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“Well, I just read a wonderful book. Undaunted Courage, by Stephen Ambrose—do you know it?”
“The Lewis and Clark expedition. The book came out when I was in college. I haven’t read it.”
“Wonderful book,” Buford repeats. “In fact, I’m thinking of adding it to my syllabus next semester.”
“I thought you taught happiness studies.”
“I do. As well as introduction to psychology. But Happy Talk, as the kids call the course, is the big draw. I have to turn students away.”
“But doesn’t Meriwether Lewis end up a suicide?”
Buford smiles in appreciation of Lincoln’s knowledge. “Yes, Lewis ends badly, but that was well afterward,” the professor explains. “The expedition itself, for all its hardships and dangers, was the happiest time of his life—it was probably the same fo
r all the men on it. The focus. The engagement.”
That word again, thinks Lincoln. It’s like a virus.
“That’s what I try to teach my students.”
Loosened by the champagne, Lincoln nudges forward a provocation. “I thought that happiness stuff was mostly self-help hooey—you know, Oprah territory.”
“Oh, academically, it’s much more than that. Quite disciplined and scientific, in fact. They call it positive psychology. It’s probably the most exciting thing going on today in the field.” Pausing to nibble a slice of baguette, Buford spills a few beads of caviar onto his white shirt. He brushes the tiny black eggs away without a trace. “We used to focus on the unpleasant aspects of the human condition—depression, negativity, isolation, neurosis. Now we’re studying things like love, altruism, companionship, the qualities that make people happy. It’s astonishing—there was this entire side of the emotion spectrum that the so-called experts had virtually ignored. And the kids love it. I not only teach the science, but help the class apply it to their own lives. I always survey my students before and after the semester, and on average about seventy percent of them feel better about themselves after they’ve taken my course.”
“That does sound like Oprah,” Lincoln says.
“There’s a reason her show has endured,” Buford says with a laugh. “As an editor, you should appreciate this: studies show that if you’re in a cheerful frame of mind, you’ll be more creative—you’ll do better on tests, you’ll explore more options, your imagination will fire more freely than if you’re depressed.”
Lincoln loosely remembers an undergraduate course he took on psychology, and he recalls coming away with the impression that researchers could cook up just about any finding they wanted, depending on the experiment. “What do you do with Joyce, Faulkner, Hemingway?” he asks. “The literary canon of the twentieth century came from depressives. And it’s the same in other fields. You think Van Gogh would have been Van Gogh if he’d been doodling smiley faces in his spare time?”
Buford laughs again. “It’s true—for the most part, the works that have been anointed reflect the bleak visions of their creators. But who does the anointing? Academics. Intellectuals. The cultural elite, to use the disparaging term.”
Lincoln tries another tack. “So where is this body of Great Happy Art?” he asks. “I suppose by your reckoning we should replace Chekhov in the curriculum with Tuesdays with Morrie.”
“You should come visit my class, old buddy,” Buford says. “The kids would enjoy this exchange.” He refills their champagne glasses. “I agree, the sentimentalists and self-help gurus have polluted the water for people like me. Oh, there are a few books out there—To Kill a Mockingbird, for example. That’s on my syllabus. But we need more.”
So here comes the advocacy for his poetry, thinks Lincoln—Pistakee’s opportunity to open Western Civ to a revolutionary aesthetic. But instead Buford veers off into a discussion of books he’s read recently and movies he’s seen. For almost an hour, as the shadow of the bridge stretches down the river, they sip champagne and nibble caviar sandwiches while chatting easily. Lincoln decides after a while that Buford actually makes pretty good company. Those Kenyon English professors taught him well. He’s argumentative, but in a good way, nothing personal. Probing, ambitious, informed. Conscious of man’s obligation to amuse.
“Want to get dinner?” Buford asks finally. “There’s a pretty good seafood restaurant right across the street.”
Lincoln hesitates. “No, I should get going—home fires and all.”
“Fair enough.” Buford starts packing the remains of their picnic into the shopping bag. “I really do appreciate you taking the time to have a drink with me—then to listen patiently to my crackpot theories on literature.”
“My pleasure.”
“You’re a good man.”
Lincoln smiles in gratitude.
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask about my mother.”
Fuck sake. “Ah, of course. How is she?”
A big sigh. “Not well, I’m afraid. Still a lot of discomfort. Many visits to doctors. Surgery may be the best option.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” (Lincoln thinks: Is there any reason on earth to believe him?)
“It’s been hard on the family. She’s always been our rock.” Buford sits back on the bench to watch while an architectural tour boat passes in front of them on the water, every seat on deck filled, the docent’s amplified remarks about the twin corncobs of the Marina Towers echoing along the river canyon. When the boat has passed, Buford says, “You really should publish my book.”
