Authors: Lars Iyer
The
don-watch
, that’s what he calls his late-night vigils, Wittgenstein says. When he can’t sleep, he sits by the window, he says, and peers out into the gloom. There are dons out there, he tells himself. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them! There are dons in the gloom, near and far. Flocks of dons!
Shoals
of dons! Where one banks, the others bank. Where one careens, the others careen. Sometimes, they all fly up at once—a comet, a maelstrom, a boiling mass—and their wings hide the skies …
Yes, there is a real splendour to dons
en regalia
, he says. A real beauty to dons in their full plumage. The dons, with their chests puffed out … The dons, with their erect carriage … The dons, in their hierarchies, which are intelligible to no one … The dons, carrying out their ceremonial duties, which not even they understand …
The dons have a kind of
pack
intelligence, he says. A
hive
intelligence; they think in unison. Sometimes, he’s even suspected that the dons are
telepathically connected
, so similar do they seem to him in manner and in thought.
The dons are always ready to pounce, he says. Always ready with their greetings.
Hello
, they say.
Nice weather we’re having
, they say.
How are you?
, they say.
How are you getting on?
, they say.
What have you been up to?
, they say. Each time: an assault. Each time: a truncheon over the head.
Hello. Nice day. Hello. Hello
.
And the philosopher-dons are worst of all!, he cries.
The dons of ethics—the least
virtuous
of all. The dons of logic—the least
reasonable
of all. The dons of epistemology—the least
knowledgeable
of all. The dons of metaphysics—the least
profound
of all. The dons of aesthetics—the least
cultured
of all …
The dons of philosophy: academic-output manufacturers! Impact-seekers! Grant-chasers! Citation-trufflers! Self-googlers! Web-profile updaters! Facebook posters! Tweedy voids!
Do the dons know about his
Logik
?, he wonders. Have any of us told them?
No, we assure him. None of us has told them.
Do the dons know about him, about what he is teaching?
No, we tell him. We have kept our mouths shut.
What would the dons do if they knew?, he whispers.
The
Logik
will solve all the fundamental problems of philosophy, he says.
The
Logik
will soar above the philosophical storms. It will catch fire by itself. It will burn with its own flame, like a star.
The
Logik
will know everything, he says. It will have seen everything in advance. The
Logik
will be lucidity itself. Daylight itself.
The
Logik
will bring
peace
, he says. Logical peace.
Snow scenes, as in Brueghel. Students making snowmen. Students throwing snowballs at one another.
Benwell, in the thick of it, throwing snowballs packed with stones.
Ede and I, at a safe distance.
Why does Benwell scowl so?, we wonder. And what’s it like to be in a
bad temper
day and night?
Benwell would throw his stone-balls at us, if we were in range. Benwell would curse and cry and spit at us …
In the old days, Benwell would have been a communist, or something, we agree. He’d have been selling socialist papers in the rain, or getting you to sign a petition. He’d have been manning the
Free Palestine
stand. Even a few years ago, he’d have been among the occupiers in the Old Buildings, shuffling around in dirty pyjamas …
Ede remembers field days on Chobham Common, he and his fellows forming up and crawling through the heather, reenacting the great battles of history. Schoolboy-Agincourt. Schoolboy-Waterloo. The schoolboy
trenches
, boys going over the top into muddy no-man’s-land.
You were supposed to take off your beret when you were ‘shot’, Ede says. Actually, you
hoped
to be shot, so you could pretend-die in slo-mo, and then sit and eat your sandwiches in the sun …
And you’d trail toilet paper out the window on the train home. And form up again on the platform at Windsor station.
And be played back to school by the drums corps from Victoria Barracks …
And all the while, Ede says, he’d dream of finding live weaponry and running amuck on Founder’s Day. Of firing a Gatling gun from the school roof, and hurling mortars from the spiked gables …
Perhaps, when he inherits it, he should turn his family estate into a terrorist training camp, Ede says. Declare war on the bourgeois world. He could form a new Weather Underground, a new Baader-Meinhof. He could kidnap bankers and blow up the stock exchange. Ede laughs.
