by Henry Miller
And now for the Essenes, whom I finally came to grips with in Santa Monica. I had gone there at the invitation of my friend, Robert Fink, to see the paintings of Abe Weiner. Here I was introduced to Weiner’s friend, Lawrence Lipton, a resident of Venice.
It was only toward the end of a long and delightful evening that I struck up a conversation with Lawrence Lipton. As a writer of mystery stories known to all America—by pen name, at least—he seemed the last man in the world that I would think to call upon for data about the mysterious sect called the Essenes.
The tête-à-tête which we launched into at full gallop, and minus the usual preliminaries, was more like an inspired game than an exchange of thought. The last time I had entered into a similar dance was in a little village in New Hampshire. I mention it because it is the sort of thing which happens but a few times in one’s life. The event I refer to occurred on a winter’s day after a conference which I had attended with Professor Herbert West, of Dartmouth, in a distant town. We were driving back to Professor West’s home in Hanover. It was late afternoon when Herb West suddenly decided that we ought to pay a visit to a friend of his in the village we were approaching.
He pulled up at the door of a modest house and there, standing in the doorway waiting to greet us, was his friend. I had been told nothing about the man, nor did I catch his name on being introduced. But the moment we greeted one another, it was as if I had known the man all my life. We began talking, right at the doorstep, as if continuing a conversation we had abandoned a short few thousand years ago in a previous incarnation. The only mundane thing I am able to recall in connection with this friend of West’s is that he had served in the British Army in India for many years.
Our stay lasted about two hours, during which time the “Major” and I covered the most amazingly incongruous and seemingly disconnected subjects. Frequently it happened that we would mention the title of an obscure book or the name of some little-known historical figure or an outlandish department of knowledge, only to exchange a meaningful smile and pass on. Never once did we press the wrong button, so to speak. It was as if we were working an I.B.M. which threw out the correct answers without fail and without effort. Indeed, the atmosphere was one of pushing buttons, sliding into grooves, locking and interlocking, engaging and disengaging. The subjects touched on appeared to be nothing more than pretexts for the unraveling of something vastly more important, though what this something might be we never even tried to formulate.
Add this—that the man’s life had nothing whatever in common with my own. We were from totally dissimilar worlds. Moreover, I’ve never made any attempt to communicate with him since that meeting. No need to. When we do meet again—and are we not bound to, perhaps in another life?—we will undoubtedly resume where we left off….
But this Lawrence Lipton…. Physically, and I was aware of it immediately, he reminded me violently of someone I dislike intensely. He even talked like this person whom I still loathe and despise. Yet everything he touched on—he had a habit of drifting from one subject to another without transition—drew me to him like a magnet. He had already skirted a dozen themes the very mention of which always affects me like a dose of adrenalin. Suddenly I thought I heard him pronounce the word “Essenes.” He had pronounced it correctly, which threw me off.
“Did you say the Essenes?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Why? Are you interested in the subject?” He seemed surprised.
I explained that for years I had been tracking down whatever I could find regarding their customs, rituals and way of life. I mentioned certain similarities I thought I had discovered between their ways and those of the Albigensians. I made a passing reference to that strange book called The Unknown Life of Jesus. I cited Gerald Heard’s book, Time, Pain and Sex, in which there is an exciting chapter dealing with this strange sect.
Yes, yes, he seemed to say, I’m familiar with all that—and much more. But have we time to go into it now? He was spilling over with names, dates, citations, all manner of strange, hermetic references.
“If you would really like to know more,” he said, “I’ll have my wife copy some of the more salient data which I’ve accumulated on the subject these last ten years or more.”
“I wouldn’t think of it …” I began.
“It’s nothing at all,” said he. “She’ll be happy to do it, won’t you, dear?”
She had to say Yes, of course.
A few weeks later I received the data he had promised me. Included were his own reflections and interpretations, extremely sagacious and pertinent.
Time passed and the subject of the Essenes dropped back into its accustomed niche. Then, just ten days ago, a physician back from Palestine, and bearing a message from my old friend Lilik, called my attention to an article, a lengthy one, on “The Dead Sea Scrolls,” which he “thought” had appeared in The New Yorker. He said it was a very important article, written by Edmund Wilson. I was a bit sceptical, thought he had things mixed up. As I rarely read The New Yorker I knew nothing about this event, for such it turned out to be.
Two days later there appeared in the mail the issue of The New Yorker which my visitor had spoken of. It was sent me by Lawrence Lipton whom I had not heard from for months. In his letter Lipton stated that he thought it quite possible I had overlooked Wilson’s article and, recalling my interest in the subject, deemed it imperative to dispatch it to me.
A coincidence? Possibly. I prefer to think otherwise.
At some point in his life most everyone ponders over the meaning of the word “coincidence.” If we face the question courageously, for it is a disturbing one, we are forced to admit that mere happenstance is no answer. If we use the word “predestination” we feel defeated. And rightly so. It is only because man is born free that these mysterious conjunctions of time, place and event can take place. In the horoscopes of those men and women marked by destiny we observe that mere “incidents” become highly significant events. Perhaps because these individuals were able to realize more of their potential being than ordinary mortals, the correlation between inner and outer, micro and macro, is striking and diamond clear.
