Nockian Corner
"I have always lived close to the windward side of poverty, sometimes in pretty squalid surroundings, but I thank the Lord that I never had to live in a real-estater's suburb." Albert Jay Nock, The Book of Journeyman.
This sentiment resonates with me. Not so much the suburb part: I wouldn't mind the uniformity and lack of "authenticity" of the suburb, but I would (and do) detest the lack of zoning diversity. I love those Manhattan neighborhoods with a deli, bar, and vegetable stand on the corner. I like riding my bike to the convenience store five blocks from my house to grab a fountain Mountain Dew. I feel kinda trapped in a suburb when I'm told it'll take me at least 30 minutes just to get a gallon of milk.
But again, the suburb part of the sentiment doesn't resonate with me as much as the sentiment that I don't think squalid conditions would bother me. Now, I was raised in an upper-middleclass household with all the typical amenities, and I currently live with upper-middleclass amenities, like an iPhone, iPad, multiple computers, five TVs, and a gasoline-powered turtleneck sweater (old-time Steve Martin fans will appreciate the humor).
I lived in fairly squalid conditions for awhile, though: in college. My junior year in college, I lived in an upstairs apartment (with two roommates) with about 750 square feet. My bedroom was tiny, just a little larger than a conventional walk-in closet. The apartment was condemned a year after I moved. During my last two years in law school, I lived in an old convent: all tile floors, occasionally frost forming on the inside windows, kitchen shared with 12 other guys, no TV (other than a TV in the "recreational" room, which consisted of a sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a big table with chairs, and the TV).
It didn't really bother me, and I don't think it'd bother me now.
Don't get me wrong: I enjoy my current surroundings and greatly prefer them to my living conditions back at the convent. I also wouldn't relish the crime element that comes with squalid living conditions.
I incline, though, toward Russell Kirk's view of his young adult years: just give me enough money for milk, bread, and some good books. All else is superfluous.
I work to keep out of squalid conditions for the sake of my wife and children. It wouldn't, vernacularly-speaking, be cool to do otherwise.
The whole situation, however, raises the treadmill problem: My Dad worked hard to give me a decent upbringing, with the sartorial ability of the Joneses and free of college debt. I feel obliged to pass the favor onto my children, who will, presumably, feel a similar obligation to their children. And on and on. Does it ever stop? When does a person break out and lead the life of, say, Nassim Taleb: earn millions, then have enough intellectual mojo to realize that the great gift should be spent on the pursuit of learning (or some other higher good, like works of true charity or prayer)? Or not earn millions and still have enough intellectual, spiritual, or charitable mojo to pursue the truly great life, without worries that you are depriving your children? I'm not sure it ever does end.
It's not a bad way, I suppose. A good work ethic keeps a person out of trouble. Few things are more blessed than a simple life led with serenity and order and calm concentration. The trick is merely to make sure you don't get so caught on the treadmill and the trappings of middle class existence that you get stressed, which isn't exactly my speciality. I've made progress in this area, mostly by cultivating a level of detachment toward wealth, but the pull of paternal obligation constantly tears away at the cultivation of detachment.
It's nothing to lament. Who doesn't have a struggle? The monks grapple with devils first-hand. My devils come at me second-hand, in the form of monetary worries and work demands. No matter what your condition in this world, you have to identify the virtue that is most likely to escape that condition, then cultivate it. For the middle-class bread winner, I suspect detachment is the virtue most often lacking (depending on each person's personality, of course).
