The Life and Opinions of Zacharias Lichter

by Matei Calinescu

  On no account would he see a doctor, for he regarded illness as perfectly natural, and thus never complained about it. If he mentioned in passing that he was ill, he did so solely to warn those with whom he came in contact that he might be contagious. The terror Doctor S. awoke in him seemed to extend (albeit in a much attenuated form) to all representatives of the medical profession, regardless of their field. “From a certain age on,” he used to say, taking up again an earlier observation, “we each become our own best doctor, in the most practical sense: we know what agrees with our body and what doesn’t, what helps us recover and what only aggravates the illness.” On the other hand, Lichter considered fear of illness much more damaging than illness itself. He believed that modern society suffers from a true psychosis of prophylaxis: starting from a number of erroneous presuppositions, society inevitably arrived at even more erroneous conclusions that were nearly dizzying to those who approached them with clear reasoning or even simple “common sense.”

  “Cleanliness has thus lost any ritualistic meaning,” Zacharias Lichter would point out, “rather than a participation in the essence of purity, as it once was, it has been transformed into a mere precautionary hygienic measure. Now there is even a tendency to ‘explain’ (in the grossly distorting vision of the history of religions) the various cultic obligations, interdictions, and recommendations as sanitary measures dressed in religious garb in order to gain greater authority in backward societies dominated by a superstitious-magical mentality. Thus, for instance”—Lichter could multiply the examples at will—“the various food exclusions, and fasting itself, are today interpreted as empirical prescriptions, belonging to the prehistory of modern nutrition regimens. And it is forgotten that, after all, not what was forbidden or prescribed was of importance (in that regard, no matter how we look at things, we find ourselves in the realm of the completely arbitrary). What counted was the existence of a rigorous system of interdictions and sanctions with a purely ritualistic value. Their observance made possible (only possible, never certain, because in this domain the mechanical relations established by scientific intellect have no place) an ineffable intimacy with the sacred.

  “In the Realm of Stupidity”—Zacharias Lichter was saying—“an entire intellectual category distinguishes itself by what could be called inventiveness in the sphere of illness, and this inventiveness is often of an extraordinary acuity. Here we have, undoubtedly, a consequence of the mistaken conception (in this case mistaken and guilty are one and the same) regarding the normal state, the essence of normality. In the Realm of Stupidity, a normal condition and access to it imply sacrificing individuality (abnormal, by definition). Health has become a norm, an ideal even, and illness has totally lost its paradoxical value, its capacity to express the natural and the lack of meaning of the natural.

  “A real chasm has opened between health and illness. The opposition between the spiritual and the nonspiritual has also been replaced by, among other specious oppositions, that of health vs. illness, which accords so well with the requirements devised by the practical spirit. Imperceptibly—and not surprisingly—a kind of a debased religion of health, of ‘normality,’ has been created, obsessed with the problem of illness. Thus, besides those known for ages, thousands and tens of thousands of illnesses, one more complicated than the other, have been invented and along with them, equally complicated means of combatting them. And this merely in the name of health and the repugnantly abstract idolatry of health as a goal in itself. The vast, precious experience of illness and suffering which, in its own way, every religion of the world sought to keep and pass on, is dissipated and lost without trace. (Think again of Job, of his chaste body covered with boils and pus, of the innumerable excruciating torments that have shaped Job’s ever-questioning wisdom.)

  “Open sores, festering boils, a racing pulse, the eyes rolled back, their light turned inward, the shaking, the desperate cries of the ill, pain or the absence of pain, delirium or clear-mindedness are today nothing more than symptoms, more or less manifest, more or less ‘characteristic.’ The codification of all these symptoms, their systematization into an over-confident semiology (doubled by an etiology and a therapeutics that are equally variable, equally hypothetical, in spite of all the practical results) have contributed to the transformation of medicine into a ‘science’ that measures its progress through statistics recording efficiency. Lowering the coefficient of mortality, extending the average life span—these are the great prides of modern science, to which may soon be added genetic control, eugenics, euthanasia and even—why not?—the artificial replication of human life. Everything, of course, in the name of Man, based on the irrefutable arguments of scientific morality.

