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And ready to stop being what it has always been: restless. Americans just now are being plied with promises that the political class can, and is eager to, protect them from the need to make strenuous exertions to provide for themselves in an increasingly competitive world. If the nation really is ready to sag into a rocking chair, it can while away its days and ward off ennui by reading the poet Philip Larkin. Those lines are from Larkin's 1972 poem "Going, Going," his melancholy, elegiac lament about the pace of what he considered despoiling change that was, he thought, erasing all that was familiar in his England. The first line of Larkin's final stanza is: "Most things are never meant." This is a profound truth: The interacting processes that propel the world produce outcomes that no one intends. The fatal conceit -- fatal to the fecundity of spontaneous order -- is the belief that anyone, or any group of savants, is clever and farsighted enough to forecast the outcomes of complex systems. Who really wants to live in a society where outcomes are "meant," meaning planned and unsurprising? In his poem, Larkin explained why he wrote it: He was feeling "age, simply." He was 49. Soon America will be 241.
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