One Hundred and Seventy Five

I’m reading about Sylvia Plath, which I usually avoid doing because she’s an icon, and most icons don’t stand up well to scrutiny.  Doubly an icon in Plath’s case, for feminists and for the suicidal.  And we’re all suicidal now. 

I read Alvarez’ book about her years ago, when I was considering suicide myself, before I decided it would be pointless because I'm already dead in every way that matters.

I read his book because the reviews said it was about more than Plath’s suicide.  And it was.  It was more about Alvarez’s suicide attempt than Plath’s suicide.   

He depicted himself as the brave hero who met the savage god and lived, unlike poor sad Plath.  He was telling yet another version of the legend of poor sad Plath, victim of men.

The article I'm reading now is about Plath’s and Hughes’ marriage, which it depicts as an idyllic partnership of two talented and charismatic people.  The shock of his betrayal is therefore doubly great.  But the shock of her suicide is even greater.  How could this extraordinary woman be incapable of living without a man?  Hughes turned out not to be the person he seemed, but neither was she.

They were both actors, as are we all.  Bad actors fall in love with their roles, forgetting who they really are (if they ever knew) and are crushed when the curtain falls.  Plath and Hughes seem to have been in love not with each other, nor with themselves, but with an image of themselves as the perfect couple. 

After Plath’s suicide, Hughes claimed they had been about to reconcile.  A few more days would have made all the difference.  I think he was trying, like Alvarez, to rewrite Plath's story with himself as its hero.

A few weeks ago Justin telephoned and announced triumphantly that he and his wife had reconciled.  Then, a few days later, he called again and said Tatiana had gone home to Ukraine, and he hadn’t heard from her since.  Her family say they don’t know where she is.

He’s been telephoning me every day since then, and we talk for hours.  I keep telling him to contact his stepdaughter.  If anyone knows where Tatiana is, it’s her daughter.

But don’t just telephone her, I tell him.  Fly to the USA and speak to Natalia in person.  That will show her he's sincere.

Tatiana is probably with her daughter.  I keep telling him what he should say to her if she is, and what he should say to Natalia if she isn’t.

Justin keeps saying he will remind Tatiana of all the things he’s bought for her, and how much she owes him.  I grit my teeth and tell him to just tell her how much he loves her.

I think Justin loves the idea of being married more than he loves his wife; and poor sad Tatiana, deserted by her first husband, has taken her revenge by deserting her second.

One Hundred and Seventy Four

Camus said the only important question is whether life is worth living.  When we answer it, all our other questions become easier to answer. 

When I read that, as a child, it became clear to me that Camus was an inferior thinker.  That he was nevertheless celebrated (in some circles) for saying it led me to suspect that (most) modern thinkers are inferior.

It was clear to me that Camus was asking the same question, in a different (and inferior) form, that those who we call religious ask.  For them, the only important question is whether gods exist.  When we answer it, all our other questions become easier to answer.

If we answer that gods do exist, we also answer the question of why we exist. It's to serve them.  If we answer that gods do not exist, our own existence has no purpose. 

When I read that, as a child, it was clear to me that the religious were asking the same question, in a different (and inferior) form, that those who we call scientists ask.  For them, the only important question is why does anything exist.  Are we the reason why there is something rather than nothing?

When I read that, as a child, it was clear to me that scientists were asking the same question, in a different (and inferior) form, that we all ask as soon as we become self-aware: why do I exist?

In order to get the right answer, we must ask the right question.  But we keep asking the same question over and over again, as children do, each time in a different (though not necessarily better) form, because we don’t question our a priori assumptions, those questions we think we’ve already answered.  Thus we ensure that we get the same answer each time, in a different (though not necessarily better) form.  

We keep asking the same question over and over again because as much as we want to know the answer, we also fear knowing it.  What we call philosophy becomes what we call religion when we lose our courage and stop searching for the answer, tell ourselves we know it, and start searching instead for confirmation.