  “How can we fail to see that medicine, along with the other more or less related branches of biological science, is nothing but a serious malady? That, together with the life sciences as a whole, medicine does nothing but dissect life, reduce it to its components, decompose it, and while recomposing it, estrange it from its mysterious and holy sources, falsifying and further degrading it? That we are facing an extremely dangerous attempt to de-spiritualize life? That we are witnessing an attempt to replace life with mere simulacra?

  “In fact”—Zacharias Lichter went on—“in the Realm of Stupidity, what medicine proposes is not to understand suffering and illness as phenomena of real life, and not even to alleviate them: the goals of the medicine are ‘reproductive’ (one seeks to reproduce the physical and psychical state anterior to illness by doing one’s best to eradicate all its traces and consequences, even the consciousness of having been ill) and quantitative-statistical. That we could learn something from illness that does not accord with the known, that by contemplating life threatened by death we could extract a lesson, a sense of sanctity, an ineffable mystery, nothing is more alien to these goals than the present profession of medicine. They have forgotten, alas, that the true healer must love the one who suffers, must love his unique illness, must study his disease until he experiences it himself, until he partakes in the weakness, the fear, the agony and wisdom of the sick, even in their approaching death. They have forgotten, alas, that the true healer must not convince the one who is sick of the efficacies of his remedies and advice, but convince the sufferer to return his love: by sharing his strength, his confidence, his well-being and naiveté, and even his death, which is still far off and will perhaps be gentler and more serene. One other important thing the true healer must do: prevent the one who suffers from forgetting . . .

  “If we leave aside its grand ambitions and the great perils born of them, medicine remains a trade that can be practiced with greater or lesser professional integrity; a trade that aims to restore the patient, to reinstate him to his exact condition prior to the illness, or to a condition as close as possible to it. Medical practice, seen as a social effort (the purpose of which, in the final analysis, is to restore the patient’s productive capacity), participates in the game of economic values and, as such, receives its remuneration. Thus it clearly falls into the realm of having. Yet healing can be only an act of love, a manifestation of being, even if it utilizes one or another of the means supplied by medicine. The goal of healing is altogether different: the healer does not dispel illness but takes it unto himself; recovery does not appear as the result of science but—as in fact it has always been—as a miracle.”

  Several times, when Leopold Nacht had fallen gravely ill, Lichter himself watched over him, caring for him with utter dedication, never leaving his bedside. Moreover, he did for his friend what he would never have done for himself: he called a doctor and scrupulously followed his prescriptions.

  ON MIRRORS

  ZACHARIAS Lichter’s handful of initiates were concerned about the turn his friendship with Leopold Nacht was taking. Indeed, for some time now, Lichter could no longer talk without bringing up Nacht, commenting on his silences or gestures, with no apparent reference to their meaning, or rather lack of meaning. Thus once, when Nacht was drunk—no
thing is more predictable in such circumstances—he broke out in a meaningless rage. Groaning and gnashing his teeth, he threw his glass, still half-filled with vodka, at the greasy mirror of the tavern, slanted just above the table at which he sat with Zacharias Lichter. The mirror did not break, but the drinking glass shattered, attracting the attention—in spite of the general hubbub—of a few clients at neighboring tables. Turning his rage upon himself, Nacht suddenly grabbed a knife—one of those dull knives found in common taverns, with a gray, soiled blade—and quickly thrust it, with almost incredible force, through his left hand, which was lying palm-up upon the table; the blow was so strong that the blade penetrated to the wood.

  Profoundly shaken, Zacharias Lichter later explained: “In attempting to break the mirror, Nacht was trying—desperately—to institute paradisiac knowledge. He wished to break all the mirrors of the world by means of which we are condemned to guess our faces. He wanted to destroy illusion and proclaim the triumph of seeing: face to face. But he did not succeed. Are we to remain in reflection’s bondage then—how long? how long? And who will free us from the world of mirrors? Nacht’s failure must have seemed absolute. That is why he felt the need to punish himself, to thrust the knife through the hand that failed. I will never forget, when he pulled out the knife, how blood spread like a red lily in his palm. I could not help but kiss Nacht’s bloody hand. Even now I can taste his blood in my mouth; it tastes of metal, of earth, and of resurrection.”

