I had a ham shack when I was in high school. A tight corner of my bedroom, a transceiver, an antenna wire running out through the window frame to somewhere up on the roof. Late nights mostly. The ritual of it: power on, headphones on, find a frequency, make sure it’s clear. Then send CQ. CQ. CQ. A call to no one in particular, to anyone, to whoever happened to be listening on that frequency at that moment anywhere on earth.
Sometimes nothing came back. Sometimes someone answered from a place I had no reason to expect — a voice, or rather a pattern of dots and dashes that resolved into a voice, from a callsign I didn’t recognize, from a grid square I’d have to look up on a map afterward. We would exchange signal reports and names and locations and often we talked longer. Our gear. What we did that day. Ordinary things, transmitted at forty words a minute across a great distance to a stranger I would never meet.
I did not know then that I was practicing something. I thought I was just playing radio.
We have decided, sometime since, that luck is a system. That serendipity is an architecture. That the people to whom good things happen have engineered the conditions for good things to happen, and that the people to whom good things do not happen have, at some level, failed to present the right surface to the world.
I am not sure when we decided this. Sometime after we stopped believing in fate and before we started believing in algorithms, in that narrow window when we still believed, provisionally, in ourselves.
The self-help literature on luck is a literature of verbs. Expand. Broadcast. Reframe. Sabotage your algorithms. The verbs are always active, always transitive, always aimed at a future in which the random becomes, retroactively, inevitable. You will look back and see the architecture. You will understand that the flight delay was an opportunity, that the canceled meeting was a gift, that the stranger in the adjacent seat was not a stranger at all but a node in a network you were already, without knowing it, building.
What the literature cannot account for is the canceled meeting that was simply a canceled meeting. The flight delay in which nothing happened except that you sat in a molded plastic chair in Terminal B and ate a sandwich that cost fourteen dollars and thought about everything you had not yet done. The stranger who remained a stranger.
I have been thinking about a used bookstore on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, at the corner of Dwight. Shakespeare & Co. It smelled the way all serious used bookstores smell — dust and possibility, which are not always different things. The shelves ran floor to ceiling and were not organized in any way that rewarded efficiency. You found things there the way you find things in dreams: without looking, and then suddenly they were in your hands.
I found a paperback copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem there. Someone else’s margin notes in blue ink, a handwriting I did not recognize and have never been able to stop thinking about. Whoever they were, they had underlined the same sentences I would have underlined. They had written yes in the margin next to things I did not yet know I believed.
I have no way of knowing whether that was luck or whether I had simply been the kind of person who wandered into bookstores and stayed too long. The kind of person for whom that particular door was already, structurally, open.
Buildings have architects. Someone drew the plans. But I cannot find, looking back, the moment I became that person. I can only locate the book.
The word serendipity was coined in 1754 by Horace Walpole, who derived it from a Persian fairy tale about three princes of Serendip who were always making discoveries by accidents and luck, of things they were not in quest of. Accidents and luck. The word has always contained both. What the contemporary literature has done is quietly eliminate the accident and keep only the luck — reframed now as preparation, as readiness, as optimized openness. The princes were not prepared. They wandered.
Anymore we are often uncomfortable with just wandering. Wandering has no metrics. A waste of time.
There is a thing that happens when you pick up a physical newspaper, one you did not choose from a menu of personalized recommendations online but simply lifted from a rack at the library because it was there. You read stories you would never have clicked on while reading on an iPhone. Not because you lacked interest but because no algorithm had yet determined that you had it. The story finds you before the system can decide whether you are the kind of person who would want to be found.
I go to the library some days for precisely this reason. It is a considered refusal — the same one the princes of Serendip were practicing, though they had no word for what they were refusing. The library does not know what I clicked on last Tuesday. It cannot optimize my morning. It can only offer everything, indiscriminately, and trust me to wander.
Life feels richer on those days. I have tried to understand why and have arrived, after some time, at this: on those days the world is larger than my prior assumptions about it. That is not a small thing. That may, in fact, be the whole thing. Here comes the sun!
Shakespeare & Co. closed in June 2015, after fifty-one years on Telegraph Avenue. The owner said the past few months had been unsupportable. He taped a note to the door and served his last customer and locked up around eight in the evening and that was that. Someone who worked there was quoted saying that the serendipity of finding a book that changes your life doesn’t happen on Amazon. Indeed. He meant it as an elegy. The infrastructure of accident had to be built by someone. It had to be maintained. It had to be, on some Tuesday evening, locked for the last time.
The owner locked up around eight. He had served his last customer. There was nothing more to do.
The margin notes are still in the book.