Bad behavior

The modest Georgian-style Independence Hall, built in 1753. Photo: National Park Service.

One of my favorite books of last year was Jeffrey Rosen’s The Pursuit of Happiness: How Classical Writers on Virtue Inspired the Lives of the Founders and Defined America, an overview of how the Founders defined both the word and the pursuit of “happiness.” It sent me to the work of Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, and Epictetus, philosophers who have had a prominent place on my bedside table ever since.

I’m delighted to hear, therefore, that Philadelphia’s National Constitution Center will launch a podcast series based on Mr. Rosen’s book next week. Per its web site:

Pursuit: The Founders’ Guide to Happiness is a 12-part series hosted by Jeffrey Rosen featuring Ken Burns and leading scholars. It explores how the founders understood personal growth as essential to the common good, and how you can put those ideas into practice today.

A little self-helpy, perhaps, but I suspect that the series will have considerable educational and intellectual heft too. You can read more about it here. Mr. Rosen spoke with the Atlantic‘s Jeffrey Goldberg about the book here; his new book, The Pursuit of Liberty: How Hamilton vs. Jefferson Ignited the Lasting Battle Over Power in America, will be published by Simon & Schuster in October.

I wrote and published the below — along with its concluding popcult legerdemain — on July 3, 2024.


Every year around this time I try to honor the season by unsuccessfully pestering my wife and children to watch 1776 with me (they can’t be blamed for my failure, I suppose; all that prancing around to ersatz Gilbert and Sullivan, in the guise of a history lesson no less, brings even the most forgiving audience crying to its knees) and reading something that pertains to the historical significance of the moment. I’m about halfway through The Pursuit of Happiness: How Classical Writers on Virtue Inspired the Lives of the Founders and Defined America by Jeffrey Rosen, a constitutional lawyer and the president of Philadelphia’s National Constitution Center, a book that I plan to unsuccessfully pester my wife and children to read.

The subtitle is well-descriptive of the book, which studies the role that classical virtues of Greek and Roman philosophers played in the education, thinking, and actions of the Founders — virtues such as order, temperance, humility, industry, frugality, sincerity, resolution, moderation, tranquility, cleanliness, justice, and silence. Many of the Founders, like Jefferson, Franklin, and Adams, repeatedly cited these virtues and especially Cicero in their writings and thinking, and they wormed their way into the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution as well. Although they held themselves to these high standards, the Founders frequently usually failed to meet those standards (their failure was most spectacularly miserable when it came to slavery), but it was the attempt to better themselves — to pursue “happiness” as it was defined during the Enlightenment, rather than the “happiness” as it’s defined in these more hedonistic days — that provided them with insights into democracy and republicanism.

As I say, I’m about midway through and am loathe to say more about it before I’m finished, but it did cater to my curiosity about the role that architecture and physical surroundings play in the way we think about ourselves and our world. In the early and mid eighteenth century, Philadelphia’s architects embraced the Georgian style of order, proportion, and restraint: even today, the buildings around Independence Mall in Philadelphia remain experienced on a human scale, and the orderly, practical rowhouses and trinities of Olde City and Elfreth’s Alley too seem appropriate to a cozy comfortability.

These were the buildings that the Founders lived and worked in and ate and drank at as they debated the foundational documents of the United States. Even today we can walk in their footsteps and admire the same Georgian order, proportion, and restraint. Alas, the style was not to last — architects around the turn of the century embraced the Federal and Greek Revival styles that led to buildings like the First Bank of the United States a few blocks away from Independence Hall. It appeared as if they were trying to live up to Philadelphia’s reputation as the “Athens of America,” and they were going to have the buildings to prove it, goddammit.

Twilight of the gods? The Greek Revival First Bank of the United States in Philadelphia, built in 1797. Photo: National Park Service.

