The uses of despair

Those 33 Chilean miners are the happiest people I’ve ever seen. There’s something about being alive, and being made viscerally aware of that fact, that can put a big smile on your face. Most of us don’t think in those terms; we’re more concerned with just getting through the day.

Under normal conditions of life, trivial things can seem pretty important. Speaking for myself, just getting a pair of those cool Oakley sunglasses would be a huge thrill. Higher up the scale is seeing your kids have a better life. Along those lines, I saw some real smiles last weekend in the movie “Waiting for ‘Superman,’” the new documentary about low-performing American public schools. The moments of elation come at the end, when the kids and their families attend the lotteries that select students for alternative public charter schools. A lucky 8 percent or so of the applicants win slots in the entering class.

It’s quite the spectacle, something like the Miss America competition or, say, America’s Next Top Model. School officials stand on a stage at the front of the crowded gymnasium pulling numbered balls out of a hopper. They call out the lucky numbers one by one, and small clusters of people leap screaming and crying into the air, hugging their bewildered kids. They have escaped the darkness. The other 92 percent slump down in the folding chairs, tears rolling down their cheeks. Children stare mutely up into their parents’ faces; they’ve never seen them cry.

Rumor has it they’re planning to close that mine now that they’ve got everybody out. That would be a crying shame; it could still do a lot of good for the world. Think of the potential uses. If bringing people up from the mine made them so happy, the place could be opened up as a travel destination for unhappy people. The infrastructure is in place: state-of-the-art engineering equipment, media links and a local population already trained and eager for gainful employment. The locale is already famous so only the most minimal advertising would be required.

By contrast with a comparable enterprise already in the works for 2011—tourist excursions on the space shuttle—the cost would be within reach of at least a moderately wealthy clientele. It would be the equivalent of a spa vacation, with tough love added in. The visitors would be lowered down in the capsule. The conditions endured by the miners could be duplicated exactly: an initial period of isolation in total darkness, with involuntary detoxification and a crash diet of canned tuna fish and crackers. Just when the food is about to run out a duct would open up in the ceiling. Sandwiches would emerge through the opening, along with other basic necessities, such as a fresh edition of “War and Peace,” a flashlight with spare batteries and a case of vodka. Psychologists and literature professors could provide therapy via telephone from the surface. In due time—ideally the term would be unpredictable in length—the client would be brought back up into the light, 20 pounds lighter, cured of neurosis and despair and deposited into the arms of loving family members.

If the idea of therapeutic tourism doesn’t appeal, the mine would make an excellent maximum-security prison. It would be remarkably economical: no construction costs, no danger of escape and only the most minimal staffing requirements—just some personnel to send down the food and supplies. The funds saved could be redirected to schools, rectifying the current imbalances in funding for educational and correctional institutions. (In the U.S., the cost of educating a public school student is $10,000 annually; $33,000 maintains an inmate for one year.) Even factoring in the airfare to Chile, the savings would be considerable.

For whatever reason, this has been a big year for being buried alive. One of the summer’s big films is a thriller entitled “Buried,” which is set almost entirely in a dark coffin. On some level I think we crave the experience. Literature, which Ezra Pound once called “news that stays news,” offers an array of katabatic journeys in which the hero descends into the underworld and then returns to the surface with a new appreciation for life. Why not join in the fun? Start with the Greek classics. Then read Dante’s “Inferno.” Pick up some prison memoirs from just about anywhere. End with Dostoevsky’s “Notes From Underground,” whose hero is still down there in the mine and has no idea whether he will ever get out. When you’re done reading you’ll feel great.

I have a list of people I’d like to send down into that mine, ranging from distant, envied celebrities to annoying neighbors. Admit it, you have a list too. Don’t feel guilty, though, and don’t pity them. It’s for their own good.