To write because you are convinced that
you are correct is to be a polemicist; to write because you are convinced that
you are alive is to be an artist. It is not always a matter of choice, but when
it is the second is always the preferable of the two alternatives.
To be cut off from history is a
damnation, a curse. "Those who do not read history are condemned to repeat
it." In the individual or in the nation the attempt to radicalize
existence at a single stroke, to make a clean break with the past, to distort
history, to rewrite it or to dismiss it, is at once doomed and pathologic. It
is a law of our mortality, as inexorable of our spirits as are the laws of
physics of our flesh: severed from our antecedents, we are severed from
ourselves. If we cannot reclaim our actual past how can we assert even the
barest approximation of a certainty to which we might cling in the face of the
violent doubts of our present? Action and uncertainty are at root antithetical.
Having grown skeptical as an article of faith, cautious as an expression of
imprudent skepticism, timorous as a consequence of too rigorous a caution, we
condemn ourselves to eternal inaction, hell's passive aspect. We tangle our
speech in our qualifications, create a chaos of conditionals. Thus, in our age
every voice is a voice crying in the wilderness, every proposition a
proposition hurled into the general din. We have deafened ourselves and in our
deafness have created a true democracy of comment.
The ultimate function of education
is spiritual. It is the task, the duty, of education to dismay the
temporal. The world, however, labors under the delusion that the function of
education lies in extending our conquest of matter. A Promethean error.
"My intentions," she said,
loosening the button at her throat, "should be perfectly ovulous."
If I could believe, really believe, in
our mere physicality, I could survive this age. If I could believe, really
believe, that these several certainties that hound me are prejudices merely,
superstitions educated into me, it is possible that I could come to easy terms
with myself.
To have a child raises the complexity
of one's fate to the level of a quadratic equation, cubes the unknown factor in
the subtle formulations that one's energies are directed toward balancing; it
represents the shift from the Newtonian to the Einsteinian universe, projected,
of course, onto the prosaic realities of looking for a
house with a third bedroom, scouring the papers for a good buy on a used crib,
sleeping with a once-flat-bellied woman now grown incomprehensibly round and in
constant uncomplaining discomfort, looking in polite bewilderment at the shower
gifts. Such things shake one. That particular morning arrives: one awakes as usual,
except that this morning that last delicious fragment of the early morning
dream which up to now had never --- repeat, never --- dissolved
until very late in the afternoon (and even then with still
the slightest fragrant residue remaining to imperceptibly cloud the rest of the
day's shocks and insanities until the precious moment when the day's end and
the day's beginning come full circle) that last delicious fragment is on this
morning immediately and completely gone and one recognizes one's position at
the leading edge of the hurricane. It is an indication of God's infinite mercy
that courage at such moments is no longer a matter of choice, that it becomes
rather an instinctually guaranteed response.
The virtues peculiar to sleeplessness
constitute a formidable repertory of counterclaims to the more common
lacerations of the diurnal brain. Not discounting the value that accrues for
thought from persistent application to the specters that surround us in our
waking hours, we are compelled in all honesty to reserve a higher
value for the phantasmagoria --- ghosts of a
vanished metaphysics, spirits of an undreamable future --- that belong in
their exclusive solitariness exclusively to sleeplessness:
all lucidity is a form of insomnia.
I cannot name the exact date and time
at which I began to seek the sources of my sanity, but I suppose that it was
sometime after I reached my twenty-third birthday. Up to that point I had been
too busy pursuing the female of the species to devote myself or my energies to
larger issues. Somewhere in my unconscious, of course, lurked the suspicion
that the world was mad (in my youth I had read Arnold and Eliot avidly) but
that its madness would ever become a matter of great personal concern did not
occur to me. I comfort myself by reflecting that in this I am not unique.
Less advanced cultures, by virtue of
their burdensome retardation, are spared our particular problems. In a
primitive society, life moves in a more natural round. Survival is the single
law, and under its iron heel those lacerations of the soul that are the
luxuries of civilization are ground out. Advanced civilizations are
self-conscious civilizations. This is not to imply that the level of
consciousness is generally any higher in such civilizations than in those less
advanced, for in truth it often is not. For most beneficiaries of civilization,
life retains its essentially dreamlike character; lucidity is not highly
prized, and hence lucidity is rarely achieved. The vast majority of our pursuits,
collective and individual, are vain, a chasing after wind. Who today will say
that the purpose of his life, its driving force, is an irresistible desire to
experience the beatific vision?
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