Although it’s a bit of a left-field stretch, there’s another sense in which The Pursuit of Happiness is relevant to today’s Philadelphia. Rob McElhenney’s comedy It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is in many ways Pursuit‘s counter-text. Instead of cultivating the classical virtues of order, temperance, humility, industry, frugality, sincerity, resolution, moderation, tranquility, cleanliness, justice, and silence, the reprobates who frequent Paddy’s Pub in South Philadelphia cultivate the classical vices of disorder, crapulence, narcissism, sloth, extravagance, perfidy, half-heartedness, extremism, chaos, filth, bigotry, and noise. This provides a fertile ground for the show’s frequent satiric forays into politics and culture: Mac, Charlie, Frank, Dennis, and Sweet Dee confront issues like abortion, racism, sexual identity, drug addiction, urban blight, gun control, the MeToo movement, political corruption, and welfare by indulging in these vices without apology, self-control, or self-knowledge, often destroying property and the lives of innocents in the process.

I’m not sure that IASIP can really bear all the weight that I’m putting on it — the show is a gross-out comedy first and foremost, after all. But the show depicts what happens to people and politics when the classical virtues are ignored and the irrational id instead of reason and restraint is given free rein to trample over the rights of others. While the show’s setting in Philadelphia is in part an accident of chance — McElhenney is a Philadelphia native, and the show’s B-roll of Philadelphia locations is affectionate and lovingly knowledgeable — the gang traipses through the same streets as the Founders, an unintended comment on just how far we’ve fallen in the 248 years that have separated them. But if you want to see how we started, read The Pursuit of Happiness; to see where we ended up, watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

However you celebrate Independence Day and America’s 248th birthday tomorrow, I hope you make it a good one.

Tristan in Philadelphia

Nina Stemme sings while Yannick Nézet-Séguin conducts The Philadelphia Orchestra in a production of Tristan und Isolde at Marian Anderson Hall on June 1, 2025. Photo: Jessica Griffin/The Philadelphia Orchestra.

It’s really too good not to share: you can now hear (until September 13) the recent concert performance of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde from The Philadelphia Orchestra under the baton of Yannick Nézet-Séguin, featuring Nina Stemme’s final performance as Wagner’s doomed heroine, recorded live on June 1 of this year. WRTI notes that Wagner’s opera has had a long history with the Philadelphia Orchestra, having presented the first full performance of Tristan und Isolde in the United States 90 years ago. Melinda Whiting has more at the WRTI web site, where you can access the recording.

Now that summer is past, I’m hoping to post here more regularly: specifically about Philadelphia, my home town. I miss it, and hope to get there more. You can read more about my long personal relationship with Philadelphia in these blog posts. Feel free to let me know what you think.

Strike up the band

Eugene Ormandy.

When I was a wee lad in short trousers, my father regularly took my brother and me to the Sunday afternoon Philadelphia Orchestra matinees at the Academy of Music. At that time, I caught the tail end of Eugene Ormandy’s directorship of the orchestra and the very beginning of Riccardo Muti’s. This was in the 1970s and early 1980s, and these concerts, along with the now defunct WFLN-FM radio station, instilled me with an ongoing love of what philistines like myself call “classical music.” Although I recently made a pilgrimage to the Kimmel Center in Philadelphia to experience the 21st-century Philadelphia Orchestra (under Riccardo Muti again — I guess old habits die hard), it’s the Ormandy era I feel the most affection for, and any recording performed by the PhilOrch under Ormandy that comes up on my streaming channels still catches my attention — off I am down memory lane. What I most admired about Ormandy, and still do, was his supreme devotion to the music rather than any podium antics, and he was surprisingly attuned to the work of contemporary composers as well. The Ormandy strings, of course, were the main contributor to the orchestra’s reputation for the performance of works of the Romantic era as well as the Russians, but any exposure to its performances of works like the Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony, especially with E. Power Biggs at the keyboard, reveals just what a powerhouse the orchestra as a whole was at its height. A crowdpleaser, sure, even a barnburner, but it was one of my father’s favorite recordings, and it pleases me too:

My friend Bruce Hodges, who kindly invited me to that Kimmel Center performance of the Verdi Requiem a few months ago, has just reviewed the new 94-CD box set from Sony, Eugene Ormandy: The Columbia Stereo Collection 1964-1983, for WRTI in Philadelphia — of which I am a proud supporter, and you should be too — and I recommend his review as a sensitive and long-overdue appreciation of Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra with which I fully concur. In my readings of classical music criticism, I often find that Ormandy is described as an excellent conductor, no doubt, but especially that he was “dependable” — not a firebrand like Bernstein — and the Philadelphia Orchestra, however excellent an ensemble, similarly “dependable” as well, especially those strings.

Saith Mr. Hodges:

[The] sumptuous, staggering new box of recordings … makes a compelling case for an outsized proclamation found elsewhere, declaring the Philadelphians as “America’s Finest Orchestra.” While the debate over that phrase could cause months of conversation over coffee or a nice bourbon, this latest compendium confirms that, during those 19 years, he and the musicians produced many of the classical music world’s most cherished documents. …

The remainder of the set contains myriad treasures, which demonstrate the Orchestra’s sleekness, versatility and fire. And while competition for some of the standard repertoire is fierce — I’m looking at you, nine Beethoven symphonies, as well as his well-traveled instrumental concertos and those by Mozart and Tchaikovsky — other discs show an exploratory instinct at a time when composers like Kodály, Nielsen, Ives, and others weren’t as well known in the United States. In the current age, when Mahler recordings are everywhere, people may forget that Ormandy steered the initial release of Mahler’s Tenth Symphony, in its completion by Deryck Cooke. Since that time, other ensembles and scholars have weighed in, but Ormandy was there first. …

But as this overwhelming collection shows, in conjunction with previous compilations, Ormandy’s era was complex — and “dependable” turns out to have its pluses. During these decades, he and his hardworking crew often released multiple recordings in a given year. Anytime that artists adopt a workaday pattern, some results will land on ears as routine or middle-of-the-road. That’s the byproduct of a conductor who placed a priority on showing up. Ormandy knew he had a team of tireless, world-class musicians — an American powerhouse — and was eager to share them with the world. With this kaleidoscopic showcase, it is clear that he succeeded.

For me, the Philadelphia Orchestra under Ormandy’s baton (as well as that of others) is one of the great American orchestras of all time, as the Vienna Philharmonic, when under Georg Solti’s baton (as well that of others), is one of the great European orchestras of all time. Both were born in Hungary; there must have been something in that Budapest water. Mr. Hodges checks off a lot of other boxes and digs deeper into Ormandy’s repertory of the period than few people could ever hope to. His review is here.

There are two very good books about the orchestra as well. Herbert Kupferberg’s Those Fabulous Philadelphians: The Life and Times of a Great Orchestra was published in 1969 by Charles Scribner’s Sons, and as readable as that is, it’s been superceded by The Philadelphia Orchestra: A Century of Music from Temple University Press in 1999, which boasts many excellent photographs.

A personal note

On June 1, I was formally confirmed as a member of the Episcopal Church, the US branch of the Anglican Communion, at Grace Church, New York, Bishop Mary Glasspool officiating. This was not the result of any road-to-Damascus moment — the skies did not open and I did not drop to my knees (a good thing, given the condition of my knees at my age) — but a decision that I’ve been circling around for quite some time. In large part it was the result of reading and considering the Christian gospels for years, and that can have this kind of effect on some people. That effect was not unlike that experienced by E.V. Rieu, who translated the Gospels for the Penguin Classics series some years back (and I do wish they’d reprint that translation). In 1953 he spoke on the BBC with J.B. Phillips, who had just completed a translation of Paul’s letters himself:

Phillips: Did you get the effect (I think I mentioned it in the Preface to Letters to Young Churches) that the whole material is extraordinarily alive? I think I used there the illustration that it was like trying to rewire an ancient house without being able to switch off the mains, which was quite a vivid and modern metaphor, I hope. I got that feeling, the whole thing was alive, even while I was translating. Even though one did a dozen versions of a particular passage, it was still living. Did you get that feeling?

