Posing as a Florentine, though he had not seen Italy since he was two years old, Caccicacci could tell marvel- ous anecdotes about the great Florentines—all pure inven-tions, to be sure. Some of these anecdotes he repeated,
with alterations and elaborations, the extent of these de-
pending on the indulgence of his listeners.
One of these “inventions” had to do with a robot of the
twelfth century, the creation of a medieval scholar whose name he could never recall. Originally, Caccicacci was content to describe this mechanical freak (which he insisted was hermaphroditic) as a sort of tireless drudge, capable
of performing all sorts of menial tasks, some of them rather droll. But as he continued to embellish the tale, the robot—which he always referred to as Picodiribibi—gradually came to assume powers and propensities which were, to
say the least, astounding. For example, after being taught
to imitate the human voice, Picodiribibi’s master instructed his mechanical drudge in certain arts and sciences which were useful to the master—to wit, the memorizing of weights and measures, of theorems and logarithms, of cer-tain astronomical calculations, of the names and positions of the constellations at any season for the previous seven hundred years. He also instructed him in the use of the
saw, the hammer and chisel, the compass, the sword and pike, as well as certain primitive musical instruments. Pico-diribibi, consequently, was not only a sort of femme de ménage, sergeant-at-arms, amanuensis and compendium of useful information, but a soothing spirit who could lull his master to sleep with weird melodies in the Doric mode. However, like the parrot in the cage, this Picodiribibi developed a fondness for speech which was beyond all bounds. At times his master had difficulty in suppressing this proclivity. The robot, who had been taught to recite lengthy poems in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and other tongues, would sometimes take it into his head to recite his whole repertoire without pausing for breath and, of course with
no consideration for his master’s peace of mind. And, since fatigue was utterly meaningless to him, he would occasion-ally ramble on in this senseless, faultless fashion, reeling
off weights and measures, logarithmic tables, astronomical dates and figures, and so on, until his master, beside him-self with rage and irritation, would flee the house. Other curious eccentricities manifested themselves in the course of times. Adept in the art of self-defense, Picodiribibi would engage his master’s guests in combat upon the slightest provocation, knocking them about like ninepins, bruising and battering them mercilessly. Almost as embarrassing was the habit he developed of joining in a discussion, suddenly flooring the great scholars who had come to sit at the master’s feet by propounding intricate questions, in the form of conundrums, which of course were unanswerable.
Little by little, Picodiribibi’s master became jealous of his own creation. What infuriated him above all, curiously enough, was the robot’s tirelessness. The latter’s ability to keep going twenty-four hours of the day, his gift for per-fection, meaningless though it was, the ease and rapidity with which he modulated from one feat of skill to another—these qualities or aptitudes soon transformed “the idiot,”
as he now began to call his invention, into a menace and
a mockery. There was scarcely anything any more which “the idiot” could not do better than the master himself. There remained only a few faculties the monster would never possess, but of these animal functions the master himself was not particularly proud. It was obvious that, if he were to recapture his peace of mind, there was only one thing to be done—destroy his precious creation! This, how-ever he was loath to do. It had taken him twenty years to put the monster together and make him function. In the whole wide world there was nothing to equal the bloody idiot. Moreover, he could no longer recall by what intricate, complicated and mysterious processes he had brought his labors to fruition. In every way Picodiribibi rivaled the human being whose simulacrum he was. True, he would never be able to reproduce his own kind, but like the freaks and sports of human spawn, he would undoubtedly leave
in the memory of man a disturbing haunting image.
To such a pass had the great scholar come that he al-most lost his mind. Unable to destroy his invention, he racked his brain to determine how and where he might sequester him. For a time he thought of burying him in
the garden, in an iron casket. He even entertained the idea of locking him up in a monastery. But fear, fear of loss, fear of damage or deterioration, paralyzed him. It was be-coming more and more clear that, inasmuch as he had brought Picodiribibi into being, he would have to live with him forever. He found himself pondering how they could be buried together, secretly, when the time came. Strange thought! The idea of taking with him to the grave a creature which was not alive, and yet in many ways more alive than himself, terrified him. He was convinced that, even in the next world, this prodigy to which he had given birth would plague him, would possibly usurp his own celestial privi-leges.He began to realize that,in assuming the powers of the Creator, he had robbed himself of the blessing which death confers upon even the humblest believer. He saw himself as a shade flitting forever between two worlds—and his creation pursuing him. Ever a devout man, he now began
to pray long and fervently for deliverance. On his knees he begged the Lord to intercede, to lift from his shoulders
the awesome burden of responsibility which he had un-thinkingly assumed. But the Almighty ignored his pleas.
