Twain

Hey all,

It is late Thursday night and I cannot sleep. Consumed by stress about my grad school applications, and still buzzing from copious amounts of jasmine tea consumed earlier in the day, I set myself down to do some reading until my eyelids got the best of me. Unfortunately, instead of picking up a geology textbook, or Marx, or some other reading denser than rye, I decided to continue my reading of Twain. He had me laughing out loud not long ago with his "Conversation of the Tudors".

This evening, in my restlessness, I stumbled upon a light piece of his that reminded me of a friend of mine. Though not a native, she lives in New England, and often has speculated on the curious (and mostly cold) weather there. It is thus that I dedicate to her a transcription of Twain's speech entitled "The Oldest Inhabitant - the Weather of New England". In blog format, this piece may seem rather long and tedious, but should any one of you find a more tangible text, I assure you it is an easy and pleasant read.

"The Olderst Inhabitant - the Weather of New England
Seventy-first Annual Dinner, New England Society of New York
Who can lose it and forget it?
Who can have it and regret it?
Be interposer 'twixt us Twain.
Merchant of Venice
Gentlemen: I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all, makes everything in New England - but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the Weather Clerk's factory, who experiment and learn how in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it. There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's admiration - and regret. The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all around the world and get specimens from all the climes. I said, "Don't you do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day." I told him what we could do, in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he came, and he made his collection in four days. As to variety - why, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity - well, after he had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor.
The people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing; but there are some things which they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of poets for writing about "Beautiful Spring." These are generally casual visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so, the first thing they know, the opportunity to inquire how they feel has permanently gone by.
Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the papers and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what today's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region; see him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then - see his tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is going to be like in New England. He can't any more tell than he can tell how many Presidents of the United Sates there's going to be next year. Well, he mulls over it, and by and by he gets out something like this: Probable nor'-east to sou'-west winds, varying to the southard and westard and eastard points between; high and low barometer, swapping around from place to place; probably areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with thunder and lightning. The he jots down the postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents: "But it is possible that the program may be wholly changed in the meantime."
Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is only one thing certain about it, you are certain there is going to be plenty of weather - a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out with your sprinkling pot, and ten to one you get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first thing you know, you get struck by lightning. These are great disappointments. But they can't be helped. The lightning there is peculiar; it is so convincing! When it strikes a thing, it doesn't leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether - well, you'd think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there.
And the thunder. When the thunder commences to merely tune up, and scrape, and saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say, "Why, what awful thunder you have here!" But when the baton is raised and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the cellar, with his head in the ash barrel.
Now, as to the size of the weather in New England - lengthways, I mean. It is utterly disproportioned to the size of that little country. Half the time, when it is packed as full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out beyond the edges and prokecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring states. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather. You can see cracks all about, where she has strained herself trying to do it.
I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear rain on a tin roof, so I covered a part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on the tin? No, sir; skips it every time.
Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely to do honor to the New England weather - no language could do it justic. But, after all, there are at least one or two things about that weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries - the ice storm - when a leafless tree is clothed with ice from the bottom to the top - ice that is as bright and clear as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dewdrops, and the whole tree sparkles, cold and white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms, that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again, with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold - the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence! One cannot make the words too strong.
Month after month I lay up my hate and grudge against the New England weather; but when the ice storm comes at last, I say: "There - I forgive you, now - the books are square between us, you don't owe me a cent; go, and sin no more; your little faults and foibles count for nothing - you are the most enchanting weather in the world!"
-Mark Twain December 22, 1876"

That's better. This, by the way, is me resisting the temptation to transcribe the other three quarters of this volume I deem worthy of such a task. As you can see, I've become quite taken with the fellow; his style of writing, his audacity, his wit. I admire him a great deal. I say this especially because I look so rarely to American authors for inspiration: I who search for jewels in France and China when there are perfectly good ones callously overlooked sitting just outside my doorstep.
I'll be sure to follow up with you all about my grad school applications with whatever good news there is to be had! I gladly invest my time into the process of applying, knowing that this is a formative time of my career and thus my life. I'll be seeking respite in Paris for the weekend following a rather rigorous week of editing, correspondence and translation. Perhaps I'll be given the chance to celebrate Halloween amongst the French: my costume will be that of an American in Paris. :)

Ben

PS: Try as I may to render this post pleasing to the eye, I have failed at indenting the first line of each paragraph. My utmost apologies. If you have helpful hints, please feel free to offer them - I will make changes post haste.