and not much wiser."

"You are wise."

"No, that is the great fallacy; the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful."

Is he brilliant, or is he brilliant?

It makes one think twice about wisdom. Where does it come from and how does it grow? How can one attain "wisdom?" My second winter in Corea and I haven't become any wiser than my first. Sometimes, I feel more foolish, more lost, more disoriented than I did when I was sixteen. Perhaps that is because I realize there are limitations to people and to situations. That there is only so much we can do before breaking down. Maybe it's the realization that there are more important things than the things at hand, that there's a greater picture, a bigger painting with more colors, more details, more strokes of the brush. Maybe it's all an excuse...

"Do younger nations always win wars?"
"They are apt to for a time."
"Then what happens?"
"They become older nations."
"You said you were not wise."
"Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism."

Let's not grow cold with cynicism and age. Let's grow warm and wise throughout our years.