Humiliated, and in utter desperation, he was at last obliged to appeal to the Pope. On foot he made the journey with his strange companion—from Florence to Avignon. By the time he arrived a veritable horde had been attracted in his wake. Only by a miracle had he escaped being stoned to death, for by now all Europe was aware that the Devil himself was seeking audience with his Holiness. The Pope, however, himself a learned man and a master of the occult sciences, had taken great pains to safeguard this curious pilgrim and his offspring. It was rumored that his Holiness had intentions of adopting the monster himself, if for no other reason than to make of him a worthy Christian. At-tended only by his favorite Cardinal, the Pope received
the penitent scholar and his mysterious ward in the privacy of his chamber. What took place in the four and a half hours which elapsed nobody knows. The result, if it can
be called such, was that the day after the scholar died a violent death. The following day his body was publicly burned and the ashes scattered sous le pont d’Avignon.
At this point in his narrative Caccicacci paused, waiting for the inevitable question—“And what happened to Pico-diribibi?” Caccicacci put on a mysterious baiting smile, raised his empty glass appealingly, coughed, cleared his throat, and, before resuming, inquired if he might have another sandwich.
“Picodiribibi! Ah, now you ask me something! Have any of you ever read Occam—or the Private Papers of Albertus Magnus?”
No one had, needless to say.
“Every now and then,” he continued, the question being wholly rhetorical, “one hears of a sea monster appearing
off the coast of Labrador or some other outlandish place. What would you say if tomorrow it were reported that a weird human monster had been glimpsed roaming through Sherwood Forest? You see, Picodiribibi was not the first of his line. Even in Egyptian times legends were in circulation attesting to the existence of androids such as Picodiribibi. In the great museums of Europe there are documents which describe in detail various androids and robots, as we now call them, which were made by the wizards of old. No-where, however, is there any record of the destruction of these man-made monsters. In fact, all the source material we have on the subject leads to the striking conclusion that these monsters always succeeded in escaping from the hands of their masters. . . .”
Here Caccicacci paused again and looked about in-quiringly.
“I am not saying it is so,” he resumed, “but there is respectable evidence to support the view that in some re-mote and inaccessible spot these Satanic creatures continue their unnatural existence. It is highly probable, in fact, that by the time they have established a veritable colony. Why not? They have no age, they are immune to disease—and they are ignorant of death. Like that sage who defied the great Alexander, they may indeed boast of being inde-structable. Some scholars maintain that by now these lost and imperishable relics have probably created their own unique method of communication—more, that they have even learned to reproduce their own kind, mechanically, of course. They hold that if the human being evolved from the dumb brute why could these prefabricated creatures not
do likewise—and in less time? Man is as mysterious in his way as is God. So is the creature world. And so is the inanimate world, if we but reflect on it. If these androids had the wisdom and the ingenuity to escape from their vigilant masters, from their horrible condition of servitude, might they not have the ability to protect themselves in-definitely, become sociable with their own kind, increase and multiply? Who can say with certitude that there does not exist somewhere on this globe a fabulous village—per-haps a resplendent city!—populated entirely by these soul-less specimens, many of them older than the mightiest sequoia?
“But I am forgetting about Picodiribibi. . . .The day
his master came to a violent end he disappeared. All over the land a hue and cry went up, but in vain. Not a trace of him was ever found. Now and then there were reports of mysterious deaths, of inexplicable accidents and disasters, all attributed to the missing Picodiribibi. Many scholars were persecuted, some put to the stake, because they were thought to have harbored the monster. It was even ru-mored that the Pope had ordered a “replica” of Pico-
diribibi to be manufactured, and that he had made dark
use of this spurious one. All rumor and conjecture, to be sure. Nevertheless, it is a fact that, hidden in the archives of the Vatican, are descriptions of other robots more of less contemporaneous; none of these, however, is credited with possessing anything approaching the functional range of Picodiribibi. Today, of course, we have all sorts of robots, one of them, as you know, drawing his first breath of life, so to speak, from the radiance of a distant star. Had it
been possible to do this in the early Middle Ages, think,
try to think, of the havoc which would have ensued. The inventor would have been accused of employing black magic. He would have been burned at the stake, would he not? But there may have been another result, another out-come, dazzling and sinister at the same time. Instead of machines, perhaps we would be using these star-driven menials. Perhaps the work of the world would be done en-tirely by these expert work-hungry slaves. . . .”