Rieu: I won’t say I got a deeper feeling …

Phillips: Yes?

Rieu: … But I got the deepest that I possibly could have expected.

Phillips: Yes?

Rieu: It — changed me. My work changed me. And I came to the conclusion, as I said, I think, in my Introduction, that these works bear the seal of the Son of Man and God. And they are the Magna Carta of the human spirit.

If I wanted to be glib, I could say that any church willing to include Jonathan Swift and T.S. Eliot as members is good enough for me. To be less glib, I subscribe to the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds, and find in the church itself the profoundly radical inclusion that I recognize in these creeds and the Gospels. And this spirit holds in the art, literature, and music that I find most profound, and in which I find comfort and the most important intellectual, emotional, and psychic challenges and significance.

I am especially moved to do so by what I see in the world in which we are now living: there is, too, a political element in my decision, since our culture also includes our politics, and if I am to be honest with myself my spiritual life determines how I live in this culture. The Episcopal Church, as part of that radical inclusion I mention above, is a haven for the rights and dignity of immigrants, LGBTQ+ people, the underprivileged, individuals of every race, creed, and color, and the victims of war and conflict, among so many others. According to the Book of Common Prayer, confirmation is a sacramental rite in which the candidates “express a mature commitment to Christ, and receive strength from the Holy Spirit through prayer and the laying on of hands by a bishop.” And to me it is important that it is a public commitment. It is a statement of where I stand.

I should express my gratitude to everyone who, knowingly or not, contributed to my decision and confirmation. In terms of art and music, I have to offer thanks to radio klassik Stephansdom, which provided the soundtrack for the thoughts that led me to the decision (a tip of my hat especially to Ursula Magnes and her “Bach & Co.” program, in which she introduced me to the Lukas-Passion by Heinrich Schütz and Buxtehude’s Membra Jesu nostri back in March, which made a difference; “Musica Sacra,” which follows “Bach & Co.,” is terrific too); in terms of literature, Swift’s A Tale of a Tub and Eliot’s Four Quartets; Reverend Don Waring and everyone at Grace Church, especially Associate Rector Reverend Julia Macy Offinger, who cheerfully saw me and the rest of the fine folks in our confirmation class through the process; and my family, who watched as their friend, dad, and husband took the hands.

Last years

Egon Schiele, Sitzende Frau mit hochgezogenem Knie, 1917. © Národní Galerie, Prag. Photo: National Gallery Prague 2024.

Opening tomorrow, March 28, at Vienna’s Leopold Museum, Egon Schiele: Last Years provides a comprehensive overview of Schiele’s work from 1914-1918 — the First World War — following the radically aggressive and discordant work of his earlier career. I’ve always been rather more fond of this late work; one of my favorite Schiele drawings, “Sitzende Frau mit hochgezogenem Knie,” dates from 1917. Unlike the early work, Schiele’s later art consists of rather less sensational landscapes and portraits, but to me they seem to exhibit a more compassionate perspective without sacrificing the sensuality of that early work: the erotics of the body shade into an erotics of the spirit.

The exhibition, per the Leopold Museum’s web site,

weaves together biographical and artistic elements, focusing on the ruptures and transformations in Egon Schiele’s “late works” from 1914 to 1918, a period that has received comparatively little attention until now. During this time, Schiele gradually abandoned the radical formal experiments of 1910 to 1914 and developed a more realistic style characterized by deeper empathy. His linework became calmer, more fluid, and organic, and the figures he depicted gained greater physical fullness. The exhibition also offers new insights into this pivotal period by incorporating contemporary archival materials, such as the previously unpublished diary of Edith Schiele.

The exhibition runs through July 13. There is a digital exhibition here, and the catalogue is available here. A short teaser trailer is below.