American Philosophy by John Kaag Page A

testament to her unspeakably close friendship with Hocking. But the timing didn’t make sense, given that Hocking and Buck became lovers only in the twilight of their lives. Plus, I couldn’t imagine the Hocking family house being named for another woman. So I decided that West Wind probably referred to the famous poem by Percy Shelley, “Ode to the West Wind.”
    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
    Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
    The leaves whispered across the roof. There were even more inside—“pestilence-stricken multitudes” bound with brittle spines and thin covers. The library would get cold again that winter, and most of the books—the ones we hadn’t already saved in dry storage—would freeze. What a hopeless poem. What a hopeless place.
    On Monday, back at work, a colleague, a gray-eyed woman named Carol Hay, whose office was directly across the hall, asked how my trip had been. She was the one and only person I actually wanted to tell. But I lied and told her it had been terrific.

 
    FRAUD AND SELF-RELIANCE
    On a dreary morning in October I stood in the rain on the muddy shoulder of Route 16, reciting lines from Emerson’s “Self-Reliance,” which struck me as more than a little self-righteous. My Subaru was jacked up on a flimsy-looking mechanism I’d just used for the first time. Anyone could change a tire—except me.
    â€œTrust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.”
    Emerson could go fuck himself.
    My tire iron was stuck in the mud about a dozen yards from the car—exactly where I’d thrown it. The bolts on the flat tire had been screwed on by a pneumatic wrench. How was a mere mortal like me supposed to get them off? I’d always fancied myself as having the type of wiry strength Emerson would have respected. I’d spent my time at school swimming, rowing, running, and generally trying to prove that I was someone worthy of the fathers of American philosophy—I’d taken its underlying story of rugged individualism to heart. But now a few tight bolts had forced me to question my role in this story. I looked down at my wet hands. They were red and blistered from my failed attempts to loosen the bolts. The pain in my hands told me to use my foot. Of course the goddamned tire iron just bent. And then broke. And then was thrown as far as possible.
    The thing about Emerson is that you tend to remember him at the least opportune times: “A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if every thing were titular and ephemeral but he.” My flat tire wasn’t ephemeral and titular. I was. The self upon whom I was supposed to rely couldn’t even fix its own car. I called AAA, a service my mother had wisely purchased for me. AAA called a local mechanic, who called his assistant, who slowly made his way to the breakdown lane of Route 16.
    I shook hands with my savior in some feeble attempt to make us equals. His hand was tough and thick and told me he’d saved many, many people before. My hand probably told him that I was a philosopher suffering from Lyme.
    â€œYou can’t force it. You just need to apply some steady pressure,” he said, loosening the last bolt with an effortless twist.
    â€œWhat do I owe you?” I asked.
    â€œNo worries, man. It’s covered.”
    I dug through my pockets and came up with a handful of waterlogged bills, which I insisted on giving to him—my salvation had to be worth something—and then I slowly drove the rest of the way to West Wind. Emerson was quite emphatic on this point: “I say to you, you must save yourself…” Yet that did not seem to be in my power.
    By then I’d been visiting New