He’ll probably just turn it into an anarchist commune, Ede says. Grow vegetables on the west lawn. Fill the lake with trout. Live in teepees on the old veranda. And let the house itself fall into ruin. Or, he might just torch the whole thing, like Nero, and rock back and forth on his heels.
Benwell’s too late for politics, and we are too late for politics, Ede says. Too late for the Occupation. Too late to march on the streets …
Guthrie, lying in the snow, quite drunk. An involuntary snow angel. His lips are blue. There’s frost in his wispy beard. He looks noble, we agree. Like some recently deceased Arctic explorer.
The rumour is that Guthrie drinks because of some great and secret tragedy. That Guthrie drinks in the
tragic mode
—that his drinking is a lament, a eulogy. That Guthrie is ruining his life because he doesn’t want to live. That Guthrie drinks
deliberately
, knowing where it will lead. That Guthrie is looking for oblivion, because he’s seen too much. Because he’s been out farther than us all …
EDE: Guthrie’s a sot. But we’re all sots! And at least Guthrie’s got a greatness about him.
Ede kicks Guthrie. Nothing. He kicks him again.
Ede unscrews the cap of his hip flask under Guthrie’s nose.
Guthrie stirs.
EDE: Entertain us, Guthrie. Put on a show.
Guthrie’s eyes, bloodshot, blank, looking up at us. Ede administers a pill to Guthrie’s drool-caked mouth, and pours the contents of his hip flask after it.
We wait, stomping our feet to keep warm. Ede does star jumps. I do squat thrusts. Ede throws snowballs at me. I throw snowballs at Ede.
EDE (contemplating Guthrie): To think that he once performed Marcus Aurelius!
We recall Guthrie’s finest hour, his portrayal of the emperor-philosopher.
Doyle’s rooms, at the beginning of term. Salt. Lime. Tequila.
A martial scene: the Romans versus the Barbarians, along the shore of the Danube (Guthrie as the Roman army; Guthrie as the Barbarian horde; Guthrie as the wide river itself). Clouds of dust. The plain covered in carcasses. Groans of the dying (Guthrie groans). Broken spears. The ground slippery with blood. Heaps of the dead (Guthrie as a corpse; Guthrie as a pile of corpses). Lifeless corpses trampled on without mercy. The columns broken back (Guthrie as a broken army, staggering and moaning). The half-slain blocking up the roads …
The imperial encampment: Marcus Aurelius, writing in his tent (Guthrie, all nobility, all gravitas). Marcus, tired of war, tired of a decade of campaigning (Guthrie, weary). Marcus, seeking to triumph over the passions and recognise the will of God in all events (Guthrie, a man of piety, a man of philosophy).
Marcus, unwavering even in the midst of his duties (Guthrie, a man of resolve).
The battlefield: Marcus, surveying the scene (Guthrie, eyes on the middle distance). Marcus, speaking to his soul (Guthrie, speaking to his soul):
All that is in tune with you, O universe, is in tune with me
. Marcus, seeing the bodies of enemy soldiers twisted into impossible shapes (Guthrie, wincing):
We must love even those who commit injustices against us
. Marcus, seeing the dead faces of his own soldiers turned to the cold earth (Guthrie, shuddering):
Despise not death, but welcome it, for nature wills it like all else
. Marcus, seeing the blood of his soldiers on the frozen ground (Guthrie, crestfallen):
Tomorrow is nothing, today is too late, the good lived yesterday
.
Wittgenstein is weary. His face is grey.
He is exhausted, he says, not from doing anything. He is without
real life
.
If he were only capable of working, he says.
Why is the drive to understand so close to the drive to
mis
understand?, he asks. Why is the urge to think almost identical with the urge
not to think
?
Truth sends no news
, he says, with unusual emphasis. (Is he quoting?)
Libera me, Domine
, he says. (Definitely quoting.)
God is calling him, he says. God is hunting him down. He’s fleeing God’s call. It’s all he’s ever done: flee God’s call.
To reach the end of thought, he says. To bring thought to an end. But at the end of thought, there is also the
thought
of the end. At the end of thought, there is also the
thought
of the end of thought …
Any
real
thinker would go mad, he says. Any real thought is also a
mad
thought.
