The World, Near and Long

The world is a wonderful place, as we are told. As we are told, as we hear, as they say—these are ways in English to refer to commonly accepted opinions. In Spanish, the way is to refer to “the other.” As the other says, como dice el otro. Also the reflexive, se dice, “it is said,” and sometimes you hear the more elevated version, como dice el poeta, which means “as the poet says.”

This last always causes me a moment’s confusion. What poet? I look around to see if I’ve missed a clue. You might also use a generic poet as the authority in English, but no one does—it would sound pompous instead of casual, as it does in Spanish. In “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” Elvis Presley croons another version: “Wise men say …” What do they say? That only fools fall in love. So how wise are those wise men? Because doesn’t everyone fall in love, and, hurriedly or not, don’t we all go blindly? To paraphrase a different poet, “Only fools don’t fall in love.” That is Tennyson. But who trusts poets, anyway? Aren’t poets all dreamers?

It was a pair of poets who wrote the 1967 song “What a Wonderful World,” which was in my head when I stopped to pet a dog on my way home from the health center one day this past fall. The narrow, one-way, back road passed through someone’s courtyard, with the house on one side and the hórreo and shed on the other, a doghouse of brick and mortar at the corner closest to the house. I stopped and called.

The big old yellow dog came out of his doghouse a little stiffly. He sniffed, blinked, saw me waiting, eyed me with a mixture of mistrust and interest, and then, smelling friendliness in the air, stepped forward. When he recognized me, his face became soft with pleasure. I petted him, he leaned against my leg, I scratched his ears and said a few silly things, and he moaned with happiness. The world is a wonderful place.

Then I gave a last pat, said goodbye, and walked on. He walked beside me for a few feet until he reached the end of his chain, and suddenly his world must have seemed not quite so nice. I felt glad to have afforded him some happiness but sad not to do more, or be able to do it endlessly.

Poor old dog, I thought. What would I do if he were my cause and improving his life were my project?

With an animal, such a fantasy is easy. The dog lived on a short chain, so the owner, I guessed, couldn’t have much feeling for the animal and might readily sell him if someone held out a wad of bills. If I had deep pockets, that someone could be me. I could then install him in a nice home, add some companions of his own kind, hire a minder to give him and his canine pals plenty of exercise and affection. Doing this would show me to be a near-termist: someone who prioritizes short-term outcomes over long-term ones.

For a near-termist, efforts to better the world—or whatever corner is right outside one’s door—are centered on immediate improvement. More health, more happiness, less struggle, less angst, all right now. With a fortune at my disposal, I would be among the people who, distressed about the state of the world, set about bettering it one suffering individual, or one disadvantaged group, at a time—one lonely dog, one caged chimpanzee, or one herd of elephants. My money might go further toward eradicating misery if I spent it differently—working to change laws or educate the public—but I am nearsighted that way. The causes I fall for are emotionally driven, as the former billionaire philanthropist Sam Bankman-Fried, who organized his giving according to how effective the gift was, described such causes.

Bankman-Fried labeled himself, in contrast, a long-termist for thinking primarily about what is owed to future generations rather than about the state of the world today. What is owed, he claimed, is survival. His altruism was all for the unborn, who run a bigger threat of utter neglect than the living. Dealing with dogs, he wouldn’t think about this one lonely yellow dog but about as-yet-unborn dogs, and not about their comfort but their existence. As I understand it, this means that the misery of an individual is not too high a price for the survival of a group. A similar argument is the one offered by bullfight apologists: I’ve told people that I think the sport is disgusting, and they answer that without the sport, we wouldn’t have the toro de Lidia, the Spanish fighting bull breed.

Is that the best they can do as justification for the torture and cruel death of bulls?

Because if you really want the bulls, then turn the breeding over to the state and fund it with a tax. Let the state foot the bill for keeping the bulls around, grazing on a distant hill, and let the Osborne Bull, an enormous black road sign situated in various places across the country, stand firm as a symbol of a country, not a blood sport. Americans protect the bald eagle, so why not the toro de Lidia?

Driving through the countryside in Salamanca, bull country par excellence, who wouldn’t stop and admire? “As the poet says,” you might repeat for someone in your group, “what a wonderful world!” You might fall in love all over with it. I would—but I can’t help being a fool.

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