How to Deal With Literary Historians and Other Boring People

             Surging purple, exploding red ribbons, rockets of fuchsia against the pink sky, deep peacock green and India blue swirl through the magnificent sunset, a moment of relief from an otherwise drab and colorless day.  This, the greatest show that Earth has to offer, is the view from your living room window every evening.  But your apartment is very expensive.  Would you give it up?  This is the question facing the narrator of Diane Ackerman’s short prose piece, “Visual Opium.”

            In watching the sunset every evening, the narrator finds a relief like no other.  In her urban setting, the enjoyment of this spectacular natural phenomenon was a moment eagerly awaited.  Even just picturing the vivid colors has a calming effect, which is particularly useful when trapped in dull conversation.  The speaker’s coffee-room nemesis: the “Literary Historian.”  Literary historians are apparently recognizable by their drab colored clothing, miserliness, and poor conversation skills.  At this point, I had to stop and assess the situation.  I tend to wear darker shades of brown or green.  I don’t like spending money.  I am horrible at small talk.  And I am less than a semester away from a Bachelor’s in English and history.  Oh dear, I think I might be a literary historian!

             Am I destined to a life of boring dullness?  What do I do to fix this horrible predicament? 

            The speaker’s assessment seems to be that the literary historian’s objection to the expense of the apartment was not simply monetary, but that it was a “too-extravagant experience of life” (Ackerman 76).  “Sensory misers,” the speaker reflects, “will inherit the earth, but first they will make it not worth living on” (76).   Those, like the literary historian, who refuse to enjoy the sunset, and who discourage others from doing so, are surely making life not worth living.

Really?

Not that I’m telling people not to watch the sunset if they want to.  My own house has a decent view of the sunrise, if I get up that early (never by choice).  But I wouldn't call myself a sensory miser just because I'm not a morning person.  Perhaps the literary historian isn't a sensory miser either.  Perhaps her enjoyment of life simply lay in another direction.  Consider her love of poetry, a source of endless (boring, to the speaker) conversation.  But the literary historian obviously takes pleasure in the subject.  Perhaps poetry is to the literary historian was what the sunset is to the speaker: a celebration of life.

Life is short, the speaker reflects.  Life should be enjoyed.  Otherwise, what’s the point? Go ahead and try too hard, care too much, ask silly questions, and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Find something you enjoy in life.  Pick up an autumn leaf on your way to the mailbox.  Bask in the glory of its vibrant redness.  Read a poem.  Or two.  Listen to good music.  Watch a sunset.  Smell the rain.  Splash in a puddle.  And if the neighbors stare and think us eccentric?  Wave and smile. We know the secret. 

Works Cited

Ackerman, Diane. “Visual Opium.” Sisters of the Earth. Edited by Lorraine Anderson. New York: Vintage, 2003. Page 74-77.