Spiritualizing Bill Bryson on the Brits

I read something else I thought delightful earlier this week, on a sunny afternoon before the cold came. Another day, another quoted passage, this one from Bill Bryson's book, Notes from a Small Island:

One of the charms of the British is that they have so little idea of their own virtues, and nowhere is this more true than with their happiness. You will laugh to hear me say it, but they are the happiest people on earth. Honestly. Watch any two Britons in conversation and see how long it is before they smile or laugh over some joke or pleasantry. It won't be more than a few seconds....

And the British are so easy to please. It is the most extraordinary thing. They actually like their pleasures small. That is why so many of their treats--tea cakes, scones, crumpets, rock cakes, rich tea biscuits, fruit Shrewsburys--are so cautiously flavorful. They are the only people in the world who think of jam and currants as thrilling constituents of a pudding or cake. Offer them something genuinely tempting--a slice of gateau or a choice of chocolates from a box--and they will nearly always hesitate and begin to worry that it's unwarranted and excessive, as if any pleasure beyond a very modest threshold is vaguely unseemly.

"Oh, I shouldn't really," they say.

"Oh, go on," you prod encouragingly.

"Well, just a small one then ," they say and dartingly take a small one, and then get a look as if they have just done something terribly devilish. All this is completely alien to the American mind. To an American the whole purpose of living, the one constant confirmation of continued existence, is to cram as much sensual pleasure as possible into one's mouth more or less continuously. Gratification, instant and lavish, is a birthright. You might as well say "Oh, I shouldn't really" if someone tells you to take a deep breath.

I used to be puzzled by the curious attitude of the British to pleasure, and that tireless, dogged optimism of theirs that allowed them to attach an upbeat turn of phrase to the direst inadequacies--"Mustn't grumble," "It makes a change," "You could do worse," " It's not much, but it's cheap and cheerful," "Well, it was quite nice"--but gradually I came around to their way of thinking and my life has never been happier. I remember finding myself sitting in damp clothes in a cold cafe on a dreary seaside promenade and being presented with a cup of tea and a tea cake and going, "Ooh, lovely!" and I knew then that the process had started. Before long I came to regard all kinds of activities--asking for more toast in a hotel, buying wool-rich socks at Marks & Spencer, getting two pairs of pants when I really needed only one--as something daring, very nearly illicit. My life become immensely richer (79-80).

I have no idea at all whether any of this is true of Britons. Bryson could even mock this idea of small pleasures and I might never notice (by which I do not mean to imply that he is). All the same I find this passage inspiring and have read it several times already, even before typing it up this evening. Somehow it reminds me of Bonhoeffer, who says our only good as Christians is Christ, implying that every other joy we experience is extra and mediated through Him. It reminds me of Kierkegaard's Knight of Faith. It is almost as though Bryson were describing a quality of life developed through praise.

I see connections in my reading I could never have planned. I've been reading 31 Days of Praise by Ruth Meyer lately, and have even given copies to certain members of my husband's family. It' is a lovely little book and full of truth. Living a life of praise makes one available to simpler pleasures. Though it isn't intrinsic to my nature as an introvert, as a melancholy being given to overindulgence in self-examination, I begin to value praise, and I see something valuable in the attitude Bryson describes, not guilt but exuberance. I wait to see God's glory revealed at every turn.