Mount Analogue

by Rene Daumal

  On my side, there were:

  IVAN LAPSE, thirty-five to forty, Russian of Finnish origin, a remarkable linguist. Especially remarkable among linguists because he was capable of expressing himself orally or in writing with simplicity, elegance, and accuracy in three or four different languages. Author of Les Langues des langues [The Tongue of Tongues] and of a Grammaire comparée des languages de gestes [A Comparative Grammar of the Languages of Gestures]. A small, pale man, with an elongated, bald cranium fringed with black hair, with long, slanted dark eyes, an aquiline nose, a clean-shaven face, and a rather sad mouth. An excellent glacier climber, he had a weakness for high altitude bivouacs.

  ALPHONSE CAMARD, French, fifty, a prolific and admired poet, bearded, barrel-chested, with a rather Verlainian lethargy, redeemed by a warm, attractive voice. A liver ailment prevented him from lengthy ascents, so he consoled himself by writing fine poems about the mountains.

  EMILE GORGE, French, twenty-five, journalist, a sociable, persuasive type, passionate about music and choreography, on which he wrote cleverly. A virtuoso of “rappel de corde,” who preferred the descent to the climb. Small, oddly built, scrawny with a chubby face, thick lips, and no chin to speak of.

  JUDITH PANCAKE, an American friend of my wife’s, around thirty, a painter of mountain peaks. Moreover, she is the only real painter of mountain peaks that I know. She has truly understood that the view from a high peak does not fit into the same perceptual framework as a still life or an ordinary landscape. Her canvases admirably express the circular structure of space in the higher altitudes. She does not consider herself an “artist.” She paints simply to “have souvenirs” of her climbs. But she does it in such a workmanlike way that her pictures, with their curved perspectives, are strikingly reminiscent of those frescoes in which the old religious painters tried to represent the concentric circles of the celestial worlds.

  On Sogol’s side, there were, according to his description:

  ARTHUR BEAVER, between forty-five and fifty, physician; yachtsman and mountaineer, and of course English; knows the Latin names, behavior, and properties of all the animals and plants found in all the highest mountains on earth. Not really happy except at an altitude above 15,000 feet. He forbade me from publishing in this account how long and with what equipment he had reached the summit of a particular peak in the Himalyas because, he said, “as a physician, a gentleman, and a true mountaineer, he avoided fame like the plague.” He had a tall bony body, silvery blond hair paler than his tanned face, high, arching eyebrows, and lips poised delicately between naivete and irony.

  HANS and KARL, two brothers—no one ever mentioned their family name—of around twenty-five and twenty-eight respectively, Austrian, specialists in acrobatic ascents. Both blond, but the first with an ovoid head, the second a rather square one; brilliantly fit with grips of steel and eagle eyes. Hans was studying mathematical physics and astronomy. Karl was interested chiefly in Eastern metaphysics.

  Arthur Beaver, Hans, and Karl were the three friends Sogol had mentioned who formed, with him, an inseparable team.

  JULIE BONASSE, between twenty-five and thirty, a Belgian actress. Just then she was having quite a successful career on the stage in Paris, Brussels, and Geneva. She was the confidante of a pack of young nobodies, whom she was guiding in the ways of the most sublime spirituality. She said, “I adore Ibsen” and “I adore chocolate eclairs” with the same tone of mouth-watering conviction. She believed in the existence of the “glacier fairy,” and in winter she did a lot of skiing at the resorts where cable lifts take you up to the highest slopes.

  BENITO CICORIA, around thirty, a ladies’ tailor in Paris. Small, dapper, and a Hegelian. Although Italian by birth, he belonged to a school of mountaineering that might be roughly called the “German school.” The method of this school might be summed up as follows: attack the steepest face of the mountain by the least favorable route subject to the greatest rock slides, and climb directly toward the summit, without looking to the right or the left for a more convenient way around. Usually you kill yourself, but from time to time a national party, roped together, reaches the summit alive.

  With Sogol, my wife, and myself, that made a dozen people.

