Three things I read this week

Not reading this, Doug Coombs, pomp

If I’d worn a GoPro for the two months I was in Nicaragua you could have condensed the footage and passed it off as a discount Wes Anderson film. I stepped into the country shortly after the Peace Corps had been evacuated and can’t recall one normal thing that happened to me as I toured that windswept, world-forgotten landscape. The foreigners I met were aberrants and the towns I stayed in had thriving donkey economies. I look back on the experience fondly.

Slightly less strange, but still far from average, was the six weeks I spent with a married couple in the outskirts of Kiev. I was there at the wife’s behest; she wanted me to be Catholic and perform the divine miracle of improving her husband’s halting English. I tried, but learning a language is tedious and requires a certain amount of passion. My pupil could never quite find his motivation and I don’t think I taught him anything of concrete value. Alas.

My pupil, telling me a story while I eat traditional Ukrainian porridge

Living in rural-ish Ukraine wasn’t that strange in itself, it was the woman who made it weird. She was peculiar in all the wrong ways and I soon dreaded seeing her in the kitchen every morning. One of her animating passions was machine-gunning me with questions from her fortified position across the table, and those assaults conflicted with one of my most well-cultivated interests of not answering lots of questions. And yet… In even the ripest can of tuna there’s still a serving of protein. One morning the woman took a reprieve from her formal inquest to inform me in nearly flawless English, for she was linguistically ambitious in all the ways her husband wasn’t,

“Sam, I never get jealous of other people. It’s a thing that doesn’t happen to me.”

I think she’s the only person who’s ever said that to me. How very interesting, how very relevant to what I’m about to admit.

You see, while I have many flaws I’m not an especially jealous person either. I do not resent other people their expensive cars, large homes or flashy boats. I have met many millionaires and rarely felt worse for the experience. And yet… The last few weeks have been an exception. I’ve been in a bout with a heavyweight opponent, getting repeatedly clobbered by a left jab of inadequacy and a right hook of jealousy.

The devilish pugilist that’s inflicting my beatings is the engagement other Substack writers are receiving. An engagement that I feel, rightly or wrongly, has alluded me. Every time I see someone’s article praised it’s a spike in my heart, every sentence quoted is a boot to my face.

I ask myself, how are these scriveners scrivening this well? Why do so many people like their posts and not mine? Fuck them and their success, a thousand plagues upon their keyboards! No, I don’t mean that. I’m the miserable sack of untalented shit around these parts, fuck me! Maybe if I didn’t suck worse than a clogged vacuum I wouldn’t be brewing in this misery.

I’m not sure why the storm clouds of jealously elected to descend. It’s not a healthy experience, obviously. Logically I’m all too aware of that, but logic is like showing up to a sword fight with a flaccid hot dog in your left hand and a soggy piece of bread strapped to your forehead.

Part of the problem is logistical. In comparing my status to others I am ignoring writers of lesser repute and obsessing on those who are doing better than myself. This is at least partially healthy. If you stare at the stars for long enough maybe you’ll find the wherewithal to build a rocket and transcend the bounds of gravity. However, star gazing can be unhealthy to the extent that you find yourself unable to enjoy the success that you’ve already had. I’m reminded of that excellent anecdote about Joseph Heller.

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history.

Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have — enough.”

Thankfully, after a crappy few weeks (my brain was really making me fucking miserable for a while there) I think I’m through the worst of it. I’ve had my jealousy fit. It was weird and unexpected but the long term impact may be for the best. The only possible conclusion is that I have to write better, which I’m incentivized to do now in a way that I wasn’t before.

Prior to starting my Substack I was writing articles for a large cryptocurrency company. This was the best paying gig I’ve ever had, but it had the unfortunate effect of breeding complacency. Good enough was good enough, there was no incentive to hone my writing because my boss just didn’t fucking care. In fact, whenever I tried to submit a bit of flashy prose he almost always made me blandize it back into conformity. Working for the corporations does not a talented wordsmith make.