In the childhood of our race, when our earliest ancestors asked why we exist, they reasoned that gods – beings like us, but as superior to us as we are to other animals - must have created us to serve them, just we domesticated other lesser animals (and enslaved other lesser humans) to serve us.  Nietzsche erred when he said Christianity was a religion for slaves, because he was thinking only of Christianity.  Every religion we’ve created has been for slaves – and for masters, too, because they need plausible excuses as much as slaves do to reconcile them to the obvious injustice of slavery; and every society we’ve created has consisted of slaves and their masters, real and imaginary.  

 We created our gods so they could create us, just as we created our human masters because we were animals who could not or would not master ourselves.  Eventually we persuaded ourselves that our masters, both human and divine, do not regard us as merely their property.  They love us, as parents love their children.  Our human masters also persuaded themselves that they love us.  Deception and self-deception enable masters and slaves to live together without killing each other.  But just as our real parents are never as loving as the ones we imagine, so are our real masters never as masterful as the ones we imagine.   

Because they’re as human as we are, our masters are no more able or willing than we are to rule themselves.  They’re equally unable or unwilling to rule us, so eventually we lose patience with them.  But as long as we cannot or will not rule ourselves, we do not lose patience with those gods in whose name our human masters rule us.  We merely exchange one god, and/or one master, for another.

Whatever the form in which we imagine them, serving the gods has always been our answer to the question of why we exist.  But every god eventually fails us – or rather those who rule us in their name fail us – which raises the question not only of which god is our true god, but which of our human masters is that god’s true servant.

Namque pauci libertatem, pars magna iustos dominos volunt.

One Hundred and Seventy Three

The Buddha said life consists of suffering because we want to have things we can’t have, and want to avoid things we can’t avoid.   What do we want to have but can’t, and what do we want to avoid but can’t?

It’s conventional wisdom that what we used to call Nature is conservative.  Every thing at rest stays at rest, and every thing in motion stays in motion, unless and until it meets another thing. Every living thing wants to go on living.  What we want to have is immortality, and what we want to avoid is death.

If this is true—and everything that’s said must be true in some sense, or it couldn’t be said—in what sense is it true?

The world is always changing because it doesn’t consist of one thing, but many.  Our earliest teachers said it only seems to be many.  In reality all is one, and change is an illusion.  It used to be conventional wisdom that only the infinite and unchanging world we used to call Supernatural is real.  If this is true—and everything that’s said must be true in some sense—in what sense is it true?

If it’s true that all is one, and we are parts of a greater whole, it’s also true that we are separate and unique individuals.  There is not one truth, but many.  If there is one truth, infinite and unchanging, it’s not our truth, because we are many, finite and always changing.

Freud said whatever we think we want, sex is what we really want.  If this is true, it’s true in the sense that all living things want to go on living.  Our individual lives are brief, but the life of our species is long (at least in comparison), so we want to go on living through our children.

It seems everything we used to call civilization was created in pursuit of that kind of immortality - not, or not only, for our biological children, but for our species, our nation, or whatever greater whole we see ourselves as being part of.  But what we see is seldom great enough.  Therefore when we change that part of the whole which we call the world because it’s the only part we know, we change it in ways we cannot know.  We change ourselves as well.  Often we change both for the worse.

It seems the more we try to change the world and ourselves for the better, the worse both become.  We tried again and again to undo our mistakes and begin again, but always found we can’t go back, only forward.  Why, then, do we keep doing the same things again and again, knowing they’re the wrong things?  Is it because we don’t know what we’re doing?  Perhaps we do know, but don’t want to admit it.   

Freud said whatever we think we want, sex is what we really want.  He also said things we think we want to avoid are often things we really want, but think we can’t or shouldn’t have.  If this is true, in what sense is it true?

Near the end of his life Freud decided what we really want isn't sex, but death.  Most neoFreudians dismiss this as the delusion of an ailing failing mind, but it’s always made sense to me.  If we can’t live as we choose, we can at least choose to die.  

