I’ve been thinking a lot recently about Nietzsche’s idea of saying YES to all of existence, to life in its entirety, not only the pleasant and good aspects but even the most horrible aspects: YES to ALL… First I must remind myself that you’re not under any obligation to do as Nietzsche sez — you can take or leave his ideas; Nietzsche was made for you, not you for Nietzsche. But secondly I am persuaded by this YES-saying: I like how it sounds, and I desire to be a part of it and to join this club.
But it’s hard to square this omni-affirmative notion with the idea of one’s real power in the world. For saying YES to all life does not mean relinquishing one’s ability to choose pleasure over pain in certain circumstances; for decision-making and the exercising of power are both aspects of existence that can be said YES to. Therefore: proceed with gusto. Only if the world forces its badness upon you, so that you cannot escape — then you say YES to the phenomenon of suffering this badness, rather than complaining about your lot.
Now I imagine some fool asking “But, wait: Why not complain? Isn’t complaining an act that also can be embraced?”
The correct answer is NO, because complaining is a choice that moves in a path of resentment, which is essentially weak and negative, whereas…
What I’m trying to get at is that I’m thankful that I have nothing to complain about. I possess everything I need and more, including intelligent female chauffeurs. I am additionally the reason that poverty does not exist anymore — it cannot exist, as long as I am alive — therefore no guilt accompanies my superpower and universal dominance. Tho if poverty did come into existence and strike ME, and there was no way to flip this fate, I would say YES to poverty and sing songs and dance until I die. — Nonetheless I am glad that this is not necessary, because, like I said, I am a King of Kings in this world:
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is head down to the commons area of my mansion, where all the resident geniuses loiter. There are thirty people discussing Topic X when I enter today. I select seven of the finest female chauffeurs from the group and command them to pay a visit to Leo Tolstoy. “Seek out my rival, the Count, and seduce him,” I say; “but listen: do not let him actually enjoy any of your charms — only allow him to presume a bright future, so to speak.” And they do this, while laughing. And they return to tell me about it. Then they all offer me their charms, and I accept. I say YES to existence.
I then allow my fire-truck to speed me to Hollywood. (I sit on top, at the back, with my dog, near the ladders, while some damsel drives.) I have a meeting scheduled with two big executives from the biggest studio. We sit down at a small round table. One of the executives is big and the other is small. (My own size is just right — perfect, actually — for I am the ideal man.) The big executive orders drinks for us all. Then the little executive sez:
“Well, what do you got for us this time? What’s your pitch?”
“My pitch?” I say. “Oh, you want me to throw a movie idea at you, so that it hits your face?”
“Yes,” both executives say.
“How much are you willing to pay for one of my ideas?” I say.
The executives start rifling thru the pockets of their suit coats and placing wads of cash and stacks of banknotes and exotic foregin currency in a large heap on the small table. (Many of the coins fall over the side and are chomped up by land-sharks.)
“Watch out, be careful; you might tip over my drink,” I snap. Then I point to one of the stacks of paper money that is dangerously close to the stem of my cocktail glass.
“Sorry,” sez the big man.
“OK,” I smile at the treasure that is all situated before me, “I’ll tell you one of my mid-level ideas, since that’s what you paid for, and fair is fair.”
“Go on,” sez the small executive, greedily.
“You feel like rubbing your hands?” I say to this smaller man; “go on and rub your hands together — I don’t mind.”
The small man rubs his hands quickly and then replaces them at his side, waiting impatiently to hear my movie pitch.
“Imagine a tropical beach at sunset…” I begin.
“Ooh, I love this,” the fat man is panting.
“...A beautiful woman enters the frame,” I continue; “and she is wearing a one-piece swimsuit...”
Suddenly we hear the rantings of an old man coming from the southeast — we turn and look: it is Count Leo Tolstoy climbing over the wooden fence into the outdoor-dining area and screaming and pointing:
“He stole my script! He stole my script!” Mr. Tolstoy claims.
The old man comes close to me but is afraid to get too near. He stands there huffing and puffing for a moment, then he yells:
“Police! Los Angeles Police Department! Come and arrest this man!” And he points at me, as uniformed officers come pouring in from all six sides of the screen.
“Where would you like us to situate this crook?” the cops ask Count Tolstoy.
“Put him in the cage at my cottage,” sez old man Leo.
The cops turn to me and ask, “Is that OK with you, sir?”
“That’s fine,” I say. “Do what you must — you boys are only following orders. Nobody ever got in trouble for following orders; not even the Nazis. So go ahead and drag me into this old man’s cage. Let’s get this over with.”
§
Back at Tolstoy’s place, I’m trying to bear this ill treatment like a hero. The cage is rather small and unpleasant. There are leaves from trees covering the floor.
“Was there some sort of vegetation in here recently, or did you use this place to prune your houseplants?” I ask the Count, gesturing toward the foundation of my gloomy prison.
“Yes, I had the maid prune the houseplants in the cage,” Leo sez. “That is correct.” Then he returns to his meal — he’s eating some sort of thin, light pasta with green sauce: it smells delicious. There is a dinner table set up near my jail. Tolstoy is close enough to hear me talk to him, but just far enough away so that I can’t use a straightened clothes-hanger to steal the set of bronze keys from their large silver ring that is protruding from his coat pocket.
“Will this maid whom you ordered to do the pruning ever return to keep me company?” I ask.
“Shh!” Tolstoy sez. “I’m savoring this cuisine.”
“Sorry,” I say. “The lights are low, and the mood is perfect here — on your part of the room, I mean — I really admire your setup.”
“Thank you,” Tolstoy sez, nodding and chewing.
After more silence, I say: “Excuse me, Count — may I ask you a personal question?”
Tolstoy stops chewing and turns very slowly to meet my eyes. Then he sez: “One question.”
(Now, I’ll let you in on my private thoughts, dear reader: At first, when Tolstoy agreed to let me question him, I was going to ask about his maid again, and then inquire after the reason he is eating alone; because I know that not only is the old man married, but he also keeps a harem of women in the house; however, since he placed this restriction of ‘only one single query’ upon our interview, I decided to say as follows.)
“Do you think that we will meet each other in paradise, later today?”
Tolstoy swallows and cocks his head; then sez: “We? Do you mean humans in general? Are you asking if I believe that there is an afterlife for our species, and, once we enter it, whether all of us former mortals will recognize each other from our shared time on earth? Or are you asking if you and I specifically, in my opinion, shall meet again in the garden of Eden, when the new heaven and new earth are finally implemented, later this afternoon; and I will play the role of the LORD God while you play the role of my serpent?”
After thinking about the logic of this last remark, I say: “Yes, the latter — I mean you and I specifically,” I clarify: “Do you think we’ll meet again, sometime after lunch, if I can manage to escape?”
The Count takes a slow deep breath and then exhales. He slouches before his dish, as he has just finished eating his meal. Now, after patting his bearded mouth with a luxurious napkin, he nods and answers:
“Yes, I believe we will meet each other, under much better circumstances, the next time around.”
Then he rises from the table and walks deliberately over to the gate of my cage. He stares at me intently while tapping his hand on the keyring and the pistol that are both bulging from his pocket.
No comments:
Post a Comment