Here Caccicacci stopped short, smiled as if bemused, then suddenly burst out with this: “And who would arise
to emancipate them? You laugh. But do we not regard the machine as our slave? And do we not suffer just as in-dubitably from this false relationship as did the wizards of old with their androids? Back of our deep-rooted desire to escape the drudgery of work lies the longing for Paradise. To the man of today Paradise means not only freedom from sin but freedom from work, for work has become odious and degrading. When man ate of the Tree of Knowledge
he elected to find a short cut to godhood. He attempted to rob the Creator of the divine secret, which to him spelled power. What has been the result? Sin, disease, death. Eternal warfare, eternal unrest. The little we know we use for our own destruction. We know not how to escape the tyranny of the convenient monsters we have created. We delude ourselves into believing that, by means of them,
we shall one day enjoy leisure and bliss, but all we accom-plish, to be truthful, is to create more work for ourselves, more distress, more enmity, more sickness, more death. By our ingenious inventions and discoveries we are gradually altering the face of the earth—until it becomes unbear-
able. . . . That little beam of light from a remote star—I
ask you, if that imperishable ray of light could thus affect
a nonhuman being, why can it not do as much for us?
With all the stars in the heavens lavishing their radiant powers on us, with the aid of the sun, the moon and all the planets, how is it that we continue to remain in darkness and frustration? Why do we wear out so quickly, when the elements of which we are composed are indestructible? What is it that wears out? Not that of which we are made, that is certain. We wither and fade away, we perish, be-cause the desire to live is extinguished. And why does this most potent flame die out? For lack of faith. From the
time we are born we are told that we are mortal. From the time we are able to understand words we are taught that
we must kill in order to survive. In season and out we are reminded that, no matter how intelligently, reasonably or wisely we live, we shall become sick and die. We are inoculated with the idea of death almost from birth. Is it any wonder that we die?”
Caccicacci drew a deep breath. There was something he was struggling to convey, something beyond words, one might say. It was evident that he was being carried away
by his narrative. One felt that he was trying to convince himself of something. The impression I got was that he
had told this story over and over—in order to arrive at a conclusion beyond the limits of his own comprehension. Perhaps he knew, deep down, that the tale had a signify-cance which eluded him only because he lacked the courage to pursue it to the end. A man may be a storyteller, a fabulist, a downright liar, but embedded in all fiction and falsehood there is a core of truth. The inventor of Pico-diribibi was a storyteller too, in his way. He had created a fable or legend mechanically instead of verbally. He had defrauded our senses as much as any storyteller. How-
ever. . . .
“Sometimes,” said Caccicacci, solemnly now and with all the sincerity he was capable of mustering, “I am con-vinced that there is no hope for mankind unless we make
a complete break with the past. I mean, unless we begin to think differently and live differently. I know it sounds banal . . . it has been said thousands of times and nothing has happened. You see, I keep thinking of the great suns which surround us, of these vast solar bodies in the heavens of which no one knows anything, except that they exist. From one of them it is admitted that we draw our sus-tenance. Some include the moon as a vital factor in our earthly existence. Others speak of the beneficent or malef-icent influence of the planets. But, if you stop to think, everything—and when I say everything I mean everything! —whether visible or invisible, known or unknown, is vital to our existence. We live amidst a network of magnetic forces which, in a variety of ways incalculable and in-describable, are ceaselessly operative. We created none of these ourselves. A few we have learned to harness, to ex-ploit, as it were. And we are puffed with pride because of our petty achievements. But even the boldest, even the proudest among our latter-day magicians, is bound to con-cede that what we know is infinitesimal compared to what we do not know. I beg you, stop a moment and reflect! Does anyone here honestly believe that one day we shall know all? I go farther . . . I ask in all sincerity—do you believe that our salvation depends on knowing? Assuming for a moment that the human brain is capable of cramming into its mysterious fibers the sum total of the secret proc-esses which govern the universe, what then? Yes, what then? What would we do, we humans, with this unthinkable knowledge? What could we do? Have you ever asked your-self that question? Everyone seems to take it for granted that the accumulation of knowledge is a good thing. No one ever says—“And what shall I do with it when I have it?” No one dares believe any longer that, in the span of one short lifetime, it is possible to acquire even a minute frac-tion of the sum of all existent human knowledge. . . .”
