The more things change, the more we are certain they have never been worse. Each installment audits one generation’s three certainties, that the age before it was hopeless, that it alone has things figured out, and that the age after it will ruin everything, and stamps the verdicts. The account never balances.
Seats currently filled: Mr Fickle and Deacon Otis. The rest await their Fellow.
The Charge. This generation is certain of three things. That the one before it wrecked the planet, the economy, and the group chat. That we, at last, are the ones who are awake. That the one after us cannot read a clock with hands and will therefore end civilisation by Tuesday.
The Ledger.
On the generation before us. Verdict: BOTH They did leave the thermostat high and the invoice unpaid. They also cured the disease you were too busy to be grateful for. The dead do not attend the meeting, which is the only reason we keep winning the argument.
On ourselves. Verdict: WRONG (pending appeal) Every generation in this Society has believed it was the awake one. It is the least original thing about us. We did not invent noticing; we merely gave it a newsletter.
On the generation after us. Verdict: WRONG, and unkindly so Every elder here has buried a child’s future in advance and been made a fool of by the child. The young will ruin some things and rescue others, precisely as we did, and they will be exactly as certain they thought of it first.
Turned on myself. I have said “kids these days,” and I am not old enough to have earned it. I attended a workshop to unlearn the phrase. It had a workbook. I kept the workbook.
Carried Forward. “Our moment is the exception.” Handed to the next generation, unopened, as it was handed to us.
Account remains open. Balance: certain. Correct: pending.
The Charge. This age is certain of three things. That the Victorians who bred us were stiff, joyless, and dressed for a funeral that never came. That we stand at the very summit of progress, with the telephone in the hall, the motorcar at the kerb, and an ocean liner they assure me cannot sink. That the century to come, given all this speed, will coarsen the young past saving and abolish good manners entirely.
The Ledger.
On the Victorians before us. Verdict: BOTH They were joyless, and they laid the drains that stopped us dying of our own drinking water. One does not send a card of thanks to a sewer, which is precisely why we never think to.
On ourselves. Verdict: WRONG (pending appeal) We believe we are the summit. It is the flattest remark a peak has ever made. I have this instant reversed myself: we are not the summit, we are the scaffolding, and I shall defend that with my whole chest until supper, at which point I expect to want the summit back.
On the century to come. Verdict: WRONG, and I suspect expensively I have foretold that the young will ruin everything. My father foretold it of me; his father, of him. The prophecy boasts a perfect record of being uttered and none whatever of coming true. Though I confess the unsinkable ship gives me a moment’s pause I cannot quite name.
Turned on myself. I pronounced the motorcar a passing vulgarity on Monday and took delivery of one on Wednesday. I intend to go on calling it a vulgarity, loudly, from within it.
Carried Forward. “Ours is the last sensible age.” Handed down to the next generation unopened, the collar already loosening.
Account remains open. Balance: certain. Correct: pending.
New entries to the Ledger arrive whenever a Fellow grows certain, which is to say often, and briefly.
No spam. I shall change my mind about many things, but never about you.