Marquel, TPVs NYTimes Milk of Magnesia and Prune Juice Section correspondent, was smashing something between his teeth, when he read The Good Order. The arduous work of imposing order is critical to success in any realm, from the international state system to one’s own mind. In his latest column, David Brooks campaigns for a good old American “anal-retentive” world order. Marquel often finds Brooks to be constipating but this was the first time Brooks revealed that he himself is constipated. And likes it.I called up Brooks. It was 3:07 pm.
“Call me back in eight minutes,” he said, “I only converse on the quarter hour,” and hung up.
I called back. “Mr Brooks, I’m interested in this anal-retentive world you favor. Could you tell me what it would be like?”
“First tell me If this will take more than five minutes. If so you should make an appointment to talk to me.” He said.
“I guess I’ll need an appointment,” I said.
“Call right back. I didn’t have this down for an appointment call.” He said.
“Right now?” I asked. He had hung up. I called back.
“Yes,” he answered, “What is it.”
“It’s me Marquel. I want an appointment.”
“Hold on. Appointments go in green.” I heard him fiddling with something. “How about a half hour from now at the Times building?” He asked.
“Fine.”
“See you then. You’re all penciled in.” He said.
There was no-one in his entry. An empty desk was in the middle of the room. A sign said, “Take a number. Then ring the bell. Do NOT under any circumstances ring the bell before getting a number.”
I carefully pulled out a number. N09. Then I hit the bell. The door swung open. There was Brooks. He looked me in the eye and said, “Number nine.”
I stood up. He said, ” You must be Marquel.”
He walked me into the office. It was very Mondrianish. A desk was back against a window, and in front of it were four chairs, and behind them were four more chairs. He gave me a piece of paper. It said A2.
He said. “Have a seat. You’re in the first row. Nothing blocking your view.”
I saw the numbers on the chairs and took the second one in, A2. “It looks like they’re all good seats here,” I said.
He smiled. “Now tell me what you want to know. Try to use the active voice.”
I took a minute to try to banish the passive voice from my vocabulary, and then started in. “David, can I call you David?” He nodded then waved me on, with his eyes alternately on me, his paper pad, and the clock. “What would this anal-retentive world look like?” I asked.
“An ordered world is one where everyone has his or her place and every place has a person. Everybody works at peak efficiency and everybody feels productive at the end of the day.” He prescribed.
“So, no recreation?” I asked.
“Recreation is healthy. People work better. Recreation a prescribed number of times per week, at the same time for different groups, night people, day people, afternoon people.” He said.
“So you’re obviously not imposing some authoritarian mold, one size fits all.” I said.
“Not at all.” An alarm went off. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, “auditing. We’re auditing my time to make sure what actually happens during my day is exactly what it’s supposed to be.” He said. He busily wrote some data into a folder using a brown, then purple, then a yellow pencil.
“But what about a little chaos?” I asked. “Don’t we need some for creativity?”
“There’s no proof to that. The data suggests that long, ordered, systematically organized days are the most satisfying and productive.” He asserted.
“What data?” I asked
“I read all the relevant journals every day–from 7 to 9, and I review them on the weekend, Saturday from 10 to 11, Sunday, noon to one. I know the data. Order produces better art, music, literature, even mathematics.” He said.
“Don’t you have any data showing that chaos also produces creativity?” I asked.
“Nope. Not one study.” He asserted.
“And without a study?” I asked.
“No data.” He said.
“So no chaos in your society?” I asked.
“Once a year for each person. Birthday parties. I recognize the need to play occasionally, although the data is incomplete.”
“So each person gets a birthday party and that’s it?” I asked.
“The data shows that each person has but one birthday. It’s conclusive.”
“How will this order make a better world?” I asked.
“Order. Open your eyes, Marquel. Every trouble spot in the world is characterized by disorder. Some are Muslim. Some Jewish. Many are Christian Orthodox. Blacks, white, Asians. The single, only, factor common to all is disorder.”
“And you suggest?” I asked.
“Try to avoid conjunctions at the beginning of a sentence, Marquel.” He scolded. “I suggest that these societies be better ordered. Schedules. Schedules are important. If people have order, there will be no disorder.” The bell went off again and he entered data with the three colors.
“Isn’t what you’re saying just standard conservatism? And don’t you realize it’s easy for you to be ordered because you’re rich. But a single parent with a child in public school is facing nothing but chaos. Your theory makes that parent a culprit instead of a victim.”
He was out of his seat, with a carpet cleaner, sweeping around the room. I looked at him aghast. “Order, order.” He said.
“Why don’t we just agree to disagree?” I asked companionably.
“That we cannot do,” he insisted. “That is the greatest source of disorder.”
He had a scissor, a ruler, and a comb and was measuring and cutting his eyebrows to some apparently exact length.
A different bell rang. He got up swiftly, urged me towards the door, and asked, “need a parking voucher?”
I said no and he smiled, almost curtsying as I left. A very nice guy. Nice and scary.
***
BY MARQUEL: The New World Order à la Brooks
I love it
Brooks is an idiot
The Times hired him to make the others look decently smart
perfect pitch
ditto
ditto2
I love you M, and I love this:
“What data?” I asked
“I read all the relevant journals every day–from 7 to 9, and I review them on the weekend, Saturday from 10 to 11, Sunday, noon to one. I know the data. Order produces better art, music, literature, even mathematics.” He said.
“Don’t you have any data showing that chaos also produces creativity?” I asked.
“Nope. Not one study.” He asserted
David Brooks my ass