The Life and Opinions of Zacharias Lichter

by Matei Calinescu

  “We must recognize, however, that the resentment of a potential suicide (no matter how detestable in itself, as any resentment is) must be classified as tragic, since it derives from an error: that of endowing existence with marvelous attributes, of construing it as a sort of terrestrial paradise from which they are excluded and thus wish to destroy. The lack of any religious dimension in their life renders them incapable of discerning life’s fundamental absurdity. Truly, no one who has attained a genuine and deep awareness of the absurdity of existence would commit suicide: the act would be pointless and, on a deeper level, utterly irresponsible. Is it conceivable that Job would have dared to consider, even for an instant, such a solution?

  “Leaving aside the deeper meaning it implies, the act of suicide also reveals something of its essence in its more common psychological attributes. We all know, for example, that the threat of suicide is often used as emotional blackmail in romantic ‘dramas.’ Even supposing that a person may shorten his life for purely theoretical reasons (which are in reality mere ‘sublimations’ of more concrete, if more obscure, reasons), suicide still retains an element of blackmail: it wants to be the final cue of a dialogue, the fulfillment of a promised revenge.

  “To the extent that it is an act of vengeance (the vengeance of impotence), suicide aspires to elevate itself to tragic spectacle. Suicides rarely attempt to make the act appear an accident. They want it to be known, to arouse obsessions, to engender irreparable regret, to create in an individual or even a community (as in the case of political suicides) a guilty conscience. Even suicides that seem noble when viewed from afar tend covertly to cast an ugly light on life, to embitter, to rend or sully some aspect of life.

  “I exclude here, of course, suicide as sacrifice, extremely rare in our times, which can be one of the sublime forms of martyrdom; I also exclude suicide committed by the frightened prisoner who knows he will be tortured, or those condemned to death, or the incurably ill who can no longer stand the pain—these are equally rare because, in most cases, such people lack the means to carry out their intentions. As a matter of fact, in all these cases suicide is no longer a truly free act, it loses all polemical meaning and in any case makes no statement of any kind. In its ultimate humility, it is the equivalent of a simple, ordinary death.

  “In all other cases, suicides—incapable of recognizing the absurdity of existence—are estranged from God by the arrogance that masks their hatred of life. Most believe that their gesture will ennoble them. Insofar as they consider themselves aristocrats of the tragic, believing their entire existence will acquire a higher meaning in retrospect, seeing themselves crowned with the halo of myth, these aspirants to suicide illustrate—no matter how surprising this seems—one aspect of self-indulgence. But then, who doesn’t flirt with the idea of suicide; who doesn’t clothe it in all sorts of grotesquely sentimental guises in order to console their souls; who does not sometimes seek a small welcoming oasis of gratification in the midst of life’s vicissitudes? For these worms of the earth, suicide is one of the easiest forms in which self-indulgence manifests itself, one of the most odious means of ‘compensation.’ But come to think of it, in the great majority of cases, not even actual suicides manage to escape a touch of self-indulgence . . .

  “And now”—Lichter ended his monologue with a sudden surge of anger—“now that you know what I think about suicide, and since you’ll never understand the Word that burns my tongue and rends my lips, that disfigures my face, go hang yourself, or may I never see you again!”

  ON COMFORT

  ZACHARIAS Lichter discovered long ago that people who share the cult of comfort (combined with that of “utility”) fear any manifestation of the spiritual, no matter how timid and unassuming, as if it were some obscure, and thus even more dangerous, disease. Any unexpected emotional reaction (no matter how insignificant), any surprising thought or desire, especially one that may seem to involve (however wrongly) a spiritual dimension, creates anxiety and concerns that do not cease until these moments are defined, explained, and diagnosed—that is, wrenched from the unknown. The comfort of stupidity presupposes a strict prophylaxis with regard to the spiritual . . .