Another breathing spell. We were all ready with the bottle this time. Caccicacci was laboring. He had derailed. It was not knowledge, or the lack of it, that he was so des-perately concerned with. I was aware of the silent effort he was making to retrace his steps; I could feel him flounder-ing about in his struggle to get back to the main line.
“Faith! I was talking about faith a moment ago. We’ve lost it. Lost it completely. Faith in anything, I mean. Yet faith is the only thing man lives by. Not knowledge, which is admittedly inexhaustible and in the end futile or de-structive. But faith. Faith too is inexhaustible. Always has been, always will be. It is faith which inspires deeds, faith which overcomes obstacles—literally moves mountains, as the Bible says. Faith in what? Just faith. Faith in every-thing, if you like. Perhaps a better word would be accept-ance. But acceptance is even more difficult to understand than faith. Immediately you utter the word, there is an inquisitioner which says: “Evil too?” And if one says yes, then the way is barred. You are laughed out of counte-nance, shunned like a leper. Good, you see, may be ques-tioned, but evil—and this is a paradox—evil, though we struggle constantly to eliminate it, is always taken for granted. No one doubts the existence of evil, though it is only an abstract term for that which is constantly changing character and which, on close analysis, is often found to be good. No one will accept evil at its face value. It is, and it is not. The mind refuses to accept it unconditionally. It would really seem as if it existed only to be converted into its opposite. The simplest and readiest way to accomplish this is, of course, to accept it. But who is wise enough to adopt such a course?
“I think of Picodiribibi again. Was there anything ‘evil’ about his appearance or existence? Yet he was held in dread by the world in which he found himself. He was re-garded as a violation of nature. But is man himself not a violation of nature? If we could fashion another Pico-diribibi, or one even more marvelous in his functioning, would we not be in ecstacy? But suppose that, instead of a more marvelous robot, we were suddenly confronted by a genuine human being whose attributes were so incom-parably superior to our own that he resembled a god? This is a hypothetical question, to be sure, yet there are, and always have been, individuals who maintain, and persist in maintaining, despite reason and ridicule, that they have had witness of such divine beings. We can all summon suitable names. Myself, I prefer to think of a mythical being, some-one nobody has ever heard of, or seen, or will know in this life. Someone, in brief, who could exist and fulfill the re-quirements I speak of. . . .”
Here Caccicacci digressed. He was forced to confess that he did not know what had prompted him to make such a statement, nor where he was heading. He kept rubbing his poll and murmuring over and over: “Strange, strange, but
I thought I had something there.”
Suddenly his face lit up with joy. “Ah yes, I know now. I’ve got it. Listen. . . . Supposing this being, universally admitted to be superior to us in every way, should take it
to address the world in this fashion: ‘Stop where you are,
O men and women, and give heed! You are on the wrong track. You are headed for destruction.’ Supposing that everywhere on this globe the billions which make up hu-manity did stop what they were doing and listened. Even
if this godlike being said nothing more than what I’ve
just put in his mouth, what do you suppose the effect would be? Has the entire world ever stopped to listen in unison
to the words of wisdom? Imagine, if you can, a total, drastic silence, all ears cocked to catch the fatal words! Would it even be necessary to utter the words? Can you not imagine that everyone, in the silence of his heart, would supply the answer himself? There is only one response that humanity longs to give—and it can be voiced in one little monosyl-lable: Love. That little word, that mighty thought, that perpetual act, positive, unambiguous, eternally effective— if that should sink in, take possession of all mankind, would it not transform the world instantly? Who could resist, if love became the order of the day? Who would wan power or knowledge—if he were bathed in the perpetual glory of love?