He holds his head in his hands. He shakes his head slowly.
What does God want from him?, he asks. What does God expect from him?
A shaft of winter light.
He stirs slightly. Has he found an answer? A solution?
A badly timed fit of laughter breaks out somewhere near Mulberry.
Ede (refined laughter). Then the Kirwins (synchronised laughter).
What was it? Mulberry’s gigantic cock drawing (sketched for Doyle’s amusement)? Doyle’s knocking Titmuss’s can of Red Bull into Benedict Kirwin’s open sports bag, in a spasm of hilarity? The copy of
XXX Mums
, revealed when Benedict Kirwin leaned forward to retrieve the can? Chakrabarti’s squeal when Alexander Kirwin thumped him on the leg to distract the class from
XXX Mums
? Okulu, stomping out of the room in indignation at the chaos?
Wittgenstein—looking baffled. Wittgenstein—looking frustrated. What’s wrong with us? What are we laughing at? Has someone told a
joke
? Has someone done something
funny
?
He
has heard no joke, he says.
He
has heard nothing funny.
Has
he
said something funny?, he asks. Has
he
said something ridiculous? A faux pas? A double entendre? He knows how we English love our double entendres.
Our laughter dies away. Silence.
Wittgenstein—looking exhausted.
What can one man do alone?, he mutters.
Why do we come to his classes?, Wittgenstein asks us. Why, when philosophy is not of the least consequence to us? When we do not
need
philosophy? When we do not
suffer
from our need for philosophy?
What is it like not to have an idea in our heads? What is it like to
believe
in nothing, to be
engaged
by nothing, to
strive
for nothing, to
suffer
for nothing, to have nothing in particular for which to live or die? What’s it like to feel
content
? To feel
pleased with ourselves
? What is it like to
smile at ourselves in the mirror
? What is it like to laugh without fear?
• • •
A
Punch and Judy
show—that’s what he is, Wittgenstein says. Playing the fool for us. Jingling his cap and bells.
He’s the clown brought in to amuse us. To keep us entertained. To keep us occupied before we begin the
real business of life
.
We smile—just like the dons. We indulge him, we
enjoy
him—just like the dons. But we tire of him, too—just like the dons. We are impatient with him, too—just like the dons. Perhaps laughing at him (a little). Perhaps with scorn (a little scorn). Smiling at him, but
tiring
of him, too. Smiling, smiling, but with a certain
impatience
.
Next!
, we want to say—
we’re tired of this one! Next!
, we demand—
bring us a fresh one!
There’s a fire backstage, he says. The clown comes out to warn the audience. Laughter and applause. They think it’s a joke! The clown repeats his warning. The fire grows hotter; the applause grows louder. That’s how the world will end, Wittgenstein says: to general applause, from halfwits who think it’s a joke.
We should
hate
him, he says. We should
hate
thought, and the labour of thought. Because thought is opposed to everything we are. Logic is opposed to our very existence.
But we do not hate him, he says. We do not hate thought. Because there is a whole system to do the hating for us. A whole university—
Cambridge
University—that hates him and hates thought on our behalf.
We’ve
outsourced
our hatred, he says. We’ve sold it on, like a debt. We’ve subcontracted it, so that we can forget about it.
The university hates him in our place, he says. The dons hate thought, especially
his
thought, in our place.
WITTGENSTEIN: Cambridge hates me. Cambridge wants to destroy me. Well, Cambridge might have succeeded.
You
might have succeeded.
He slumps into a chair.
Silence.
Wie traurig!
, he cries. What unhappiness!
Silence.
Mulberry in his
FUCK THE FUCK
T-shirt. Doyle, hand on Mulberry’s arm. Titmuss, looking out of the window. The Kirwins, looking down at their trainers. Chakrabarti, looking up at the ceiling …
The glass-fronted bookshelves, with their bound journals. A fly circling. The parquet floor. The humming computer. The cream-coloured radiators.
Silence.
Wittgenstein rises and leaves the room.
We wait, not knowing what to do.
Didn’t he understand that our laughter didn’t mean anything? That it was nothing personal? That it was least of all a judgement on him …