In grappling with the mystery of “chance” we may be unable to render suitable explanation but we cannot deny that we are made aware of laws beyond the reach of human understanding. The more aware we become the more we perceive that there is a relation between right living and good fortune. If we probe deep enough we come to realize that fortune is neither good nor bad, that what matters is the way we take our (good or bad) fortune. The common saying runs: “To make the most of one’s lot.” Implicit in this adage is the idea that we are not equally favored or disfavored by the gods.
The point I wish to stress is that in accepting our fate we are not to think that things were destined thus or that we were singled out for special attention, but that by responding to the best in ourselves we may put ourselves in rhythm with higher laws, the inscrutable laws of the universe, which have nothing to do with good or bad, you and me.
This was the test which the great Jehovah put to Job.
I could run on indefinitely with examples of these coincidences and “miracles,” as I freely call them, which crop up in my life. Numbers, however, mean nothing. If only one had occurred, it would have the same shocking validity. Indeed, what baffles me more than almost anything, in human affairs, is man’s ability to ignore or bypass events or happenings which do not fit into his pattern of thought, his unquestioned logic. In this respect civilized man is just as primitive in his reactions as the so-called savage. What he cannot account for he refuses to look squarely in the face. He dodges the issue by employing words like accident, anomaly, fortuitous, coincidence, and so on.
But each time “it” happens he is shaken. Man is not at home in the universe, despite all the efforts of philosophers and metaphysicians to provide a soothing syrup. Thought is still a narcotic. The deepest question is why. And it is a forbidden one. The very asking is in the nature
of cosmic sabotage. And the penalty is—the afflictions of Job.
Every day of our lives we are presented with evidences of the vast, most complicated interconnection between the events which govern our lives and the forces which rule the universe. Our fear in pursuing the flashes of insight which they provoke is that we may come to know what will “happen” to us. The one thing we are given to know from birth is that we will die. But even this we find hard to accept, certain though it be.
Now what “happens” always carries this flavor of being unpre dictable, of coming from without, of disregarding our wishes, our plans, our hopes. But those to whom things “happen” may be of two different orders. The one may regard these occurrences as normal and natural, the other as phenomenal or freakish and insulting to his intelligence. The one responds with his true self, the other with his petty ego. The former, who is truly religious-minded, finds no need to introduce the word God. The other, who is a religionist, though he may call himself a sceptic or an atheist, will deny vehemently that there is any intelligence in the universe greater than his own limited one. He has an explanation for everything except what is inexplicable, and his way of disposing of inexplicable phenomena is to pretend that they are beneath his attention. In the animal world his brother is the ostrich.
Let me close the subject—for the time being—with a citation from a book which has just been put into my hands. The book was lent me by a man whom I would have referred to (unthinkingly) as the last man in the world to be drawn to such a book. The connection between the author’s words and the foregoing may not be instantly apparent. But there is one, and the reason for quoting this passage is that I consider it one of the best answers which could be made to the question which must already be forming itself in the reader’s mind. It is taken from the Apologia to a biography of the celebrated Kahlil Gibran.*
“It was after much hesitation that I decided to write this book. For I believe that no man can faithfully, accurately and fully describe a single instant of his own life in all its intricate meanings and its infinite connections with the universal life. How, then, is one, no matter what his talents, to put between the two covers of a book the life of another man, be he an idiot or a genius! In that respect everything that men relate of men under the name of ‘History’ is, in my judgement, but so much froth breaking over the surface of that sea which is human life; the depths remain too deep, and the horizons too distant for any pen to plumb, or any brush to paint. Until this day we have not been able to write the ‘history’ of any man or of anything at all. Had we written the history of but a single man in full, we should be able to read in it the history of all men; and had we recorded faithfully the story of but one thing, we should discover in it the story of all things.”
13.
If there is a genuine need, it will be met.
This thought, which Jean Wharton expressed over and over again, and in a hundred different ways, is one of those statements which can either be ridiculed into meaninglessness or accepted at face value and proved or disproved. That it has proved true in my own case, innumerable times, never ceases to astonish me. The thing to ask one’s self first of all is—are we truly aware of our real needs? “It” knows, but not us. “We” are usually bringing up the rear, often absent altogether. We abdicate before the throne we might occupy is even offered us. There is a white charger, champing at the bit, ever ready to carry us to the most undreamed of goals. But do we mount him? Those who do leave a trail of fire behind them.
The question is, where do we want to go? And, do we want to take our baggage with us or travel light? The answer to the second question is contained in the first. Wherever we go, we must go naked and alone. We must each of us learn what no other can teach us. We must do the ridiculous in order to touch the sublime.
Who can say what the other’s needs really are? No one can really aid another except by urging him to move on. Sometimes one must move on without stirring from the spot. To detach yourself from your problems, that is the idea. Why try to solve a problem? Dissolve it! Bathe it in a saline solution of neglect, contempt and indifference. Fear not to be a coward, a traitor, a renegade. In this universe of ours there is room for all, perhaps even need for all. The sun does not inquire about rank and status before shedding its warmth; the cyclone levels the godly and the ungodly; the government takes your tax money even though it be tainted. Nor is the atom bomb a respecter of persons. Perhaps that’s why the righteous are squirming so!
