For many years, I’ve been what I call a Linus Man. Linus, of course, refers to Linus Van Pelt, Charlie Brown’s best pal in Charles M. Schulz’s “Peanuts” comic strip.
Linus was my guy from the start. I realized that he understood life in ways that we should all aspire to. Linus never fully gets there, and neither do we. But each morning, he stands at that brick wall with his friend Charlie and shares what he learned and what he was trying to, often by asking the right questions.
Questions are wondrous because every question is also a statement. They say, in effect, that such and such may be possible. Or else you wouldn’t ask.
Meaning is paramount to Linus. It’s meaning that sticks to the heart and soul. And if Linus has to seek that meaning alone, then by all things Great Pumpkin, that’s what he does.
He is able to sit down with disappointment, with pain, and realize the validity — even the comfort — of those feelings. Because without them, we don’t understand as much as we ought to. We miss out on joy, for joy requires us to see, and embrace, emotional shadings and notes. Melancholia can be like rain, and rain can be beautiful. And rain is definitely necessary for anything to grow. So it goes with us, as Linus knew better than most.
The bravest thing I’ve ever seen on television is when Linus steps to the middle of the stage in 1965’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas” to share his most intimate thoughts as to what the season of seasons is most about.
First, though, he asks an unseen stagehand for a beam of light, which has long struck me as significant. We carry around such darkness, especially in an age in which we subvert our true selves for what “plays” better in terms of appearances, often losing that true self in the process.
Linus proceeds to orate a bit of the story of Christ’s birth, but this isn’t about religion. He’s speaking of contemplation, of looking to others and seeing what they need, and of becoming one’s better self.
I couldn’t believe this was a kid. I knew he wasn’t created by a kid, but that didn’t matter because Linus is wholly Linus. He is universally personal and personally universal. Child, adult. I was becoming both. When I settle in with some of his wisdom these decades later, when I watch as he delivers television’s speech of speeches, I never experience it the same way.
I’ve tried to be a Linus Man, to varying degrees of success, ever since. I think I’ve gotten better at it. I make sure not to hurt people, which is also how we hurt ourselves.
Little is harder in our present age than to be alone in a quiet space with our thoughts. How many of us ever try? It’s hard to imagine Linus struggling with that activity. In a world where everyone can’t wait to tell you how much them love themselves, a Linus person is someone who knows themselves.
He’s a listener. To others and to himself. He understands other people’s needs and what must be done to meet them.
I was a Linus Man when I stopped drinking. A Linus Man spreads peace, but not via placation. He doesn’t seek to please for the sake of doing so. He isn’t obsequious. He doesn’t hit the “like” button in life just to hit it. He knows better than that.
Linus is Socrates with a baseball mitt. A believer in the art of being good, the obligation thereof, and sincere pumpkin patches.
Go with Linus to the middle of that stage, which is really the stage of life. Embody what you ought to embody, regardless of what anyone else is doing. Be a Linus person.
Lights, please.
Colin Fleming is the author of “Sam Cooke: Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963,” an entry in Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 series.
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