by Henry Miller
Strange, I murmured.
Not so very, said Claude. Many men have had the same experience. Once, when I was in a little village in China, a man met me on the street and, taking me by the arm, he said: ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come. You arrived exactly on time.’ He was a magician. He practised the black arts.
Are you a magician too? I asked jokingly.
Hardly, said Claude. And in the same tone he added: I practise divination. It’s a gift I was born with.
But it doesn’t help you much, does it?
True, he replied, but it permits me to help others. That is, if they wish to be helped.
And you want to help me?
If I can.
Before you go any further, said I, supposing you tell me a little about yourself. Mona has told me something of your life, but it all sounds rather confusing. Tell me this, if you don’t mind—do you know where you were born and who your father and mother were?
Claude looked straight into my eyes. That’s what I’m trying to find out, he said. Perhaps you can be of help. You wouldn’t have appeared in my dreams so often if you weren’t of importance in my life.
Your dreams? Tell me, how do I appear to you in dream?
In various roles, said Claude promptly. Sometimes as a father, sometimes as a devil, and sometimes as a ministering angel. Whenever you appear it’s to the strain of music. Celestial music, I would say.
I was at a loss what to say to this.
You are aware, of course, Claude continued, that you have power over others. Great power. You seldom employ it, however. When you do you usually misuse it. You’re ashamed of your better self, if I may put it that way. You’d rather be thought wicked than good. And you are wicked at times—wicked and cruel—especially to those who are fond of you. That’s what you’ve got to work out … But you’ll soon be put to the test!
There’s something eerie about you, Claude. I begin to suspect that you do have second sight, or whatever you choose to call it.
To this Claude replied: You’re essentially a man of faith. A man of great faith. The skeptic in you is a transitory phenomenon, a heritage from the past, from some other life. You’ve got to throw off your doubts—self doubts, above all—they’re suffocating you. A being like yourself has only to throw himself on the world and he will float like a cork. Nothing truly evil will ever touch you or affect you. You were made to walk through the fires. But if you shun your true role, and you alone know what that is, you will be burned to a cinder. That’s the clearest thing I know about you. I admitted quite frankly that what he had just said was neither vague nor unfamiliar to me. I’ve had inklings of such things a number of times. At the moment, however, nothing is altogether clear to me. Go on, if you will, I’m all ears.
What’s brought us together, said Claude, is that we are both seeking our true parents. You asked me where I was born. I was a foundling; my parents left me on stoop somewhere in the Bronx. I have a suspicion that my parents, whoever they were, came from Asia. Mongolia perhaps. When I look into your eyes I am almost convinced of it. You have Mongol blood, beyond a doubt. Has no one ever remarked it before?
I now took a deep look at the young man who was telling me all this. I took him in as you would a tall drink of water when you’re very thirsty. Mongol blood! Of course I had heard it before! And always from the same sort of people. Whenever the word Mongol came up it registered on me like a pass-word. We’re on to you! is what it usually conveyed. Whether I admitted or denied it, I was one of them.
The Mongol business was, of course, more symbolical than genealogical. The Mongols were the bearers of secret tidings. At some remote period in the past, when the world wag one and when its real rulers kept their identity hidden, we Mongols were there, (Strange language? Mongols talk only this way.) There was something physical, or physiological, or physiognomical at least, which characterized all who belonged to this strange clan. What distinguished them from the rest of humanity was the expression about the eyes. It was neither the color, shape or look of the eye: it was the way the eyes were set off, or set in, the way they swam in their mysterious sockets. Veiled ordinarily, in talk these veils peeled off, one after another, until one had the impression of peering into a deep black hole.
Studying Claude, my gaze came to rest on the two black holes in the center of his eyes. They were fathomless. For a full minute or two not another word was exchanged. Neither of us felt embarrassed or uncomfortable. We simply stared at each other like two lizards. The Mongol look of mutual recognition.
It was I who broke the spell. I told him that he reminded me slightly of Deerslayer—of Deerslayer and Daniel Boone combined. With just a touch of Nebuchadnezzar!
He laughed. I’ve passed for many things, he said. The Navajos thought I had Indian blood in my veins. Maybe I have too…
I’m sure you have a drop of Jewish blood, said I. Not because of the Bronx! I added.
I was raised by Jews, said Claude. Until I was eight years of age I heard nothing but Russian and Yiddish. At ten I ran away from home.
Where was that—what you call home?