What makes the fanatic sound so ridiculous is that he has a way of uttering profound truths, profound second-hand truths, which he proceeds to demonstrate in the realm of trivia. But if you can make a straw behave in an unprecedented way, the chances are you can do the same with a human being. The laboratory work of the scientist is all sure-fire stuff. Hazards are either ruled out or exploited to prove what was intended to be proved. The man of reason disdains to use the word miracle. He sweats to prove that there is no such thing, and all the while he is but proving that he is a miracle of incomprehension. There are miracles and miracles: it depends on who uses the word and how. But the man who claims to be a mere cog in the machine (the mind machine) has a way of talking like God when contradicted. Frequently he contradicts himself.
Let us leave God out for the moment. Shut all the doors and windows, seal the cracks! Now we can talk common sense. Let’s see, what was it again … the atom bomb? Now I remember—it was coffee. Coffee’s gone up again, did you know that? How on earth did we get on to that? How? Why, we were talking about money … what people will do for money, how money makes money, that sort of thing. We were saying that when it comes to earning a living there are men who will take any kind of job rather than go without. Monsieur le Paris, for instance. You might think that nobody on earth would want to make a living chopping other people’s heads off. Admirable if he would chop his own head off, whether for money or just for the hell of it. But other people’s heads … and at so much per head? Fantastic! A general, for example, has men who do the dirty work for him. He never soils his hands. After some special deed of valor (which may have cost the lives of a hundred thousand men) he is usually decorated. But Monsieur le Paris is always shunned by the “populance.” Yet he hardly ever chops off more than one head a month. Often he’s a solid member of the church. Takes communion and all that business. Drinking the blood of Jesus, he makes a mental note to sharpen his axe. A conscientious worker, as we say. Believes in doing a clean job, whether it be executions or dish-washing. As for the blood, that’s another matter. (Now and then he gets a squirt in the eye.) If it were an ox he were felling, the blood would fetch money. But human blood—no demand. Yet it has all the vitamins, from A to Izzit. Curious, these taboos.
Interruption.
The other day I was out on the trail with my son Tony. Just as we reached the mystery spot we named “Arizona” (where Columbine makes love with Brother Onyx unmolested), he says to me: “I’m never going to go to war!”
“How’s that?” says I.
“I’ll cut off my finger first, like Bennie Bufano.”
What put this idea into his head I don’t know. Probably a remnant of one of our postprandial conversations.
To go on….
If a woman looking like Salvation Nell should happen to knock at your door, don’t send her about her business toute de suite. Let her bend your ear, if that’s what she’s a mind to do. People often speculate on what the Saviour would look like should he decide to pay us another visit. (I can tell you confidentially that he won’t look like a da Vinci portrait! This is ex cathedra, of course.)
About Salvation Nell now. … If her lingo sounds sort of goofy, just say to yourself: “Maybe it’s our dear Jesus come back to earth peddling vacuum cleaners. Come back as a woman, to take us by surprise.”
(Dr. Bernstein, the noted brain surgeon, happened on us one day in much this way. We were in the midst of a spring cleaning. The first thing he says, taking off his coat, is: “Let me help you!” He
didn’t say, “I’m Dr. Bernstein, late of the Veterans’ Winter Hospital, Topeka.” He said: “Let me help you! I’ve done it many times before.”)
And our dear Saviour, if determined to try it again, might very well say, while fumbling with her dress: “Take it easy, dearie, this vacuum cleaner will earn you a lot of free time. It’s just the coolest, gonedest, sweetest gig you ever laid eyes on. Try it, won’t you?”
And how would you know, without taking thought, that this thingamajig, this here chromium-plated, everlasting vacuum cleaner was not the very thing you were in need of, the answer to your silent prayers?
Even if you are naturally of a suspicious turn, even if you are preternaturally circumspect and wholly eaten away by reason and logic, you should be able to sense the difference between the Saviour in the guise of a vacuum peddler and an executioner in the guise of a servant of the State. When a general says, “Men, I want that position taken if it costs the lives of every man in this division,” he means that no bullet, no bayonet, is going to pierce his hide. You are to cover yourselves with glory. As for him, he’s got other divisions to throw in, other battles to fight, other wars to win. “Forward!” he shouts. “I’m going back for reinforcements.”
Jesus had no reinforcements. He had only his own tender flesh. And we know how it was desecrated. There He hung on the cross, and when the agony was too great, He cried out: “My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” Then darkness fell upon the land, the earth trembled and vomited forth the dead, and the sky was full of portents. Then three days and nights. Then forty more days. Then Peter and Paul. Then the acts of the apostles. Then Jerome and Augustine. And after many a moon, Francis, dear Francis of Assisi. Between times one doctrine after another, one church after another, one crusade after another, one inquisition after another. All in the name of Jesus.