For example, when learning how to ride a motorcycle I failed pretty heavily and rammed myself into the side of a dumpster. I was twelve at the time. Now I feel very confident and I doubt that I would run into the side of a dumpster unless I was heavily incentivized in some way.
Learning by failure applies not only to specific skills but also determines the shape that our world view takes.
For example, after numerous abject emotional disasters I have developed a sense of my own values as well as a sense of the values of the people that I meet. This sense did not appear overnight, nor is it the product of good intentions or positive emotional experiences. It is only through pain, loss, anxiety, stress, and fear that I have come to realize what is important to me. These notions are flexible and changing but their range of movement is ever shortening. As we grow older, our ability to learn new things diminishes. I am aware of this happening in myself, I occasionally stumble upon artifacts of my own mental pathways locking into place. It makes me fearful and I am also scared because I observe this freeze-drying process happening in the brains of the people that I know.
During the last month I have read the following books:
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Red Pony by John Steinbeck
White Fang by Jack London
Wonder Boys by Michael Chobin
Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck
They were all great in their own ways, and I felt like I was journeying with some of the characters, especially as I completed my own road trip across the Eastern US (the photographic evidence of which will be scattered on this blog starting now and lasting, I would imagine, for quite some time into the future).
Now I'm finishing Anna Karenina. On my Kindle. I started this book eighteen months ago and was convincing myself that I was smart enough, mature enough, and perhaps dull enough to enjoy it. Yes, I was just on the verge of this wonderful transformation when my Kindle shut down and refused resuscitation. Last week I resurrected my Kindle and picked up where I left off. I was momentarily lost in the dizzy array of Russian surnames and also disoriented by the frenetic emotional roller coaster that all of the characters seem to be permanently strapped in to. But soon enough I recovered and my sense of familiarity with the plot returned and now I'm back to convincing myself that I can honestly enjoy this book. Back to convincing myself that this is not just entertaining but relevant to my life. Not just the story of disaffected members of the Russian social elite, but an expansive and elaborate survey of the emotional wreckage that often follows great romances. I remain unconvinced.
Here is a photograph I took of a sand dune near Lake Michigan:
