Dear diary,
What if every book began at the beginning; what if every book explained how the world got started? Would we say that all these books are lies except one, which gives the true account? What if twenty people witness a crime, and then you go around and collect their testimonies: Wouldn’t they all be slightly different? But also they would agree on certain points. And then, what if you did have a lying witness or two? And why care about the truth?
I find something desirable about a true account, in of itself; I don’t know why I’m fascinated by accuracy. Maybe it’s because it makes me feel less alone. For truth is the shared part of our reality: it’s the aspect that none of us can change.
Then lies are attractive because they give us the illusion that we can indeed change this shared reality. And there’s something true about a lie: it was imagined by someone, it was dreamt up by someone – the imagining, the dreaming, really did take place. So, a lie is the true occurrence of an unshared reality.
Truth and lies have this in common: neither can be experienced directly; both must be conveyed through language and reimagined. What phenomenon cannot be reimagined? (And what rarity cannot be imagined in the first place?)
I notice that I’ve said “Truth” in the singular, and “lies” plural. This reminds me of monotheism: God versus gods. When your ancestors die, they become divinities. So, which foreparent became the One True God? Some lucky precursor manifests the Chief Deity. (Or is this unlucky?) But it doesn’t sound right to say that the highest God is Moses as remembered by his survivors. Also, what if there really were gods, at some point, on earth (as opposed to just in the heavens)? Or a lone, exclusive Owner of the Planet, who actually occupied his possession? What did these earthly entities all become, after they died? Some might say: gods cannot die. OK, then I mean: What became of their memory, when they left us? For any gods that are not part of us seem to have left us. And if they were still here, would we not see them? Then again, maybe they are hiding. Wealthy people love the shadows.
§
You see a stray dog across the street, while you’re out on a walk, and you return home and tell your friends that you saw a fierce lion charging through the jungle.
§
It scares me to think of all those soldiers who fought for all their various countries in times past. You love your country, so you fight for it and die. But how do you know that your country is better than the country that you are fighting? The answer is easy: the enemy country is worse because, if you lose the war, its people will enslave you. – But what if you could become a citizen of that country, instead of being taken captive and forced to labor? Then it would depend on how well that country treats its citizens, to know whether the place is worth fighting for. So, all countries should be trying to treat their workforce the best: each country should boast that she treats her laborers better than any other country.
I focus on workers because the necessities that sustain life require labor: crops need to be planted or gathered, animals tended or hunted, for food; and somehow people need to obtain clothing and shelter. If one country is known to give better treatment to the labor force that meets these basic needs, then all the workers of the world will want to become citizens of that place.
But I’m not considering cultural concerns: for instance, if the price of better treatment as a worker is that one must speak a foreign language, then one might prefer to stay in a country that treats one worse, for the ease of keeping one’s native tongue. People will endure great hardship to avoid learning anything new.
If your father is a drunk who beats you and berates you . . .
Instead of continuing that sentence and making any type of point, let us just sit with the thought of a father who is a drunk and who beats and berates one. It’s such an interesting idea.
§
If you say: “God should not have removed the kingdom from Saul,” the priests say: “Who are you to question God?” We are supposed to assume that this one God we have is the best of all possible deities, and that the decisions he makes are invariably correct. Then, when you read history to see the results of God’s decisions, if you say: “It doesn’t seem like God achieved the best outcome,” the priests answer: “All other outcomes were even worse than that.” What can be done about these priests? Their advice is that we should simply obey every word they say.
Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation.
—the Apostle Paul (Romans 13:1-2)
Say that, with utmost compassion, lovingkindness and gentleness, you commandeer the highest powers. Your successfully doing so constitutes God’s approval of your act. For there is no power but of God. And the priests will back you, for they cannot do otherwise.
The instant I write this, however, I revoke it: For the same reasoning could be employed to justify any action, however ugly. But let the statement stand to illuminate the Apostle’s imbecility.
§
Some of what we call myths are compacted histories. They were invented in ancient times because it was easier to remember a fantastic story than a string of prosaic facts about reality. But now that we are in the age of electronic data storage, shouldn’t we decode and unpack all these myths? I suppose people have begun to do so already. But part of the reason I ask is to question the desirability of such an unpacking. For the moment I think of an anthology called, say, The Official Meanings of All Myths, my immediate reaction is to remark: “I’d rather hear the original tales.” I prefer the wild romance, despite knowing that it did not happen just so. And yet I also welcome the creation of the above anthology. Although my first love is fantasy, I do enjoy the boring truth. But best of all is the mixture of one with the other.
Do opposites attract? I thrill to the notion of enemies falling in love. Not Romeo and Juliet becoming lovers despite their families’ feud; I mean the enemies themselves embracing. And not in the sense of two warring parties setting aside their differences to join in alliance against an additional adversary, but rather a pair of sworn foemen becoming infatuated with each other and thus transcending their animosity. Lady Capulet bedding Lady Montague. God setting aside his various qualms and compunctions to renew his vows with Satan.
§
Throughout my lifetime, I have witnessed a vast ongoing campaign against cigarettes. When I was a very young schoolchild, I was told constantly by different authorities that cigarettes are bad for my health. From what I can gather, the reason for this is not that tobacco is inherently poisonous, but rather that the way the crop is processed – with the spraying of pesticides, and other chemicals being added – corrupts its nature. But here is a point that I wish to stress: Nowadays, the same corrupting process has been applied to all the food that we consume. So my question is: Since even the healthiest of us are now sure to suffer from vicious cancers anyway, can we at least start smoking cigarettes again?
No comments:
Post a Comment