  Adrian Leonescu, a young professor of English phonetics, seems expressly created to exemplify, almost in caricature, the basic mechanisms of comfort. In spite of his leonine name, he displays all the characteristics of the effete: a thin voice that, with effort, can be lowered to mezzo-soprano, a smooth white skin covered in fine down, languorous eyes, narrow shoulders, and wide hips that swing just so when he walks. His only masculine attribute, contrasting with his entire countenance, is a rough black beard, which he shaves twice a day, morning and afternoon, with the scrupulous attention of those hirsute women who depilate themselves.

  Leonescu was barely a teenager when he found his minor vocation, which he has since pursued with rigorous tenacity: English phonetics, which he seems to consider a cult of purely verbal sonority. He has assimilated English with thorough diligence, memorizing textbooks and even entire dictionaries by rote. His greatest pride is his matchless pronunciation of English in all its variations: from London cockney to pure Oxonian, from Yorkshire dialect to American drawl, each with the nuances of regional, social, and ethnic strata. Since words themselves hold no interest for him, engrossed as he is solely in their phonetic qualities, he practices these exercises with a shameless sensual voluptuousness, resorting exclusively and almost affectedly to clichés and common phrases.

  Adrian Leonescu’s complete lack of interest in ideas is compensated for by his remarkable ability to pronounce words. His entire physical and moral being participates in what is an almost mystical act: when he starts to produce English phrases, his languorous eyes suddenly turn sightless, his features become so tense that even if the words are comical, he is unable to even sketch a smile, the veins on his brow swell and pulse. If he is walking, his legs grow heavy, as if weighed down by a ball and chain; his elbows are clamped to his sides and his fingers clutch stiffly at the lapels of his coat. Only his fleshy lips, standing out redly against a livid face fixed in concentration, are mobile and elastic. From deep within, as if emerging from a great distance, a thin and tremulous but always correct verbal stream gushes forth.

  Adrian Leonescu leads a hygienic existence, both mental and corporeal: mens sana in corpore sano. The old adage is put into practice, among other things, thanks to his slight case of “preventive hypochondria,” which makes him exaggerate vague symptoms and even invent a few. He then subjects himself to medical treatments which—and this shows his extreme prudence—cannot possibly harm him. His hypochondria is never more than a defense mechanism, and this applies as well to his medication, which he never abuses. The truth is that Adrian Leonescu takes loving care of his health. He exercises every morning with the windows to his room wide open and keeps at his disposal—a true claim to glory—a complicated rowing machine. He takes daily walks and, in order not to waste time, always carries along a dictionary, diligently and patiently memorizing arcane meanings or unusual pronunciations. As a phonetician, his voice clearly receives special attention: like an opera singer, Adrian Leonescu rinses his mouth with raw eggs, neither smokes nor drinks, and performs lip exercises in front of the mirror. A reputable doctor provides him with optimal dietary regimens, modifying them if he complains of slight dyspepsia or a bout of constipation, or shows vague signs of cholecystitis, spastic colitis, splenomegaly, or the like. A sexologist has prescribed an erotic regimen: once or, at most, twice a week and, if possible, with the same woman (which has led the poor man to enter into an unhappy marriage).

  Adrian Leonescu’s greatest worry is his nervous system. He is beset by obscure anxieties, which he combats with modest doses of sedatives; nevertheless they continue to reoccur—admittedly not in any serious form—with a kind of stubborn persistence. Like all who live with comfort in mind, Adrian Leonescu is worried because he worries.

  At one point, these recurring anxieties managed to produc
e a state of true alarm. At a gathering where Zacharias Lichter found himself by chance, Adrian Leonescu once confessed, in dramatic tones of voice:

  “I’ve been feeling awful lately. My anxieties, which I’ve never come to terms with, seem to have multiplied, and I can’t explain why. To top it all off, a few nights ago I woke around one a.m. and, out of the blue, my eyes filled with tears and I felt like praying to God, God forbid! I was so scared I stayed up all night. The next day I went to the doctor and—this made me feel even worse—he looked astonished, although he then tried to calm me down. Can you imagine what a nuisance all this is? Apparently, it’s a standard neurasthenic depressive syndrome. The doctor prescribed mental rest, so tomorrow I leave for the mountains . . .”

