The Absolute, page 21
At the end of the trip he’s abandoned in a cell. The surroundings distract him. Faraway dunes shifting in the wind, palm trees. If what he sees through the barred window isn’t a curtain painted with the deliberate aim to confuse him, then it’s possible he finds himself in a penal institution, one of those in the lost provinces of the vast colonies still maintained by empire. Nobody visits him, nobody bothers him; once a day he receives a bowl with a concoction that upsets his stomach as soon as he drinks it. The days are suffocating, the nights freezing. Fleeting stars dart across a transparent sky. Esau looks at them, or doesn’t. Most of the time he remains lying on his pallet. He closes his eyes and thinks, or sleeps, or listens to the murmurs outside. His attention is drawn by a dissonant music, a song or lamentation that comes from a nearby cell or fortress. At first it seems to be a mere slur of syllables and vocals, joined by whim; then he discovers it’s the sentence that determines the cadence, not vice versa. From there it’s just a step to learning the system’s rudiments, the syllables’ principles; in due course, the low- and high-pitched tones also begin to add fragments of meaning. The music is always identical and repeats over the hours, with the emphasis of grief. By sharpening his hearing, he discovers that what sounds like a lament of love is really the intonation of a political speech, and also understands there isn’t one singer but two, the dominating voice and the dominated, like the snake and the branch on which it rests. In this bond, the dominant voice proposes that submission to the regime is the only happiness possible. The second voice, less firm, slipping its tremulous harmony into the silences left by the other, can propose only shy objections, which are rhythmically dismantled by the first. It’s obvious there is an agreement between the first and second voice; beneath the appearance of contrast, the second utters only phrases the first can refute, suggesting all opposition derives from a feeble understanding of the reasons presented by the dominant voice.
Esau understands that the music encodes his current position: his captors, whoever they are, want to enlighten him about what’s happened. If they’ve taken the trouble to keep him alive until now, when it would have been so easy to shoot him and toss the corpse in a well, it’s because they’ve decided to use him as a dialectical representative in a cycle where his assassination attempt is read as a negative moment within an overall process aimed at strengthening the regime. (Instrumental Anatomy of Political Praxis predicts this and other contingencies.)
Clearly my grandfather doesn’t know the language well enough to be sure his interpretation is the correct one. But it’s intellectually possible to establish this relation and—even more stimulating for him—think of reversing it. His task would thus become to write lyrics and translate them so they could be sung in that language. His song would reveal the truths hidden by the official model. And with luck, if he finds the appropriate channels of diffusion, it will produce the understanding necessary in listeners so they apply themselves to transforming the world. The only problem is: how to find an acolyte, or better yet a translator, and after that musicians and singers, from a solitary confinement cell?
2
The director of the prison enters, greets Esau and says:
“I imagine you’ll have found everything as comfortable as can be under the present circumstances, and that being shut away in isolation has helped you discover that true happiness is to be savored in life’s little things. A ray of sun filtering through a tiny window, a cool dawn, the gentle way the hours slip by when one is lucky enough to do nothing. They can say what they want, but you yourself are an example we live in the best of all possible worlds. When have you ever seen a crime punished with a privilege? You should be grateful for the treatment being given to you. Look at those shiny cheeks of yours! You’d see them if you had a mirror. But let me just say that you now have the rested look of someone no longer pestered by everyday problems, the same happy look as a grandmother who’s just knitted a blanket for her grandchild. You can’t imagine your face when you arrived! An anxious fanatic, warped by the need to understand, consumed by hate. Have you reflected on all this? Is the peace that enlivens your expression a consequence of meditation and repentance? I still don’t know, and I’ve dedicated myself to observing you. I have an infinite number of ways to do so. I’ve lost sleep following every variation on the map of your face. You could say I’ve transformed into a specialist in the topography of your soul, if a prisoner’s mug can be taken as a faithful mirror, the expression of his sensibility. Let’s suppose it can be. Are you cozy here? Is your pillow fluffy? Are you eating well? You may wonder why I take so much trouble over a simple inmate. There are two reasons. The first is of a personal order: I consider myself to be a charitable being. The second, of a professional order, is that I’m responsible for your education. My task is to make you a new man. And to do so I must accompany you in the revision of your past behaviors. In this sense, we must begin with an analysis of your failed attempt on the archduke. You will agree with me that your action resulted from a gross error of perspective, which was to take for granted that individuals are the actors of history. No? You don’t think so? What a shame. Well then, patience. Let’s go back to the start. The attempt. You thought by assassinating the archduke you could . . . you would achieve . . . But the reality, my dear guest, is that society produces archdukes all the time. If the social order were the equivalent of a game of skittles in which every archduke represents an individual pin, and your bomb had been devastatingly efficient, a ball able to knock down all the pins (archdukes) with a single bowl, then what’s certain is that immediately the pinboy—the system insofar as system—would have put back the very same pins (archdukes) or, failing this, other identical ones to replace them. Do you think that every individual is unique and inimitable? This is true when applied to the cosmos of the romantic sensibility. I myself, who consider my being exceptional—and don’t ask why, as it’d take hours, months, to give you just the barest introduction to the marvels I contain—I myself, at least in theory, am replaceable. Isn’t there a horror in that? Yet it’s the way of things. Every human being is at once an unexplored universe and a worthless heap of dross. Obviously you could argue that your terrorist activity doesn’t operate solely through actions (a shot fired that changes everything) but also takes place in the universe of signs. The message of the archduke’s death would thus have been: ‘Everything that exists succumbs; even Power collapses.’ An instructive demonstration aimed at the masses, one might say. But allow me two observations here, whose relevance won’t escape your perceptive nature. First observation: if the attempt on the archduke was an effort to demonstrate the necessarily bloody character of a libertarian alternative—‘The flowers of the revolution are watered with the blood of oppressors’—then in principle you’ll admit that this attempt was a failure, since no one—except us, the servants of the State who worked to prevent it—found out about the matter. The archduke himself remains unaware he was about to be hit by a bullet. And this is because: a) the archduke has more important things to worry about, and it wouldn’t help the performance of his functions in any way should part of his attention be occupied with speculating about delicate questions regarding survival; b) as I’ve told you before, at an individual scale the archduke is no more than a puppet, a sluggish bass string, a mere pawn in the greater game of politics. So why on earth should we take the trouble to warn him about nothing? Better to let him keep strutting about, here and there. Now let’s pass to the second observation: Power. The topic of Power. Let’s imagine a successful attempt: one where the archduke and his archducal carriage filled with children, fleas, shields, banners, wife, diplomas, wigs, powder compacts and lapdogs go flying through the air. What would have happened? What real transformation would have followed? Let’s even pretend that the pinboy dies and there are no more archdukes. Then what? The State passes into criminal hands, and from a situation of opposition you move into a role of Power . . . Don’t you think that at this very moment, or after a few months, a new terrorist would appear trying to eliminate you, to take your place in turn, and so on per saecula saeculorum . . . ?”
“But . . .” says Esau.
“Don’t interrupt. I haven’t given you permission to speak! In our respective positions, I’m the one assigned to ease you of the burden of trusting in the importance of the pronounced word. I hope that one day you thank me for the favor. People think that just because they speak, they utter some truth. And this is false, if you’ll allow me the syllogism. What was I saying? Ah. You thought that if the archduke died as a result of your actions, the revolution . . . But why create the revolution, a revolution, any revolution? What for? Pascal’s argument is perfect, applied to the knowledge of divinity and personal salvation. God as target practice. If he exists and we believe in him, we’ll hit the bull’s-eye of faith and get it right until kingdom come. Eternity is the best investment on the stock exchange. And if God doesn’t exist, well, we made the effort to believe and didn’t lose anything that wasn’t already lost. But this argument is completely fallacious as applied to earthly subjects. Before I go on with my reasoning: a friend claims the best proof of God’s nonexistence is faith. If He existed, then belief wouldn’t be necessary: we’d have evidence of His being. In the same way, the best proof a revolution doesn’t exist is the hope it will at some point finally happen. Let’s go on now. But first . . . is it clear to you that my previous comments have been made in a personal capacity, and that in my role as a public servant of the State, I am a firm defender of Revealed Truths? In this sense, I stand by Spinoza and his Ethics: ‘We must love God without expecting anything in return.’ (How curious a mathematician came up with a formula not based on calculation!) Naturally, in our respective situations, you are in the place of ‘we must’ and I in that of ‘God.’ And yet look how things are: I show up to this cell in person to offer you my complete affection, my total protection. And in return I ask for nothing. Yes, nothing. Let’s be honest, what could I expect of you? How free you must feel now, enlightened by my words. You, who thought yourself capable of everything, discover your boundless nullity; nothingness opens all paths, although that doesn’t mean when I leave I’ll forget to shut the cell door. Well. Let’s continue. Where were we? The revolution. The revolution, which is the adult version of the children’s tale of earthly paradise, promises an absolute change in the usual parameters. Transformation of the world, alteration of experience, happiness, vital plenitude. Do you believe in this stuff? Do you really believe in it? And yet it’s false, my dear friend, all of it is false! A hoax stubbornly defended by weak minds that presume to be educated, to cultivate the ideas in fashion. (Could someone tell me why the blazes thought should be made contemporary? When and how does thought grow out of date, such that it must be ‘modernized’?) If I may say so . . . You, and people like you, don’t have the slightest idea of the damage that you do with all this secular preaching about revolution. On this point, I take off my hat to the clergymen, who strive Sunday after Sunday to spread the consolations of the otherworldly tale from their pulpits, no doubt the only happiness within reach for popular consumption. Imagine for a moment the triumphal realization of this ‘revolutionary change’! What would happen with these domesticated, brainless, undernourished masses if today they all at once found their every demand satisfied, even beyond their own expectations? Look at them. Look at the restless flock. Its name is Legion; now it has nothing to desire, nothing to dream, nothing to protest. What would happen? Can you tell me? No. Obviously. You are silent. Paradoxically, your egalitarian spirit has begun to suspect that in silence you might tap into some principle of superiority. You think so, but it’s not true. You’re silent, first of all, because I told you not to speak, and second of all, because you’ve been defeated. To speak would imply a recognition of the truth and a verdict of the facts. What would happen if those in the herd were submitted to the terrible experience of seeing their longings materialize? Tell me that! I’ll say it: as an effect of the sudden increase in the capacity for discernment, they’d surrender to anguish and atheism, the requirement for pure intelligence and also the condition for subsequent unhappiness. To be intelligent is to be unhappy, my dear inmate, and I know what I’m talking about, because I am the most wretched of men. Is this what you want? To transform the world as we see it today into a world of unhappy people? Is that your revolutionary change? Mamma mia! Why such perversity? Don’t answer me. Don’t say a thing. I’ll leave you. I think that’s enough. I’ll go. For now. I hope you stay here thinking about our little conversation. Goodbye. But what’s wrong? Eh? What’s wrong? On your face I see an expression of doubt, reserve, even disgust. It makes me think of the look of someone at an evening gala where everything should smell of roses who suddenly gets a whiff of an unexpectedly vulgar sabotage, an inappropriate scent. Let’s get to the point. You’re silent—you resist. You imagine, aware as you are of our respective positions, that you’re not in objective conditions to formulate scruples, intervene in a decisive manner, short-circuit my speech with an objection whose current blazes through what you judge to be the error or falsity of my words. But I’d invert the matter a little. Regardless of the role I perform in this penal institution, a fundamental brace in the scaffolding of the State, do you think what I say is less true because I say it? Do you assume that truths are relative to the power or lack of power seemingly granted to the individuals who pronounce them? Now, yes, I will leave you. I must go to the last turret, into the raw open air, where I’ll feed the pigeons. I’ll fill my hands with kernels of corn, and let them perch on my shoulders, eat and defecate on me. You should mull this over. But what is it? Say once and for all what you want to say! Speak, or at least make explicit the meaning of your silence! I know already. I talk about ‘meaning’ and ‘explicit,’ and you translate: ‘truth.’ You think that although I’m asking you to spread truth among us, what I’m really proposing is for us to agree on the convenience of spreading lies over the planet. Is that true? Yes, it’s true, if we attribute to these words the value of the revelation of a hidden content, as in your case, and not, as in mine, the value of the preservation of already existing values. I, my dear friend—have I already mentioned it?—believe that things are good the way they are, and that a little deceit—a lie, if you like; a cooing, a consolation—harms no one. Think, for instance, of women. I don’t mean right now. Soon you’ll have hours and hours to think of them. With luck, in a few months you’ll be able to think about nothing but what you’ve been deprived of. Women. You, surely, are one of those gentleman of the view that one must always tell the truth to women, whether they ask for it or not. For someone like you, a man who cheats on a woman is no longer a man, but a scoundrel. Very well. Let me first tell you what distinguishes a gentleman from a scoundrel, then we’ll analyze the behavior that best conforms to moral principles. In my opinion, a gentleman is one who, having deceived himself regarding his own conditions, wraps a woman in veils of promise, marries her and accomplishes the mutual ruin of both their lives. A scoundrel, in contrast, has judged his options from the start, coldly and rationally, and foreseeing the results of his behavior, administers his assets like an expert, with the objective that the resulting disappointment—a disappointment inherent in every human doing—will at least bring forth some positive consequence. A scoundrel anticipates with melancholy precision the time of the end of illusions, manipulates the course of events and adapts himself to existing possibilities. The most consummate example of scoundrels I know are the procurers, also known as pimps. The feats of engineering that these martyrs of realism display are to be admired! With the most refined sophistries, they capture the wills of unsuspecting young women who come from the lowest strata of society, and are thus condemned to trudge along the same furrow of matrimonial exploitation, malnourished children and botched abortions already plodded by their mothers. And what do the scoundrels do to ‘deceive’ them? Instead of a future of relentless misery, they offer them everything! And the best of it is that they fulfill the promises, in their way! Their deceptions complete, they settle these creatures into luxurious brothels, to be educated in the arts of love and seduction; introduced to people of varied customs, cultures and social strata; taught languages; and, in short, made women of the world. And at what cost? In exchange for the surrender of that little thing, that glistening rosy nothing that slashes their inner thighs, and thanks to the generosity of their procurers, these women, after a few years leading a life of entertainment, now in full knowledge of the riches of life and in the prime of their age and learning, can retire to enjoy their income. What can you propose that resembles this in any way? What does the revolution have to offer, compared to the model of cooperative feeling, spiritual progress and administrative wisdom offered by the procurers? I’d even say that for me the brothel represents the ideal of social functioning, and don’t hesitate to recommend to all the second-rate political theorists who bandy about outmoded pipe dreams that they study it with great care. You will say, repeating my words: the girls have been deceived. Or that even if they take home half the profits, as is often the case, they remain the victims of an initial deception. From the factual point of view, this is true. But so what? Isn’t it also true that they receive far more than what they imagined as compensation? To put it another way, doesn’t it offer them precisely the dose of fantasy and martyrdom to which every female aspires, by legitimate right? Isn’t this to give a woman more than she longs for, more than she’d dare request, touching the central point of her desire? What husband could hope to offer such a gift? Leaving out the absolutely secular nature of the matter, and this is the last thing I’ll say to you for the moment, in my eyes these procurers are the contemporary version of saints.”