A little village in the Crimea, not far from Sevastopol. I had been transplanted there when I was six months old. He paused a moment. He started to say something about memory, then dropped it. When I first heard English, he resumed, I recognized it as a familiar tongue, though I had heard it only during the first six months of my life. I learned English almost instinctively, in less than no time. As you notice, I speak it without trace of accent. Chinese also came easy to me, though I really never became proficient in it…
Excuse me, I interrupted, but how many languages do you speak, would you mind telling me? He hesitated a moment, as if making a quick calculation. Frankly, he replied, I can’t tell. I know at least a dozen, certainly. It’s nothing to be proud of; I have a natural flair for language. Besides, when you knock about the world you can’t help but pick up languages.
But Hungarian! I exclaimed. Surely that didn’t come easy to you!
He gave me an indulgent smile. I don’t know why people think Hungarian is so difficult. There are Indian tongues right here in North America which are far more difficult—from the standpoint of pure linguistics, I mean. But no language is difficult if you’re living it. To know Turkish, Hungarian, Arabic or the Navajo tongue you have to become as one of them, that’s all.
But you’re so young! How could you have had time to … ?
Age means nothing, he interrupted. It isn’t age which makes us wise. Nor even experience, as people pretend. It’s the quickness of the spirit. The quick and the dead … You, of all people, should know what I mean. There are only two classes in this world—and in every world—the quick and the dead. For those who cultivate the spirit nothing is impossible. For the others, everything is impossible, or incredible, or futile. When you live day after day with the impossible you begin to wonder what the word means. Or rather, how it ever came to mean what it does. There’s a world of light, in which everything is clear and manifest, and there’s a world of confusion, where all is murky and obscure. The two worlds are really one. Those in the world of darkness get a glimpse now and then of the realm of light, but those in the world of light know nothing of darkness. The men of light Cast no shadow. Evil is unknown to them. Nor do they harbor resentment. They move without chains or fetters. Until I returned to this country I associated only with such men. In some ways my life is stranger than you think. Why did I go among the Navajos? To find peace and understanding. If I had been born in another time I might have been a Christ or a Buddha. Here I’m a bit of a freak. Even you have difficulty not to think that way about me.
Here he gave me a mysterious smile. For a full moment I felt as though my heart had stopped.
Did you feel something strange then? said Claude, his smile now transformed into a more human one.
I did indeed, said I, unconsciously placing a hand over my heart.
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, permanently 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 stepping stones, 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, remember that! You are to liberate yourself. There are no exercises, physical or spiritual, to practise. All such things are like incense—they awaken a feeling of holiness. We must be 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 know 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. The 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 remember 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…
When I walked away I was floating in the clouds. I had my briefcase with me, as usual, but all thought of calling on prospects was gone. I got into the subway automatically and out again automatically—at Times Square. Whenever I had no set destination I would get out automatically at Times Square. There I always came upon the rambla, the Nevsky Prospekt, the souks and bazaars of the damned.
The thoughts and emotions which possessed me were almost frighteningly familiar. They were the same which I experienced when I first heard my old friend Roy Hamilton talk, when first I listened to Benjamin Fay Mills, the Evangelist, when first I glanced at that strange book, Esoteric Buddhism, when I read at one gulp the Too Teh Ch’ing, or—whenever I picked up The Possessed, The Idiot, or The Brothers Karamazov. The cows-bells which I carried under my ribs began clanking wildly; in the belfry above it was as if all the stars in the heavens had come together to make a celestial bonfire. There was no weight to my body, none whatever. I was at the six extremes simultaneously.
There was a language which never failed to set me off—and it was always the same language. Boiled to the size of a lentil, its whole scope and purport could be expressed in two words: Know thyself! Alone with myself, and not only alone but disconnected, discalibrated, I ran up and down the harmonica, talking the one and only language, breathing only the pure ineffable spirit, looking upon everything with new eyes and in an absolutely new way. No birth, no death? Of course not! What more, what else, could there be than was at . this moment? Who said that everything was fucked up? Where? When? On the seventh day God rested from his labors. And He saw that all was good. D’accord. How could it have been otherwise? Why should it be otherwise? According to reason, that fat wingless slug, humanity was slowly, slowly evolving from the primordial slime. A million years hence we would begin faintly to resemble the angels. What rot! Is the mind encysted, then, in the ass-hole of creation? When Roy Hamilton spoke, though he possessed not a shred of learning, he spoke with the sweet authority of the angels. He was all instantaneity. The wheel flashed and you were immediately at the hub, in the center of that empty space without which not even the constellations can wheel and flash their secret codes. Ditto for Benjamin Fay Mills, who was not an Evangelist but a hero who had abandoned Christianity in order to be a Christ. And Nirvana? Not tomorrow but now, forever and eternally now…
This language was ever bright and clear to me. The language of reason, which is not even the language of common sense, spelled gibberish. When God lets go the arm that holds the pen the author no longer knows what he is writing. Jacob Boehme used a language all his own, a language direct from the Maker. Scholars read it one way, men of God another. The poet speaks only to the poet. Spirit answereth spirit. The rest is hog-wash.