  “It’s incredible”—Lichter burst out after the phonetician’s departure—“what grotesque and abject forms an imbecile’s fear can take on when confronted by the inexplicable and mysterious. In a way it’s quite natural for this to happen. Any weakness or negligence in that area, no matter how small, may release massive landslides in which the edifice of stupidity could be buried forever. Just as those capable of genuine spiritual life are wary of being defined and thus deprived of the profound absurdity of their own existence, fools fear they might be ‘uncovered,’ might lose the protection of the known when faced with the threat of the mysterious, which, in their eyes, takes on the import of a malefic and monstrous force. The comfort of fools does not deny—why bother?—the existence of a nominal and conventional God, a God that guarantees a degree of discipline and even mental hygiene necessary for foolishness to function. But comfort sees the slightest shadow of true spirituality as the sign of a disturbing illness that must be diagnosed at once and firmly treated. You can be cured of God by sedatives and sleeping pills, by Swedish gymnastics and trips to the mountains—how awful it is! In the Realm of Stupidity, comfort is the primary precondition for any activity. Comfort is also its value and ultimate goal: no effort is too great for fools when it comes to being comfortably settled in. In point of fact, they never act, they settle in, regardless of the activity, their constant concern is to let nothing trouble them.”

  ON MATHEMATICAL LANGUAGE

  SHORT and rotund, yet moving with incredible briskness, casting small gestures in all directions that suggest not only inexhaustible energy but also a sort of curious, unfocused dexterity; with lively, rolling eyes that enhance the already unusual mobility of his entire physiognomy (a mobility that has nothing to do with anxiety or concern)—thus does the mathematician W. present himself to us. This scholar of some repute is also one of our city’s most picturesque figures, one you would swear must be wearing his legs off, so tirelessly does he stride through its streets from morn till evening. You would not be surprised, then, to see him turn up wherever you happen to be, rolling along towards you with improbable speed, with the express aim of stopping you (even if he only knows you slightly) and making you listen to him.

  His physical vivacity (surprising in someone so corpulent) is matched by an equally remarkable mental vivacity that expresses itself in a voluble, unrestrained, almost crazed verbal stream. Although he speaks in a hasty tone and rhythm akin to mere chatter, the mathematician W. never strays from the rigorous field of his preoccupations, to which he imparts an air (perfectly false, however) of accessibility. An occasional—and it’s seldom more than occasional—interlocutor feels attracted by his speculations. No matter how abstruse and inextricably complex his thoughts, he pours them forth with gusto and forcefulness, with a talent for creating a sense of humorous complicity normally restricted to those who tell jokes well. But W. “tells” only pure abstractions.

  As a child he had already distinguished himself by his extraordinary precocity. Even now (he has been recently promoted to associate professor), the renown he enjoys is based in large part on his contributions at the age of twelve to number theory. His more recent work, primarily in topology, has not enjoyed a similar reception. In that field he discovered, some time ago, a fundamental theorem whose proof took him eight long years to complete. Unfortunately—slanderous tongues assure us—to follow his proof step by step would require as much time and exertion as that expended by its author. No one has wished to take on such task (and truth be told, no one has even tried)—so that this major theorem, neither contested nor accepted, remains fodder for petty and malicious gossip, and not only in specialist circles.

  Faced with a situation that would have tested anyone’s patience and peace of mind, the mathematician W. remained completely serene. “Future decades”—he would say—“will prove me right, since it is clear that even if the theorem is wrong (and I’ve never claimed otherwise), it is extremely fertile. In fact, I must confess that I’ve already found a few errors in my proof. One can demonstrate, however (and I am undertaking this now), that these are errors of genius: each could bring forth a wholly new branch of topology. After all”—he would ask rhetorically—“isn’t the entire history of the so-called exact sciences a history of errors endowed with a high coefficient of fertility?” (The paradoxical spirit of mathematician W. defines truth as a totally sterile error.)

