Wendell Berry and the Choice of Life

An essential moment in Wendell Berry lore is his decision to leave New York and go home to Kentucky. He would continue to write. He would not do it where everyone else was. This was, and remains, a bold and defining choice. It was a “choice of life,” as Samuel Johnson put it in Rasselas.

The decision to live and write in Kentucky is a traditional starting point for the Berry narrative not just because it demonstrates his localist commitments, but because many of the people we most admire show us that another way of living is possible. This is why people who have no intention of living on a farm, and who never write poetry, admire Berry so much and take such inspiration from him.

In his words and deeds, Berry strikingly demonstrated that it was possible to make choices about how we inhabit our times. Whether you want to call it modernity or postmodernity, or whether you are talking more about national or consumer culture, there are many elements of contemporary life that rub people wrong. Yet it is tempting to succumb to the inevitability narrative or to fall back on the phrase (or sentiment), “it is what it is.” Berry did not do that. He made conscious decisions about the role of technology and media in his life. He made choices about how much of the culture he wanted to accept. He was willing to seem out of step with his times. In his poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” he says: “So, friends, every day do something that won’t compute.” One of his most famous essays is “Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer.”

In “Why I am Not Going to Buy a Computer,” Berry outlined guidelines for deciding on the adoption of new technology. Deciding on the adoption of new technology. Berry offered up his own way of weighing the decision:

• The new tool should be cheaper than the one it replaces. 
  
• It should be at least as small in scale as the one it replaces. 
  
• It should do work that is clearly and demonstrably better than the one it replaces. 
  
• It should use less energy than the one it replaces. 
  
• If possible, it should use some form of solar energy, such as that of the body. 
  
• It should be repairable by a person of ordinary intelligence, provided that he or she has the necessary tools. 
  
• It should be purchasable and repairable as near to home as possible. 
  
• It should come from a small, privately owned shop or store that will take it back for maintenance and repair.
  
• It should not replace or disrupt anything good that already exists, and this includes family and community relationships.

That essay was published in 1987, and Berry was already skilled in swimming against a stream of technological and economic determinism. Through his essays and through his example, Berry inspired many people to ask themselves whether or not they want a television, or a smartphone, or an AI account, or a promotion, or the newest car. It is possible to live in a way that does not compute. It is even possible to live without a computer. We may have to live differently from many people we know if we want to adopt these guidelines, but we can make that choice—as he did.

Very often we fear making choices that impose limits or come with commitments. We worry more about what we will miss out on more than we get excited about what we might gain. Berry made his home and his way of life his fixed point. He could write very particularly about place, even limiting himself to his own property. Rather than exclude him from the world, it brought the world in. People from around the globe read his words and understood something, even sometimes about themselves and their own places. Even his uncommon method of writing drew people to his work. Berry proved it’s possible to limit your geography and your way of life without being trapped. In fact, he showed it might be those who endlessly pursue new technologies and new opportunities who will find themselves trapped.

His generosity was another inspiring choice. As you read through accounts of his life and the outpourings of grief, you should notice that people loved his published writing, but he was especially beloved for his private writing—his letters. How many of the essays being written after his death include something about a letter he wrote to the author?

People wrote him letters. He wrote back. He did not need to know the person beforehand.

In Field of Dreams, the voice that Ray Kinsella has been hearing sends him to find a reclusive author named Terence Mann. Mann wrote an amazing and inspiring book in the 1960s, then stopped writing fiction and dropped out of the public eye. He lives in an apartment and rarely goes out. His work now involves computers. When Ray finds his apartment and rings the bell, Mann answers the door with “Who the hell are you?” He soon slams the door in Ray’s face. In their second exchange, Mann says: “Look, I can’t tell you the secret of life. And I don’t have any answers for you. I don’t give interviews, and I’m no longer a public figure. I just want to be left alone. So piss off.” Berry’s approach to seekers and strangers was just about the opposite.

Even before I ever knew anyone who had met Berry, I knew that you could write him a letter and he would probably write you back. I also heard that sometimes you could go visit him and sit on his porch and talk about life. At some point, I started meeting people who had those experiences. And I realized there were many, many people with those experiences. Berry demonstrated that it is possible to distance yourself from some things, but somehow remain present and available for many people.

That generosity could extend very far. One of my colleagues is well-known among the campus community for being a fan and admirer of Berry, and he assigns Berry’s writing in our honors capstone class every year. He considers it the culmination of what we’ve been doing and learning in honors, and the students see everything come together when they’re reading about Port William and the membership. Despite his deep admiration, my colleague had never written to Berry. A few years ago, some recent graduates did on his behalf. They wrote and shared about Dr. St. Antoine and what kind of teacher and person he is and how much he cares about his students and how much he loves Wendell Berry’s work and they asked him to write a letter to Dr. St. Antoine. Reader, he did. And it was kind and generous. Today that letter is framed and displayed in Dr. St. Antoine’s office. It is one of the best gifts ever received in our program.

This type of hospitality and generosity is a way of life few of us think is possible. I struggle to reply to everyone in my work inbox when those emails are from people I know. I sometimes miss office hours because I am in meetings. I have so far to go in being available to people. The gap between where I am and where I could be is based on choices I am making now and those I will make in the future.

In his politics and public positions, Berry showed that it was possible to choose to conserve and not just react. In his poem “Below,” he says, “What I stand for / is what I stand on.” He embraced his regional identity and he could celebrate his local culture, even advocating for tobacco farming and fondly remembering his forefathers. But he was conscientious in his embrace of his culture. He was not afraid to criticize those who came before him, and he was unwilling to endorse mountaintop removal mining or local economic schemes he thought were shortsighted. He was capable of shouldering complexity. He could express real despair about the state of the environment and the world and carry real hope at the same time. He chose his political positions himself rather than accepting them pre-packaged. This is probably why he, like Dolly Parton, attracted admirers who reside in many different places on the political spectrum. It’s in keeping with the “Mad Farmer Liberation Front” poem, which ends with advice to “Be like the fox / who makes more tracks than necessary, / some in the wrong direction. / Practice resurrection.”

Front Porch Republic is a bit like that fox. I have often described Front Porch Republic as a place where contributors share interests, but not always the same views. Some readers and writers come more from the left, others more from the right, but, basically, we’re all the kind of people who like Wendell Berry. (If you come to the conference in October, I think you will see what I mean.) It would be hard to imagine the existence of Front Porch Republic without Wendell Berry. FPR is a project that does not compute. It follows more closely the “Work for nothing” line in that “Mad Farmer Liberation Front” poem. Berry has influenced the whole project, as well as the majority of its contributors.

What creates a kinship among Berry’s admirers goes beyond his facility with language. Other people can, and did, and do, write about many of the same topics and even hold many of the same positions. Berry’s words are powerful because they are reflective of his life—his choice of life. He modeled the value of pondering the choices we make and the desirability of personal commitments. This is why people consciously making choices about life and considering what is possible can find common ground in his work, even if they make different decisions and commitments. He is a writer whose work changes lives because he chose to align his life and words. Wendell Berry is, and will remain, widely admired for writing and living that truth so well.