“It is said, as you know, that in the fastness of Tibet there actually exists a small band of men so immeasurably superior to us that they are called “The Masters.” They live in voluntary exile from the rest of the world. Like the androids I spoke of earlier, they too are ageless, immune
to disease, and indestructible. Why do they not mingle
with us, why do they not enlighten and ennoble us by their presence? Have they chosen to remain isolate or is it we who keep them at a distance? Before you attempt to
answer, ask yourself another question—what have we to offer them which they do not already know, possess, or enjoy? If such beings exist, and I have every reason to believe they do, then the only possible barrier is conscious-ness. Degrees of consciousness, to be more exact. When we reach to deeper levels of thought and being they will be there, so to speak. We are still unready, unwilling, to mingle with the gods. The men of olden times knew the gods: they saw them face to face. Man was not removed,
in consciousness, from either the higher or lower orders
of creation. Today man is cut off. Today man lives as a slave. Worse, we are slaves to one another. We have created a condition hitherto unknown, a condition altogether unique: we have become the slaves of slaves. Doubt it not, the moment we truly desire freedom we shall be free. Not a whit sooner! Now we think like machines, because we have become as machines. Craving power, we are the helpless victims of power. . . . The day we learn to express love
we shall know love and have love—and all else will fall away. Evil is a creation of the human mind. It is powerless when accepted at face value. Because it has no value in it-self. Evil exists only as a threat to that eternal kingdom of love we but dimly apprehend. Yes, men have had visions of a liberated humanity. They have had visions of walking the earth like the gods they once were. Those whom we call “The Masters” undoubtedly found the road back. Perhaps the androids have taken another road. All roads, believe it or not, lead eventually to that life-giving source which is
the center and meaning of creation. As Lawrence said with dying breath—“For man, the vast marvel is to be alive.
For man, as for flower, beast and bird, the supreme tri-umph is to be most vividly, most perfectly, alive. . . .” In this sense, Picodiribibi was never alive. In this sense, none of us is alive. Let us become fully alive, that is what I have been trying to say.”
Miller, Plexus, 407-418
“Your heart stopped beating for a moment, that was
all,” said Claude. “Imagine, if you can, what it would be
like if your heart began to beat with a cosmic rhythm.
Most people’s hearts don’t even beat with a human rhythm.
…There will come a time when man will no longer distinguish between man and god. When the human being is raised to his full powers he will be divine—his human consciousness will have fallen away. What is called death will have disappeared. Everything will be altered, perma-nently altered. There will be no further need for change. Man will be free, that’s what I mean. Once he becomes
the god which he is, he will have realized his destiny—which is freedom. Freedom includes everything. Freedom converts everything to its basic nature, which is perfection. Don’t think I am talking religion or philosophy. I disclaim them both, utterly. They are not even steppingstones,
as people like to think. They must be hurdled, at one
jump. If you put something outside you, or above you, you become victimized. There is only the one thing, spirit. It’s all, everything, and when you realize it you’re it. You’re all there is, there is nothing more…do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded my head affirmatively. I was a little dazed.
“You understand,” said Claude, “but the reality of it escapes you. Understanding is nothing. The eyes must be kept open, constantly. To open your eyes you must relax, not strain. Don’t be afraid of falling backwards into a bottomless pit. There is nothing to fall into. You’re in
it and of it, and one day, if you persist, you will be it. I don’t say you will have it, please notice, because there’s nothing to possess. Neither are you to be possessed, remem-ber that! You are to liberate yourself. There are no exer-cises, physical, or spiritual, to practice. All such things are like incense—they awaken a feeling of holiness. We must by holy without holiness. We must be whole . . . complete. That’s being holy. Any other kind of holiness is false, a snare and a delusion. . . .”
