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Reading Laurus, a Russian novel penned by a scholar of medieval history (Eugene Vodolazkin), I face the shadow of my sunny love of comfort. As a multigenerational American, I have been formed this way, I tell myself (so it’s not entirely my fault): Alexis de Tocqueville observed a pervasive and “vehement” passion for “petty pleasures,” physical gratifications, and comfort among our people (nearly 200 years ago!), which he considered the “predominant taste of the nation.” On top of it all, I chose the Anglican/Episcopal tradition (cue denominational shade about our allergies to self-denial). What good is physical pain?
