Post #98: Redemption Songs

20 Feb. 2024

“Sugar Man, won't you hurry

'Cause I'm tired of these scenes”

—Rodriguez

     A fairy tale well-told should be left alone, not overanalyzed or scrutinized unduly under harsh lighting that might chase the magic away. “Searching for Sugar Man” (2012) is such a tale, a film I have seen more often than any other, and which has never disappointed. So I will let it stand untouched and unchallenged, not asking what details might have been conveniently set aside or presented at a questionable angle, but rather what, if any, the significance of such miracles and wonders (in the apt words of one of the commentators in the film) might be for other lives.

     It needs no pointing out, I hope, that spectacular redemptive turns such as the film portrays cannot happen often, if ever, in real life. They are altogether too fantastical and dream-like for anything to be built upon them, least of all sober expectations. To anticipate such suspensions of the ordinary rules of human existence, let alone to spend one’s days eagerly awaiting them, would be more than folly; it would be madness. At the same time, life would not be life as we know it, if it did not leave room for events so astoundingly unlikely that we have trouble placing them in a probability-driven universe at all. Yet there they are, staring us in the face, even if they seem to call the laws of gravity into question.

     There should be no thought, then, of lying in wait for such prodigious developments, lest you miss your life in the meantime. All you can do is to get on with things, and make of them what you are able. Indeed the grace with which Rodriguez made his peace (or so we are told) with a life that might have gravely disappointed and disheartened another (after such a promising start as an artist) is precisely what gives his story such emotional resonance when the tide turns in his favor at last. Redemption comes, if it ever does, by its own rules, on its own terms and schedule, never yours.

     But there is something more to be done by way of readying yourself for what may, or may not, be bestowed on you by the sometimes open, sometimes closed-fisted hand of providence. Namely to inquire, with a little more than the usual slight resolution, into the exact nature of the “sugar” that you are missing so much. Is it really fame and fortune you require, or even glory? (Be careful what you ask for, as the old adage has it; you may get it. Or you may drive yourself crazy in its vain pursuit.) Just what wound needs staunching in your case, what pit filling, what ache soothing, what lack succoring? Perhaps your itch could be relieved by other methods than scratching it bloody, the hunger pacified by other means than gorging—a costly way to do it, often elusive, and ultimately unavailing. The taste of triumph may be intoxicating like no other, granted, but it wears off like everything else and leaves yet more craving in its wake. Or do you want to be still reenacting imaginary battle scenes even on your senescent death bed?*

     Nothing easier, in a world as obsessed as ours with celebrity for celebrity’s sake, and as preoccupied with grotesque tabulations of outsized net worth, than to feel not rich or well-known enough. Not rich and famous enough for what, though? For a meaningful, fulfilling life? Rodriguez didn’t need much in that way, did he, even before his luck turned, and therein lies a good part of the story’s charm. Not famous enough, then? Very well, but to what end, pray-tell, in a world of publicity hounds and celebrity clowns: is it for joining their global circus act, their frantic race to the uttermost depths of inanity and cultural deprivation, that you will say your prayers to Lady Fortuna? May the gods have mercy on your soul, if you do.

     Real renown, then, and glory fit for the history books? All right, if you were serious and committed enough, I would admire and applaud you for it. But what have you to show for yourself; what have you done, what have you accomplished, what have you contributed, whether in the limelight or in the shadows of obscurity, that could stand the test of the ages—not the puny stuff of newsflashes illuminating our shallow skies for a fleeting second, but the bolts of Jupiter himself, pillars of light to brighten the very vaults of heaven? For that is the language that glory speaks; and I can hear only an embarrassed silence for an answer.

     Suppose such greatness came within your reach, you son or daughter of the gods. Then would you need it validated and vindicated by masses who are never poorer judges than in this? Recognition by a select few would do nicely, you say. I’m glad to hear it: but with the work done, and that discerning approbation won, what need for any further, any louder, any more vulgar acclaim? (The tragedy the Nobel: if you have not earned it many times over by the time you receive it, the illustrious company will make you look ridiculous, and if you have done so, what does the prize really add except the envy and resentment of your peers?) As Cato answered when someone wondered aloud why a man of his exalted stature did not have an honorary statue in Rome while so many men of lesser distinction did: “I would rather have people ask why I do not have one than why I do.” If you wish to walk in the steps of the great, are Cato’s footprints not big enough for you? Do you really expect the saints and sages, to say nothing of the higher powers of the universe, to endorse your dreams of Tik-Tok preeminence, and not to smile at them with pity, or contempt?

     Not enough, you say, it is just not enough for me! I want it all! So you do, I can see, and I sympathize; only what could be more commonplace, hence further removed from true greatness, than such unchecked fevers of insatiable desire? Contrast this human, all-too-human frenzy of craving with the serene loftiness of spirit with which Socrates contemplated the bustling Athenian marketplace before him, surveying the offerings with sincere pleasure not because he desired anything so much, but because it gave him such great satisfaction to think how many things have could do without. When visitors with vague ideas asked him to be shown an authentic Athenian philosopher, he would take them to someone suitably flashy; when Xanthippe grew so exasperated with his continual absences from home that she hid his shabby cloaks, he went out in a loincloth. He is still remembered 2500 years later. Rodriguez should be good for another few decades. How many of your internet ciphers’ names will be recalled by anyone even five years, nay five minutes from now?

If I were altogether deaf to the siren songs of public recognition, I would not love the Search for Sugar Man so much. If there were not a hole in my heart too that I have trouble filling, redemption would not mean anything to me. But we are not concerned with my weaknesses here, but with what one should expect from the redeeming hand of grace, and what one is prepared to do to make oneself readier to receive, and worthier of any blessings and bounties that one might be given. “None but ourselves can free our mind.”

*Plutarch, Life of Marius, 45.6.