What we want is not just to die, but to die well; a death that concludes a life well lived.

We begin life full of hope, but most of us soon meet with things that distract and/or prevent us from doing what we want, and living the life we should.

 Throughout our history our teachers told us what we should do in order to live well.  But most of us can’t or won’t do what we know we should.  Not because we’re selfish, but because we’re unselfish. 

Most of us live for, and are ready to die for, things we think give meaning to our lives, but which in reality live on and through us as a parasite lives on and through its host.

All the gods we used to live for, and die for, are now either dead or dying.  We’re beginning to wake from the long dream we call history and see the world as it really is, not as we hope and/or fear it is.  How many of us can look at the world as it really is – or rather, what we’ve made of it – knowing what it could be and should be, without wanting to die of shame and disgust?

We’ve lost faith in our gods, who forgave us when we couldn’t forgive ourselves.  We’ve also lost faith in ourselves, and our ability to make the world a better place.  We know too much now, and too little.  All we want is to forget.

But it seems most of us want to suffer and do penance, to enter the purifying flames of the Apocalypse like sinful swimmers into cleanness leaping.  That's what they call a good death.  Whatever we think we want, death is what we really want.

One Hundred and Seventy Two

The last illusion is that love makes a difference.

I thought that in loving her, I could love all the others.  But I can’t, because there are no others.  We are all one, so I must love them all in order to love myself.  But I can’t, because they don’t love themselves.

I’d forgive them what they’ve done if I could, but I can’t.  They must forgive themselves.  But they can't, so they’re punishing themselves.  My punishment for not being able to help them is to watch them suffer without being able to help them.

I want to die, but I can’t.  I must endure my punishment while they endure theirs. 

One Hundred and Seventy One

Last Friday I finally did what I’ve wanted to do since I returned to the company.  After I gave my report at the weekly meeting, I said I was quitting. Then I walked out of the conference room and out of the building.

I was exhilarated at first, but by the time I got home I was having second thoughts.

I quit because I’d had enough.  Not only had I had enough of the company, but the previous day I’d checked my bank account and was surprised to see how much I’d saved while working there.  I‘d spent little of the money I was being paid, and was banking most of it, so obviously I didn’t need it. I had enough.

But although this was true now, what about later? What if I should have an unexpected expense?

So Monday morning I went in to work as usual.  But as I was telling Mark I’d changed my mind about quitting, he told me it was too late.  Don was too angry at me to allow me to come back.

Of course he was angry.  He’d asked me to come back after eight years and save the company, as he put it.  I worked there for a few months, then quit. 

I moped around for a few days, depressed by my stupidity, but finally decided I had done the right thing for me, if not for the company.  I was not the captain of this sinking ship.

This morning Bob telephoned to tell me George had died. 

The first day I returned to the company, Bob told me Rick was no longer with us.

“Most of the people I worked with eight years ago are no longer with the company”, I said.

“I mean he’s dead,” Bob said.  Then he showed me the file he’s keeping of former company employees who have died.  I thought it was an odd thing to do, but Bob is odd.  So are they all.

He said George had died of what the newspapers called unknown causes.  Lorna had kept his corpse in the house for a year until neighbors complained about the smell to the police. 

The newspapers referred to Lorna as George’s girlfriend, but I doubt their relationship was sexual.  Eight years ago everyone assumed Lorna was my girlfriend for no better reason other than she and I were the only unmarried members of the office staff.  We did date for a while because she expected it, and I didn’t want to be rude, but eventually she accepted that our relationship was going nowhere.  That's when she went after George.

When George and John were laid off, I worried what would happen to George, and was glad when he moved in with Lorna.  He needed someone to look after him as much as she needed, or thought she needed, a man.

Office staff at the company didn't fraternize with warehouse workers, so I gave Lorna credit for crossing the class barrier; and for perseverance, because it couldn’t have been easy talking to George.  He was retarded, so whenever I went back to the warehouse I always talked with John or Mark while George stood and listened. 

