Larissa MacFarquhar

I made a Twitter account. I don’t care if anyone follows me. I don’t intend to follow anyone except for Kelly Oxford. I just wanna practice saying things in 140 characters or less.

For example: “When the moon is full, the tide is high.”

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From Boston Review, an interview with Larissa MacFarquhar, who writes about people who give to the needy as much as they’re able. They give effort … money … kidneys … etc.

[Boston Review:] How did you become interested in extreme cases of moral virtue?

[LM:] I’ve been interested in them for a long time, but one of the things I read that got me thinking in a more systematic way was the philosopher Susan Wolf’s essay “Moral Saints” [PDF]. She argues that our conceptions of perfect moral virtue (what she calls saintliness) and of a well-lived life are irreconcilable, so one of them has to go. She is basically anti-saint — she concludes that it’s our view of morality that has to go. I tend towards the other conclusion, but her essay was very useful in framing the question. It seemed to me, though, that you couldn’t think about the problem only in the abstract. If you want to consider the cost of making certain ethical decisions, you have to see how they play out in actual lives. So that’s why I decided to write about people who have a very demanding sense of moral duty and live their lives accordingly.

LM is trying to write about real-life “moral saints” who aren’t “kooks.” This fascinates me, because most moral saints I can think of are, in fact, a little kooky. But even if LM’s subjects were, too, I’m not sure how damning that’d be.

I think that if you’re doing something that’s hard to do and good to do, and that makes you feel proud, I just don’t see why that’s so terrible. One kidney donor told me that his donation made him feel better about himself — that it was one really good thing he’d done in his life, which he had otherwise made a pretty complete mess of. Some psychologists think you shouldn’t donate in order to feel better about yourself, but it strikes me as an excellent reason!

Feeling proud isn’t the same as feeling less awful about yourself. But whichever motive the guy had, I think LM is right to view it with some admiration, and with compassion.

EXTRA

I was in prison and you came to visit me.
[Matthew 25:36]

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If you aren’t Ecuadorian, you might not appreciate this story. And if you’re very, very Ecuadorian, with no outsider’s perspective, you might not appreciate it, either. But I’ll try to explain it.

The Russian soccer league is on holiday. One of its employees — Felipe Caicedo, Ecuadorian goalscorer — is using his time off to play soccer in his homeland, for charity. (1) A week ago he played in a fundraiser in Esmeraldas. (2) More recently he’s been visiting prisoners in Guayaquil, bringing them food (5000 kg of rice, 280 chickens) and playing in their soccer tournament.

He explains how God called him to do this:

Mira, estaba en mi cama y recordé la Peni Champions, lo leí en el EXTRA y era como si Dios me decía lo que tenía que hacer, y me puse como meta venir hasta acá.

When Stephen read this to me, I laughed for five minutes.

Translation:

I was in bed and remembered [the prison soccer tournament]; I read about it in the EXTRA and it was as if God were telling me what to do. …

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EL DIARIO EXTRA is a tabloid, a purveyor of sex and graphic violence, infamous for its lurid photos and shocking headlines:

¡Pum! contra un camión

Con un arma mató a siete

¡Mató al entenado a “cuchillo limpio”!

Una piedra en el camino … ¡lo mató!

This is Ecuador all over: horror viewed with a certain innocence. It isn’t strange for a Christian to admit to reading this. EXTRA is our most popular newspaper.

Caicedo explains why he serves the prisoners:

Son personas que por cosas de la vida están acá y qué mejor de venir y poder estar unas horas y hacer que se olviden de sus problemas, y si eso sirve de algo gracias a Dios.

(“They’re people who, because of life’s circumstances, are here [in prison]. What could be better than to come and stay a few hours and distract them from their troubles? If this is useful, then thanks be to God.”)

“Life’s circumstances.” Ordinary disasters. Violent porn culled from daily life. One reads it for amusement, then hears the call of God and visits the local prison to comfort the broken.

I am cocky

I thought it was windy on Tuesday when I took my exercise; I didn’t realize I was running along the edge of a hurricane. No wonder there were moments when I was blown across the sidewalk. And later, when I returned home from work, I was the only pedestrian for miles. Such moments offer a peculiar, lonely satisfaction: I’ve outlasted everyone; I’ve won.

Last week I covered fifty-six miles outside, on foot. It was no special effort. It’s becoming normal.

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With Cat, my neighbor, I saw A River Runs Through It: a movie about fathers and sons. The son shows his writing to his father; the father praises it, then highlights every error. That was kind, said Cat. That’s what I do all day long, I told her; that’s my job. Showing people how stupid they are, said Cat.

That amused me: it was accurate. Well, I said, I manage to do it with some tact.

Gradually I’ve amassed a sort of clientele: students who hope to be tutored specifically by me. I suppose that deep down, I wish to outperform the other tutors. But I try to concentrate on other things. Before I go in to work, I pray that I might show my students and colleagues the love of Christ. Then I put that out of mind, and until a student approaches, I try to focus on Agatha Christie, or upon the problems in my life. And when I’m finally asked to tutor, I’m able to give the student my full, bemused attention. The trick is to coax the student into sharing that bemusement. Usually it works.

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What’s your name? said one student. It’s not just Paul.

It’s John-Paul.

I don’t want to forget your name, she said.

I will forget yours, I told her. I see hundreds of students; I don’t remember all of them. And I don’t expect them to remember me.

They will remember you, she said.

She told me she wanted to become a social studies teacher, Lord willing. Lord willing indeed. That job is hard to obtain. She wasn’t stupid, not at all, but she was a college senior who still had serious trouble writing. My heart was aching for her.

Usually my feelings are more triumphant. In this small arena, I’m the unquestioned expert. I bask in the students’ awe and gratitude. My confidence is unchecked: it shines, and the students photosynthesize some of it for themselves. I take pleasure in explaining, in being the one who’s able to explain. I’m discovering that this job really winds my clock.