Sitting in the breast care center, waiting a long time for them to do a little procedure, just a follow-up with sonogram instead of radiology—just in case, since the first go-round showed something to be concerned about; and then we’ll do the consultation with the doctor. Does a longer wait indicate something wrong? Or just checking to see that everything’s alright? Sitting in the waiting room, bland green and tan chairs, tables, walls, floors, and artwork. A wannabe Puvis de Chavannes. But who would know that the “artist”—actually the illustrator, no artist, this Brian Kershisnik, with all the genius of a housepainter—was copying Puvis de Chavannes? Who in this room has even heard of Puvis de Chavannes? Or Impressionism, or neo-impressionism, or symbolism, or even France?

It was quiet for a while, nobody else was in there; but then they came: the people with several generations, the little ones running around, the older ones yelling at them in Spanish. I get so very tired of hearing Spanish. It’s a grating language, a lazy language. Then some more people come, and they sit right behind me. They are only two generations. But they talk incessantly. They are speaking a Polynesian language, which sounds like Tongan, but hard to be sure. And it is an even more grating and unpleasant-sounding language, especially trilled at full speed and full volume. I think Italian or French would be much more pleasing to hear and not listen to.

There is a law of heaven that applies on earth: where there are two things, one is greater than the other—in other words, nothing is truly equal. And where there are two things, and one is greater than the other, there is another greater than them all. That’s a law irrevocably drawn up in heaven, and we see it here all the time. That applies to languages.

Un jour que je me trouvais au musée, assis sur un banc au milieu de la salle, devant un tableau que je ne nomme pas, pendant plus d’une heure, à examiner le tableau et écrire dans mon cahier, regarder la belle figure création du peintre que je ne nomme pas, et tout ce qui était dans ce tableau, étoffes, livres, chaises, arbres, tout dominé par la beauté du total de la figure et les détails, je me suis rendu compte que c’est ça la beauté, de quoi que ce soit, mais surtout d’une femme : qu’on ne se lasse pas de la regarder fixement pendant une heure, pendant des heures, à boire l’essence vitale de sa mine, ses yeux, sa peau, ses lèvres, ses doigts, sa bouche, sa chevelure, ses sourcils, tout, avaler la scène, renifler le parfum de par les yeux, les sens, l’esprit—alors, elle est belle, celle-là.

“90% of everything is not very good.”

That is Sturgeon’s law. In the first reading of the Law, or the first sense, we understand that ninety percent of whatever you name, such as food, films, novels, or cars, is less than superiour or quality, or less than what we might call “good.”

In the second reading of the Law, or sense of the Law, we might understand that only achieving ninety percent of all there is, is not very good. Very good would be to get 100%. Or that having ninety percent of everything is not good enough, we need to get 100%.

Of course, the Law has in mind the first sense. Ninety percent of all that we encounter is really not done well, not prepared well, not made well. There will always be gradations in every endeavor. Some students will do very well, others won’t. And contrary to the wicked idea of the Bell Curve, really only ten percent of my students do well in my classes. Ninety percent aren’t very good. “Ninety percent of my students are not very good students.” That’s the meaning of the Law.

Ninety percent of the trips you take aren’t very good.

Ninety percent of the conversations you have aren’t very good.

Ninety percent of the movies you see aren’t very good.