And so…

If you’re still with me, thanks for being here! This Substack has been more successful than I anticipated, but sometimes when you get everything you hoped for you start to feel bummed out you’re not getting even more. Being a human is weird.

Finally, an especially big thanks to everyone who’s become a paying reader. The number of people who’ve signed up so far has been a nice surprise, and I appreciate it. You’re the people who get me to spend more time on these articles, since I feel like I have a duty to respect your investment.

So cheers for that, it’s nice to have your support.

-Sam

PS - Go visit Nicaragua, it’s wild.

1 - The origins of discard

Let’s mix things up! Let me tell you about what I’m not reading. I’ve had Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism on my shelf for ages. I finally decided to crack that lobster a few days ago, expecting good things, but the taste is sour and unappetizing. Apparently nobody told Hannah that one needn’t write in “profound” prose to convey a profound concept. For example, take this extract from one of the first chapters.

Deeper, older, and more fateful contradictions are hidden behind the abstract and palpable inconsistency that Jews received their citizenship from governments which in the process of centuries had made nationality a prerequisite for citizenship and homogeneity of population the outstanding characteristic of the body politic.

Let’s see if we can clean this hot mess up a bit.

Traditionally countries made nationality a prerequisite for citizenship, which resulted in highly homogeneous populations. However, Jews were granted citizenship status in spite of their relatively recent immigration. In the following chapter we’ll explore why.

Is my version perfect? No, maybe it’s even a bit too simple. But I would argue that my prose isn’t nearly as distracting to read. There’s really no reason to write like you only want college professors or better to partake in your message. Complexity rarely adds anything, except when it’s absolutely necessary.

The True Believer, for example, was my non-fiction book of the year in 2023 and it conveyed dozens of exceptionally relevant insights with the plain language of a longshoreman. Which, incidentally, Eric Hoffer was.

I’m sure that there are profundities lurking in The Origins of Totalitarianism that I am depriving myself of, but I’m unwilling to march through four hundred pages of bog just to reach the fountain of youth. Cast away, you demon book! May thee find a more tolerant readership than me.

2 - Pomp

For pomp is a tenacious force. And a wily one too. How humbly it bows its head as the emperor is dragged down the steps and tossed in the street. But then, having quietly bided its time, while helping the newly appointed leader on with his jacket, it compliments his appearance and suggests the wearing of a medal or two. Or, having served him at the formal dinner, it wonders aloud if a taller chair might not have been more fitting for a man with such responsibilities.

A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles. This was a great book that I read last year after a few people in my family recommended it to me. The entire story is contained within a hotel, which might have been dreary had it not been executed so well. A Gentleman in Moscow will be one of those novels that I reflect back on for many years to come.

3 - Doug Coombs

I felt the thrill of discovery as Doug Coombs and his friends laid dozens of first lines through the Chugach mountain range in Alaska. They pioneered Alaskan heli-skiing and their reward was, at least according to their own claims, the best skiing in the world.

This sexy northern action was my favorite part of The Wild Coomba, the definitive history of Doug Coomb's life. My uncle recommended the book to me and I read it a few weeks ago. I'm not a skier, I'd never heard of Doug before, but the story suited me just fine. Well-written and exceptionally well-researched; Robert Cocuzzo got interviews from every important person in Doug's life.

In every athletic endeavor there are men and women who train for twenty years so that they can perform at the peak level for their sport. Lines of concentration harden the face as they do their thing, they’re focusing so hard that they’re liable to blow a fuse. Then there are the naturally gifted, who also train hard, but who perform the most physically demanding, death defying acts with a lightness and grace that makes the work look easy. Think Kai Lenny surfing Jaws, or Max Verstappen racing Formula 1.

Based on dozens of first-hand accounts, Doug Coombs was one of the most naturally gifted skiers of his generation. He did inconceivable things on the mountain, and then he went out for a beer. A true talent, the type of guy we love and would love to be. If you have a skier in your family, preferably someone over 40, you could give them this book. They'll probably love it! From what I gather, Doug Coombs was a household skiing name for nearly two decades, and his legend lives on to this day.

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