“Excuse me for talking to you this way,” said Claude, hastily swallowing another mouthful of coffee, “but I have the feeling that time is short. The next time we meet it will most likely be in some remote part of the world. Your restlessness may lead you to the most unexpected places. My movements are more determined; I now the pattern
set down for me.” He paused to take another tack. “Since I’ve gone thus far let me add a few more words.” He leaned forward, and his face took on a most earnest expression. “Right now, Henry Miller, nobody in this country knows anything about you. Nobody—and I mean
it literally—knows your true identity. At this moment I know more about you than I shall probably ever know again. What I know, however, is only of importance for me. This is what I wanted to tell you—that you should think of me when you are in distress. Not that I can help you, don’t think that! Nobody can. Nobody will, probably. You—(and here he spaced his words)—you will have to solve your own problems. But at least you will know, when thinking of me, that there is one person in this world who knows you and believes in you. That always helps. That secret, however, lies in not caring whether anyone, not
even the Almighty, has confidence in you. You must come to realize, and you will undoubtedly, that you need no protection. Nor should you hunger after salvation, for salvation is only a myth. What is there to be saved? Ask yourself that! And if saved, saved from what? Have you thought of these things? Do! There is no need for redemption, because what men call sin and guilt have no ultimate meaning. The quick and the dead!—just remem-ber that! When you reach to the quick of things you will find neither acceleration nor retardation, neither birth
nor death. There is and you are—that’s it in a nutshell. Don’t break your skull over it, because to the mind it
makes no sense. Accept it and forget it—or it will drive you mad…”
Miller, Plexus, 571-3
Yes, in addition to the dummies, the bindings, and all the
other paraphernalia which crammed my brief case, I
usually carried a book with me, a book so removed from
the tenor of my daily life that it was more like tattoo mark on the sole of a convict’s left foot. “WE HAVE NOT YET DECIDED THE QUESTION OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD AND YOU WANT TO EAT!” A sentence like this jumping out of a book in the dreary wasteland could de-cide the whole course of my day. I can see myself all over again slamming the book shut, jumping up like a startled buck, and exclaiming aloud: “Where in hell are we?” And then bolting. It might have been the edge of a swamp where they had let me off, it might have been the begin-ning of one of those interminable rows of all-look-alike suburban hoes or the very portals of an insane asylum.
No matter—on, on, head down, jaws working feverishly, grunts, squeals of delight, ruminations, discoveries, illumi-nations. Because of that blitz phase. Especially the “and you want to eat!” part of it. It was ages before I dis-covered who had originated this marvelous exclamation. All I knew then, all that mattered, was that I was back in Russia, that I was with kindred spirits, that I was com-pletely possessed by such an esoteric proposition as the debatable existence of God.
Years later, did I say? Why yes—only yesterday, so to speak, I found out who the author was. At the same time
I learned that another man, a contemporary, had written thus of his nation, the great Russian nation: “We belong
to the number of those nations which, so to speak, do not enter into the structure of mankind but exist only in order to teach the world an important lesson of some sort.”
But I am not going to speak of yesterday or the day before yesterday. I am going to speak of a time which has no beginning nor end, a time moreover which with all the other kinds of time that filled the empty spaces of my days….
The way of ships, and of men in general, is the zigzag path. The drunkard moves in curves, like the planets. But the man who has no destination moves in a time and space continuum which is uniquely his own and in which God is ever present. “For the time being”—inscrutable phrase!—he is always there. There with the grand cosmocrator, so to speak. Clear? Very well, it is Monday, let us say. “And you want to eat?” Instanter the stars begin to chime, the reindeer paw the turf; their blue icicles sparkle in the noonday sun. Whooshing it through Nevsky Prospekt,
I make my way to the inner circle, the brief case under
my arm. In my hand is a little bag of candy, a gift from Annie Meinken. A solemn question has just been pro-pounded:
“We have not yet decided the question of the existence of God….”
It is at this point I always enter. I’m on my own time now. God’s time, in other words. Which is always “for the time being.” To hear my you would think I were a mem-ber of the Holy Synod—The Holy Philharmonic Synod. It isn’t necessary for me to tune in: I’ve been in tune since the dawn of time. Utter clarity is what marks my perform-ance. I am of the order whose purpose is not to teach the world a lesson but to explain that school is over.
The comrades are relaxed and at ease. No bomb will go off until I give the order. On my right is Dostoevski; on my left the Emperor Anathema. Every member of the group has distinguished himself in some spectacular man-ner. I am the only one “without portfolio.” I am the Uitlander; I hail from “the fringe,” that is to say, from the trouble-bubble cauldron.
“Comrades, it is said that a problem confronts us….”
(I always begin with this stock phrase.) I look about me, calm, self-possessed, before launching into my plaidoyer. “Comrades, let us rivet our most concentrated attention
for a moment on that wholly ecumenical question—“
“Which is?” barks the Emperor Anathema.
“Which is nothing less than this: If there were no God, would we be here?”
Above the cries of Rot! and Rubbish! I follow with ease the sound of my own voice intoning the sacred texts buried in my heart. I am at ease because I have nothing to prove.