  That evening Poldy got so drunk that Lichter had to carry him on his back to the nearest park. He laid him down on a bench, covered him with his own jacket, and watched over him till dawn . . .

  INNOCENCE AND GUILT

  ON ONE occasion, Zacharias Lichter disappeared and did not return for several weeks. The absence was too long to be attributed to one of his enigmatic “flights.” On his return, his acquaintances were baffled to hear that he had been detained by the police on a charge of theft—a charge against which, although innocent, he had not protested. They only released him when, by sheer chance, they caught the real thief. Even then Lichter said nothing, not did he complain of the brutal treatment he had been subjected to, like any ordinary criminal, during detention.

  “What was I to do?” Zacharias Lichter explained. “It’s extremely disagreeable to be unjustly accused, but it’s much more unpleasant—and the term seems to me too weak—to have to proclaim one’s innocence. For truly there is something odious and profoundly indecent in every attempt to deny guilt. Had I been sentenced to ten years in prison for a crime I’d never dreamt of, I still would have not demeaned myself to prove my innocence. Even if I’d been threatened with being burnt at the stake for an idea I did not share—an idea that seemed to me false, fallacious, or repellent—I would have preferred to be a martyr in its name than make an effort to disavow it.

  “Claiming one’s innocence (no matter how justified) is ultimately demeaning because it always seems dictated by a cowardly acceptance of the accuser’s criteria. In such a case, innocence is no longer the absence of guilt but fuses with mere lack of sufficient evidence of guilt. Innocence is degraded to the point of being reduced to an alibi (imagine a saint, a victim of the inquisitor’s error or animus, being forced to resort to alibis! It is absurd! He will accept any accusation, even of having made a pact with the devil, because the essence of any accusation is that it is always justified). Actually, nothing is clearer: purity cannot, should not be proved. Attempting to do so negates purity, irreversibly soils it. No matter what crime you stand accused of, defending yourself before anyone other than God is the vilest of vile deeds.

  “After all, I did nothing but assume the very essence of justice. To those who asked me: ‘Did you steal?’ I answered: ‘It is possible that I stole and equally possible that I did not.’ Though such true answers are rare, the investigators did not appear at all mystified. They would laugh and offer me a cigarette, or else slap me or spit in my face (which, for them, is one and the same) . . .

  “On the whole,” Lichter reflected aloud, “one of the most dizzying abysses that has opened is between justice and morality. The very formulas which morality must breach in order to exist, triumph where justice is concerned: a pitiful, sinister triumph. Seeing it, I am sincerely tempted, if they insist on accusing me again, to declare myself a thief or a murderer rather than try to appear honest and dirty myself with the filth of false arguments. For I can be honest only before God . . .

  “And besides,” Lichter continued, “I felt that my soul was at ease among thieves, so much so that I would have become a martyr to the very idea of stealing with no regrets. Among modern myths few have more substance than that of the thief who gives to the poor.

  “Just as between magnetic poles, there is great attraction between beggars and thieves. This explains why someone like me, who has assumed the profound vocation of begging, can swiftly and accurately understand the inner essence of thieves—from delicate, modest, almost virginal pickpockets to professional burglars or headstrong highway brigands. Rarely have I met anyone with a weaker sense of ownership than true thieves. For them stealing is simply one of the forms that revolt can take against having; thus, under certain conditions, stealing becomes an existential act. There are, of course, thieves that steal only to increase their possessions, for whom, in other words, the purpose, the essence of their acts is not stealing but accumulating. They are the ones who (if their honesty is called into question) usually manage to convince others they are telling the truth, and thus one rarely sees them serving time in prison. It’s not of them that I speak, although they are the most numerous, but of those who, without declaring it, are filled, deep inside, with pride at being thieves (and chuckle with indulgent superiority when they are taken for something else): of those for whom stealing is a vocation.”

