Funny, isn’t it, how, in the moment of a heated response, we always know precisely what we shouldn’t say or do.  And yet, strangely, we very often say or do that exact thing. Our inner cautious directions – notwithstanding their instinctive speed and native composition – get promptly booted to the back seat. There they serve as no more than gate posts easily ignored. Meanwhile the confrontation ensues! And the casualties appear. Thankfully the idle threats remain either removed or metaphorical. But the residue within us is damaging no matter the illustration of the misbehaviour. Manners preserve us from that fatality or infection as well.

Manners and social behaviour generally, like so many  exotic dishes, are best served chilled. The uniqueness of the flavours is preserved for the discriminating mind in their tranquil state uninhibited by vulgar emotion or wanton predilection inspired by rude conflict. Regardless of the solid reasoning behind such cerebral protocol, social conduct by contrast frequently governs its outcome through the immediacy of the deeply rooted and unrestrained visceral theme. At the time of its expression (frequently ad hoc and purely reactionary) it is normally vastly more delectable than anything trivialized by conditioned propriety or memorized logic (apologies to Ann Landers, Dear Abby and Zena Cherry).  And make no mistake, logic is very much at the base of the etiquette that propels the engineering of right communication.

What makes Zena Cherry’s column that newspaper’s most avidly followed feature is not just that she is the only journalist invited to the social events that really count, but that she has a sixth sense about who is moving up and who is fading from contention. She lives a privatelife in a Forest Hill Village house filled with a collection of clown models from all over the world. The daughter of a society doctor and brought up in a private school, she is tactful and discreet, and, as one fellow journalist noted, has an ‘information-retrieval system that IBM would envy’.”

Vianney Carriere wrote that “she was one of the most gracious ladies I have ever met. She was one of those infuriating people who are immune to any form of scolding, from the very gentle all the way to flashes of temper. I never could instruct her in a way that did not prompt her to smile a caution at me not to take life too, too seriously.”

The strength of the logic is not that it affords an a priori response but that it overcomes the conflict inherent in the event. No conflict; no misdemeanours. If I were asked to demonstrate these dole assertions I would be drawn to the vernacular of automobile driving.  It is, I might say with no need of reservation, a project I regularly attend, indeed far more than most judging by the kilometres clocked on myCadillac App (4,448 km since July 25th when I took delivery of the car). Without proffering details, my summary judgement is that people are driving faster and often rudely. I accept that I am my father’s son in this regard – he always complained that I was driving too fast.  By comparison, I noted as readily that he drove too slowly.  Anyway…none of that matters. What matters is the effort to overcome “road rage”. I am convinced that social confrontation derives from the same sources notwithstanding the particular jargon.

The conclusion is this: deferring to Emily Post’s book of Etiquette (1922) is sterling. Rising above the dilemma is not a retreat from battle or misadventure; rather it’s a dissolution of the initial though harmful objective. You will note, dear Reader, that there is no recipe or recitation. Nor is one required. As I said at the outset, we know what not to say or do. Such is the true nature of manners; namely, a reflection of a static model familiar to us all. The real winner in the dispute is oneself – albeit a result for mute celebration.

Emily Post (née Price; c. October 27, 1872 – September 25, 1960)