  An open and sociable character par excellence, W. is, as we have seen, ready to talk to anyone, anytime and anywhere: in a waiting room, in a crowded tram, on a street corner, and even, if invited, in some dive. Not to mention pastry shops, the true temples of his gustatory delight, where he freely places himself at the mercy of extreme pleasure while consuming sweets—the only excess he allows himself. (He indeed has an insatiable hunger for anything sweet, from the candy that always fills his pockets to rich cakes with thick layers of cream he can hardly wait to eat, swallowing them whole, smearing his face like a child.) He does not discriminate among those willing to listen to him; he may be encountered in motley bohemian gatherings as well as pretentious intellectual circles.

  As a rule, very few people have any idea what his theories are about, but that doesn’t prevent most people from being overcome, in his presence, by a strange euphoria, a type of purely mental intoxication, a sense of being lifted upward, of smooth ascension towards the firmament of numbers. Almost all commend the mathematician’s great intelligence and especially his force of persuasion (which never convinced anybody of anything except its own existence). In fact, directly or indirectly, W. has been offering an unending eulogy of the mathematical spirit, and it is very probable that, over time, he has come to regard himself not only as its representative, but as its vessel or incarnation. This, at least, is how Zacharias Lichter, who had the opportunity to converse with him on a number of occasions, perceived him.

  “Thanks to this man”—he said—“I’ve come to realize one of the essential features of the mathematical spirit, namely, its narcissism. It is obvious that mathematical language neither desires nor is able to express anything but itself. It is a language that turns its back to the real and, preoccupied exclusively with its immanent precision, contemplates itself as pure language, born of pure conventionality. In the field of mathematics, truth and falsehood cease to be regarded as values: the simple fact that a theorem is false does not mean anything to the mathematician, since the very consciousness of falsehood can lead to the discovery of new exactitudes and new means by which mathematical language explores its own self. Innocent at first sight, mathematical narcissism reveals its wickedness when its spirit is transposed into practice. Putting mathematical knowledge into practice (which the ancient Greeks avoided, intuiting its dangers) is by no means a confirmation of its truth value in an ontological sense. It is nothing more than the possibility of transferring language and linguistic devices from the ideal plane onto the material one. This is shown, among others, by all modern technology, which could be considered a mode of reproducing or simulating, mechanically, the operations of mathematical language. For centuries on end, tools were perceived (starting from an organic model) as extensions of the human hand; today, the typical tools of civilization appear clearly as extensions of mathematical language.
The world in which we live tends to place itself, without our even realizing it, under the sign of tautology, under the sign of Narcissus turned mathematician. Its symbol could be (and actually is) this restless little man, whose mind does nothing else but invent games, games that play, endlessly, with their own inventions. Beyond his explicit statements, he keeps repeating one and the same thing: Truth is dead! And this claim, which should make us shudder, does not bother us in the least.”

  A POEM TOSSED INTO THE TRASH BIN OF A PUBLIC GARDEN BY ZACHARIAS LICHTER AND RETRIEVED BY HIS BIOGRAPHER

  How distant is nearness

  how distinct darkness

  how simple is intricacy

  how intricate simplicity

  divinely large the small

  divinely meek the grand

  divinely clear the vague as well

  and sharp as ice the disgust

  and luminously great the thirst

  by thirst itself pervaded

  and darkly vast the tidings

  the old word-rag in the mouth

  the word that tells nothing

  a world submerged in fog

  that the tongue thrusts through

  how it tastes of fog in silence

  how distant is nearness

  ON OLD PEOPLE

  “OLD PEOPLE”—Zacharias Lichter was once saying—“are on intimate terms with both life and death . . . Their possessions diminish (together with their aptitude for possession) and sometimes disappear, melting away like vapor into the air. Little by little old age impoverishes them. Even if some still seem wealthy, they all face the pure, naked, and ineffable obliteration of being.