By Jonathan Landaw

A year ago I had a rare falling out with a long-time friend. It was a trivial affair, stemming from a misunderstanding that was quickly sorted out, but somehow it hurt me acutely. In response to this conflict my accustomed self-preoccupation evidently tightened sufficiently to become painful, but why my reaction was so strong and long-lasting when the conflict itself was so brief and inconsequential, I do not fully understand. Perhaps I shared more of the culpability for the disagreement than I was willing to admit, even to myself. In any event, a few weeks ago the same friend expressed surprise upon discovering that I still had not put the incident completely behind me. “It’s loyalty,” I explained facetiously. “I am extremely loyal not only to my friends, but also to my emotions.”

This remark, made in jest, made me start wondering anew about my mental and emotional habits. I know from experience that my feelings, and the opinions upon which they are based, are fleeting and changeable; yet while they last I hold onto them with remarkable tenacity, endowing them with unwarranted weight and substance. I remember Lama Zopa Rinpoche saying that if we pay close attention to the workings of our mind, there will be no longer any need for us to watch television. What comic character created for our amusement by broadcasting’s entertainment industry could possibly compete with the farcical creations of such a fickle mind?

I remember something that happened when I was at university in the early 60s that illustrates the vagaries of the fickle mind quite clearly. The presidential campaign of 1964 pitted the Democratic incumbent, Lyndon Johnson – who was completing John Kennedy’s term of office – against the Republican nominee, Barry Goldwater. This was before the tremendous escalation of hostilities in Vietnam, and my opinion of Johnson was mostly favorable, based on his effective implementation of Kennedy’s civil rights agenda. And because Goldwater was presented as embodying the right-wing extremism I found so chauvinistic, hypocritical and dangerous, I had no use for him at all.

Convinced as I was of the necessity for Goldwater, and the ultraconservatism he represented, to be soundly defeated, I could not imagine that anyone I liked or admired could possibly be for him. Therefore it was very shocking to me when I read a newspaper article telling of the enthusiastic support he was receiving from Hank Ketchum, the creator of the popular cartoon Dennis the Menace. While Ketcham did not rank alongside Beethoven, van Gogh or Duke Snider as one of my cultural heroes, I did enjoy his work, which often made me smile and sometimes even laugh. It was incomprehensible that a creative individual of such wit, humor and talent could believe in a political reactionary like Goldwater. From that day onwards I was never able to view Dennis the Menace the same again, and what a loss that was! Picturing the cartoonist as a narrow-minded, right-wing bigot, I could no longer derive any pleasure from his daily creation. In fact, for a long time I stopped even glancing at it, very unusual behavior for someone like me who devoured everything else on the comic pages.

Similarly, but on another artistic plane entirely, I have never been able to put aside my prejudice and embrace the music of Richard Wagner. I must have heard about his anti-Semitism while I was still very young, and consequently have never actively sought out his works. As a result, I am sure there is a great deal of beautiful music about which I am ignorant. I do get a kick out of his stirring “Ride of the Valkyries” and enjoyed the passionate selection from his “Tristan and Isolde” that we studied in Music Appreciation 101, but for the rest: let those Teutonic warriors sturm und drang their way to Valhalla without me!

This prejudice against Wagner, irrational in itself, has spawned further irrationalities. Since he and Verdi are often portrayed as the rival operatic geniuses of the 19th century, I find myself more favorably disposed towards the Italian master than mere enjoyment of his music requires me to be. And when I read somewhere that Wagner bullied Nietzsche towards the insanity in which he ended his life – I have no idea if there is even a shred of truth to this accusation – I immediately developed a sympathetic admiration for the philosopher unaffected by the admission that I have yet to read more than a few sentences of his work … and do not much care for the little I have read.

The real challenge to the opinion-cherishing mind comes when two of my heroes are in opposition. I have always seen in Rembrandt’s work something far beyond artistic beauty; certain of his paintings convey spiritual truth as surely as the inspired words of the saint or mystic. One of my most moving experiences in art came when I read a letter by van Gogh recounting his reaction to Rembrandt’s The Jewish Bride and found in his words an exact description of my own response upon viewing this masterpiece in person for the first time. But quite the opposite happened when I opened a book of William Blake’s collected writings and read his virulent denunciation of the Dutch master. How could the free-spirited poet/painter who spoke with angels fail to appreciate Rembrandt’s greatness? For a while I worried that his attacks might ruin my enjoyment of Blake the same way that Ketcham’s admiration for Goldwater ruined my cartoon fun. So far that does not seem to have happened, and I am spared the necessity of rethinking at least a few of my opinions.