I have only to recite what I learned by rote in off moments. That we are together and privileged to discuss the exist-ence of God, this in itself is conclusive evidence for me that we are basking in the sunshine of His presence. I do not speak “as if” He were present, I speak “because” He
is present. I am back in that eternal sanctuary where the word “food” always comes up. I am back because of that.
“And you want to eat?”
I address the comrades passionately now. “Why not?”
I begin. “Do we insult our Maker by eating what He has provided for us? Do you think He will vanish because we fill our bellies? Eat, I beg you. Eat heartily! The Lord our God has all time in which to reveal Himself. You pretend that you wish to decide the matter of His existence. Use-less, dear comrades, it was decided long ago, before there even was a world. Reason alone informs us that if there
be a problem there must be something real which brings it to birth. It is not for us to decide whether or not God
exists, it is for God to say whether or not we exist” (Dog! Have you anything to say?” I shouted in the Emperor Anathema’s ear.) “Whether to eat or not before deciding the issue, is that, I ask you, a metaphysical question? Does a hungry man debate whether he is to eat or not? We are all famished: we hunger and thirst for that which have us life, else we would not be assembled here. To imagine
that by giving a mere Yes or No the grand problem will be settled for eternity is sheer madness. We have not….”
(I paused and turned to the one on my right. “And you, Fyodor Mihailovich, have you nothing to say?) We have not come together to settle an absurd problem. We are here, comrades, because outside this room, in the world,
as they call it, there is no place in which to mention the Holy Name. We are the chosen ones, and we are united ecumenically. Does God wish to see children suffer? Such a question may be asked here. Is evil necessary? That too may be asked. It may also be asked whether we have the right to expect a Paradise here and now, or whether eternality is preferable to immortality.We may even debate whether Our Lord Jesus Christ is of our divine nature
only or of two consubstantially harmonious natures,human and divine. We have all suffered more than is usual for mortal beings to endure. We have all achieved an appre-ciable degree of emancipation. Some of you have revealed the depths of the human soul in a manner and to a degree never before heard of. We are all living outside our time, the forerunners of a new era, of a new order of mankind. We know that nothing is to be hoped for on the present world level. The end of historical man is upon us. The future will be in terms of eternity, and of freedom, and of love. The resurrection of man will be ushered in with our aid; the dead will rise from their graves clothed in radiant flesh and sinew, and we shall have communion, real ever-lasting communion, will all who once were: with those who made history and with those who had no history. Instead of myth and fable we shall have everlasting reality. All that now passes for science will fall away; there will be no need to search for the clue to reality because all will be real and durable, naked to the eye of the soul, transparent as the waters of Shiloh. Eat, I beg you, and drink to your heart’s content. Taboos are not of God’s making. Nor murder and lust. Nor jealousy and envy. Though we are assembled here as men, we are bound through the divine spirit. When we take leave of one another we shall return to the world of chaos, to the realm of space which no amount of activity can exhaust. We are not of this world, nor are we yet of the world to come, except in thought and spirit. Our place is on the threshold of eternity; our func-tion is that of prime movers. It is our privilege to be cruci-fied in the name of freedom. We shall water our graves with our own blood. No task can be too great for us to assume. We are the true revolutionaries since we do not baptize with the blood of others but with our own blood, freely shed. We shall create no new covenants, impose no new laws, establish no new government. We shall permit the dead to bury the dead. The quick and the dead will soon be separated. Life eternal is rushing back to fill the empty cup of sorrow. Man will rise from his bed of igno-rance and suffering with a song on his lips. He will stand forth in all the radiance of his godhood. Murder in every form will disappear forever. For the time being….”
The moment this inscrutable phrase rose to my lips the inner music, the concordance, ceased. I was back in double rhythm again, aware of what I was doing, analyzing my thoughts, my motives, my deeds. I could hear Dostoevski speaking, but I was no longer there with him, I was getting only the overtones. What’s more, I could shut him off whenever I pleased. I was no longer running in that paral-lel timeless time. Now the world was indeed empty, drab, woebegone. Chaos and cruelty ran hand in hand. I was as grotesque and ridiculous now as those two lost sisters
who were presumably running through the Village with puppets in their arms.
Miller, Plexus, 608-613
