Built on the ruins

I’m reading Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead right now, excellent pandemic reading. Soothing and peaceful. All of Robinson’s fiction is wonderful, and now I’m fully immersed in Home, too, in preparation for Jack this fall. But in the meantime, here is one of a number of passages I have marked out in Gilead because they struck me as being particularly beautiful and true:

In every important way we are such secrets from each other, and I do believe that there is a separate language in each of us, also a separate aesthetics and a separate jurisprudence. Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable–which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. We take fortuitous resemblances among us to be actual likeness, because those around us have also fallen heir to the same customs, trade in the same coin, acknowledge, more or less, the same notions of decency and sanity. But all that really just allows us to coexist with the inviolable, untraversable, and utterly vast spaces between us.

Maybe I should have said we are like planets. But then I would have lost some of the point of saying that we are like civilizations. The planets may all have been sloughed from the same star, but still the historical dimension is missing from that simile, and it is true that we all do live in the ruins of the lives of other generations…

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