  And, letting himself be cradled by an utopian thought, Zacharias Lichter concluded: “I have long dreamed—an unattainable dream, yet so tenacious—of a massive social upheaval in which the majority of people become beggars. But now I realize that I must make room, in this grand revolution, for thieves as well. All will work voluntarily and without pay; in order to survive some will beg and others will steal. Ideally, beggars will seek alms from thieves, and thieves will steal from beggars. This is now my vision of the perfect citadel!”

  ON SELF-INDULGENCE

  HIS PUNY figure, with its loose-jointed, erratic gestures, compels you to focus your attention first on his eyeglasses, which are so old and worn they appear to grow directly from the bridge of his nose. This impression is strengthened by the fact that one of the lenses is broken, a few sharp splinters still protruding from the frame. The other lens, though intact, is so darkened and speckled with dirt that the eye behind it appears lifeless, as though veiled by smoke. Ordinary wire, rusted by now, connects the eyeglass frames to the ears, twisting clumsily around them. T. the Great—as he likes to style himself, with obvious irony—never removes these vestiges of eyeglasses which, like the object of some strange cult, have long since lost their function and are now elevated to the rank of a symbol.

  Unable to use the eye behind the broken lens, T. the Great orients himself in the world of the sighted as best he can with the other eye, its moist globe shielded by a wrinkled, hoary lid that blinks rapidly, creating the somewhat sickly and startled impression often found in the nearsighted. More so than the eyes, however, his ears have been disfigured by his obstinate decision to never remove his glasses. They are completely deformed by the wire wound about them and display old grooves long since rubbed raw, now scarred and rust-stained. His face is glabrous, imparting to it an uncomfortably juvenile look, though he is nearly forty. This impression, however, does not withstand closer scrutiny, for the rather dry skin of his cheeks is crisscrossed by a fine web of wrinkles.

  A nimble and paradoxical spirit, T. the Great stands out from the bohemian society he frequents not only through his carefully crafted ugliness, but also by his bizarre penchant for self-disparagement.
Whenever he talks about himself, he inflects his speech with accents that range from cruel irony to scorn and loathing, so that not even his fiercest (and cleverest) enemy can slander him more artfully. And truly, “art” is the most suitable word here, for the monstrous image T. the Great presents—or invents—for himself carries arcane and erudite aesthetic overtones. Even so, many think that the ambiguities of his behavior reflect an authentic inner conflict and indicate a nature tragically split. Nothing could be further from the truth, as we learn from Zacharias Lichter, who often encounters T. the Great in the various pubs he frequents in the company of Leopold Nacht.

  “This man”—says Lichter—“hasn’t tormented and disfigured himself in order to shed his individuality or to transcend it, but to impose it upon others. He represents the resentment of those who suffer from self-indulgence, who delight in transforming their fits of hysteria or frustration and their senseless minor tantrums into displays of universal anxiety. To someone like him, even the monstrous is simply an arena for self-indulgence and stimulating aesthetic pleasure. His behavior allows us insight into an inner tendency so mawkish and shameless it nauseates me—an otherwise unbearable feeling I can only dispel by transforming it into pity. His case, however, is not without interest. Viewed from a certain distance, calmly and dispassionately, it offers a perfect illustration of the strategy of self-indulgence. In general, we believe that those who enjoy being pampered aspire to comfort and luxury, which may be true on a superficial level. But those who suffer from more serious forms of the spiritual malady I call self-indulgence seek a more refined—and more distasteful—gratification in the tragic, the ugly, and the distorted . . . Thus hedonists find total gratification only in the pain of tragedy; the handsome, only in deformity; aristocrats, only in squalor and even begging. The result has been an aestheticizing of suffering, of ugliness, of poverty—an act which empties these states of all spiritual content and transforms them into simple rhetorical modes. Self-indulgence corrupts and belittles all that it touches. And, alas, when I look at the twisted and willfully grotesque figure of T. the Great I feel almost ashamed of my own ugliness. The longer I think about him, the more ashamed I am of my own suffering, and poverty, my most notable philosophical work, appears to me no more than a hollow word.”