The day they were laid off, George and John both came to my office and said good-bye to me.  

“Why did they say good-bye to you, and not to any of us?” Susan asked me afterwards. 

“Did you ever go back to the warehouse and talk to them?” I asked.

“No, of course not,” she said.  

“I did.”  So did Lorna.

Lorna lived near me, and I used to see her out in the yard when I was taking my walks.  I knew she was living with George, but I never saw him.  She never invited me into the house, and he never came out.

When Don asked me to come back to the company, he told me to ask Lorna if she’d come back, too.  I said I would, and later I told him she wasn’t  interested.  In fact she had stopped talking to me by then.  I could see she was declining mentally, but she wasn’t my responsibility (and Linda was living with me at the time, so I had enough to cope with).

It’s not that odd people are drawn to me.  It’s that most people are odd.  Not only are they odder than we know. As Haldane said, they’re odder than we can know.

One Hundred and Seventy

But to say we’re more alike than we are different is, although not wrong, misleading.  Better to say we’re alike in being different, because everyone is unique. 

This seems paradoxical, which confirms it’s true.  The truth always seems paradoxical to fools, and we’re all foolish most of the time, pretending not to know what we know.

I’ve always asked myself why I stay alive, and usually answered it’s because I still want to understand.  The goal, said Marx, is not to understand the world, but to change it; but I've always known that in order to change the world, one must understand it - know both what it is, and what it could be; and understand ourselves as well - know what we can do to change it.  I’ve always known that I can do nothing alone, and I’ve always known I am alone; but I’ve never allowed myself to put these two facts together and draw the logical conclusion.

One Hundred and Sixty Nine

There’s no one and nothing left to live for.  We could go on living, and hoping we'll do better; but time and time again we’ve chosen to do worse.  And now our time is running out.  Even if we did miraculously change now, and did do better, it’s too late.

Is this true of us, or of me only?  I can’t separate myself from them. 

The last mystery of identity: they and I differ in that they imagine they and I are different, while I know we’re more alike than we are different. 

They imagine they can separate themselves from others, and save themselves by leaving the others behind.  I know I can’t because I never wanted to.  Until now.  And now that I wish I could, it’s too late to deceive myself, as they do. 

O wad some Power the giftie gie us, to deceive oursels as ithers deceive us!

One Hundred and Sixty Eight

I listened to Philip Glass’ Akhnaten on YouTube today.  I would have liked to have seen it performed, but it hasn’t been performed often enough to have been videotaped. 

People who walk out of a Glass performance obviously came knowing little or nothing about him.  One must come prepared to experience his music (one doesn’t enjoy Glass' music; one experiences it) because he doesn’t seek to entertain, to create a fantasy in which the audience can suspend their disbelief for an hour or two before returning to the real world.  He attempts to depict that aspect of the real world which most people most prefer to forget: what we called eternity, when we still understood that change is an illusion. 

Those who accuse Glass of being limited because there’s no progress, no development, in his music are missing the point.  His music is limited because Glass is a composer of and for our times, and we no longer believe in progress. That illusion has been dispelled, because the more we tried to change the more we remained the same - although most people don’t seem to know it, or don’t want to know it. 

Everyone’s accepted - most of us with resignation, but some with glee - that history is dead, and there's no alternative to the existing social order. Change is an illusion. They've heard that god is also dead, but for some reason many refuse to accept it.  Those who still create narratives with a beginning, a middle and an end do it for them.  The rest of us know there is no story - or if there is, it isn’t about us and our fantasies.  We come into the story, if that's what it is, in media res, play our part and leave with nothing resolved. 

Those who claim Glass is religious because gods figure so often in his narratives ignore the fact that those gods are museum artifacts or objects d’art for the discerning cultural tourist.  Glass is an antiquarian, and his minimalist music is a dead end, the aural equivalent of Beckett’s prose.