A hundred voices are speaking at once. I am still on the Nevsky Prospekt, still toting the brief-case. I could as well be in limbo. I am most assuredly there, wherever that may be, and nothing can derail me. Possessed, yes. But by the great Manitou this time.
Now I’ve gotten below the rambla. I’m approaching the old Haymarket. Suddenly a name juts out from a billboard, cuts my eye-ball just as clean as a razor-blade. I have just passed a theatre which I thought had been torn down long ago. Nothing remains in the retina but a name, her name, an utterly new name: MIMI AGUGLIA. This is the important thing, her name. Not that she is Italian, not that the play is an immortal tragedy. Just her name: MIMI AGUGLIA. Though I keep walking steadily ahead, and then round and about, though I keep scudding through the clouds like a three-quarter moon, her name will draw me back punctually at 2.15 P.M.
From the celestial realm I slide to a comfortable seat in the third row orchestra. I am about to witness the greatest performance I shall probably ever witness. And in a language of which I know not a word.
The theatre is packed—and with Italians exclusively. An awesome hush precedes the rising of the curtain. The stage is semi-dark. For a full minute not a word is spoken. Then a voice is heard: the voice of Mimi Aguglia.
Only a few moments ago my head was seething with thought; now all is still, the great swarm gathered in a honey-comb at the base of the skull. Not even a buzz issues from the hive. My senses, sharpened to a diamond point, are fully concentrated on the strange creature with the oracular voice. Even were she to speak a language I know, I doubt that I could follow her. It is the sounds she makes, the immense gamut of sound, which enthralls me. Her throat
is like an ancient lyre. So very, very ancient. It has the ring of man before he ate of the tree of knowledge. Her gestures and movements are mere accompaniments to the voice. The features, monolithic in repose, express the most subtle modulations with her ceaseless changes of mood. When she throws her head back, the oracular music from her throat plays over her features like lightning playing over a bed of mica. She seems to express with ease emotions which we can only stimulate in dream. All is primordial, effulgent, annihilating. A moment ago she was sitting in a chair. It is no longer a chair; it has become a thing, an animated thing. Wherever she moves, whatever she touches, things become altered. Now she stands before a tall mirror, ostensibly to catch her own reflection. Illusion! She is standing before a gap in the cosmos, answering the Titan’s yawn with an inhuman shriek. Her heart, suspended in a crevice of ice, suddenly glows—until her whole being shoots forth flames of ruby and sapphire. Another instant and the monolithic head turns to jade. The serpent confronting chaos. Marble returning in horror to the void. Nothingness…
She is pacing back and forth, back and forth, and in her wake a phosphorescent glow. The very atmosphere thickens, impregnated by the impending horror. She is unveiling now, but as if in warm oil, as if still drugged by the fumes of the sacrificial altar. A phrase gurgles from her tortured lips, a strangled phrase which causes the man beside me to groan. Blood oozes from a burst vein in her temple. Petrified, I am unable to make a sound, though I am screaming at the top of my lungs. It is no longer theatre, it is the nightmare. The walls close in, twisting and twining like the dread labyrinth. The Minotaur is breathing upon us with hot and evil breath. At precisely this moment, and as if a thousand chandeliers had been shattered at once, her mad, fiendish laugh splits the ear. She is no longer recognizable. One sees only a human wreck, a tangle of arms and limbs, a mass of twisted hair, a gory mouth, and this, this thing, gropes, staggers, grapples blindly, suddenly, towards the wings-Hysteria sweeps the audience. Men with jaws locked are hanging limp in their seats. Women, scream, faint, or tear their hair convulsively. The whole auditorium has become like the bottom of the sea—and pandemonium struggling like a crazed gorilla to remove the heavy liquid stone of fright. The ushers gesticulate like puppets, their shouts smothered in the screeching roar which gradually swells like a typhoon. And all this in total darkness, because something has gone wrong with the lights. Finally from the pit comes the sound of music, a blare and a blast, which is met by an angry roar of protest. The music fades out, silenced as if by a hammer. The curtain rises slowly to reveal a stage still in darkness. Suddenly she comes forth from the wings, a lighted taper in her hand, bowing, bowing, bowing. She is mute, absolutely mute. From the boxes, from the balconies, from the pit itself flowers rain down upon the stage. She is standing in a sea of flowers, the taper burning brightly. Suddenly the theatre is flooded with light. The crowd is screaming her name—MIMI … MIMI … MIMI AGUGLIA. In the midst of the uproar she calmly blows the taper out and walks swiftly back to the wings…