  The guests arrived more or less on time. I mean by this that since the meeting was set for four o’clock, Mr. Beaver was there first, at 3:59, and that Julie Bonasse, the last to arrive, delayed by a rehearsal, made her appearance just as the bells struck 4:30.

  After the hubbub of introductions, we settled around a large trestle table and our host took the floor. He described the general outline of the conversation he had had with me, restated his conviction that Mount Analogue did indeed exist, and declared that he was going to organize an expedition to explore it.

  “Most of you,” he went on, “already know how I have been able to circumscribe the field of investigation in a first approximation. But two or three people are not yet up to date, and for them and also to refresh the memory of others, I shall go over my deductions again.”

  At this point he shot me a mischievous and meaningful glance, demanding my complicity in this clever lie. For no one, of course, was up to date. But by this simple ruse, each person had the impression that he was part of an ignorant minority, of being one of the “two or three who were not yet up to date,” and, feeling the force of a convinced majority around them, hastened to be convinced himself. This method of Sogol’s for “putting the audience in his pocket,” as he later told me, was a simple application—he said—of the mathematical method that consists of “considering the problem solved”; or, jumping to chemistry, “an example of a chain reaction.” But if this ruse was in the service of the truth, could it still be called a lie? In any case, everyone pricked up his ears.

  “I shall sum up the premises,” he said. “First, Mount Analogue must be much higher than the highest mountains presently known. Its summit must be inaccessible by means presently known. But second, its base must be accessible to us, and its lower slopes must be already inhabited by human beings like us, since it is the path that effectively links our present human domain to the upper regions. Inhabited, therefore habitable. Therefore presenting a set of conditions of climate, flora, fauna, cosmic influences of all sorts not so different from those of our continents. Since the mountain itself is extremely high, its base must be quite broad to sustain it: it must be an area at least as large as those of the largest islands on our planet—New Guinea, Borneo, Madagascar, perhaps even Australia.

  “This said, three questions arise: How has this territory so far escaped the investigations of travelers? How do we gain access to it? And where is it?

  “To begin with, I will answer the first question, which seems the most difficult to resolve. How could a mountain higher than all the peaks of the Himalayas really exist on our Earth without being detected? We know, though, a priori, by virtue of the laws of analogy, that it must exist. To explain why it has not yet been detected, several hypotheses come to mind. First, it might be found on the continent of the South Pole, which is still to some extent unknown. But mapping the points already reached on this continent and determining, by a simple geometric construction, the space that the human gaze could embrace from these points, we see that an elevation of more than 8,000 meters could not pass undetected—in this region or any other part of the planet.”

  This argument seemed to me, geographically speaking, rather debatable. But fortunately no one took up the gauntlet. He went on:

  “Are we dealing with a subterranean mountain, then? Certain legends, told principally in Mongolia and Tibet, allude to a subterranean world, abode of the “King of the World,” where traditional knowledge is preserved like an imperishable seed. But this realm does not correspond to the second condition of Mount Analogue; it could not offer a biological setting sufficiently akin to ours; and even if this subterranean world exists, it is likely to be found precisely beneath the slopes of Mount Analogue. All hypotheses of this kind being inadmissible, we a
re led to pose the problem differently. The territory in question must be able to exist in any region on the surface of the globe; therefore we must study under what conditions it remains inaccessible, not only to ships, airplanes or other vehicles, but even to the eye. I mean that it might be quite possible, theoretically, for it to exist in the middle of this table without our having the slightest inkling.

  “To make myself understood, I will give you an analogous case.”

  He went into the next room to find a dish, put it on the table, and filled it with oil. He tore a piece of paper into tiny fragments, which he tossed onto the surface of the liquid.

  “I have chosen oil because this highly viscous liquid will allow me to demonstrate my point more clearly than with water, for example. Let us assume that this oily surface is the surface of our planet. This bit of paper, a continent. This smaller piece, a ship. With the point of this needle, I gently push the ship towards the continent; you see that I never manage to get there. Within several millimeters of the shore, it seems to be repelled by a ring of oil that surrounds the continent. Of course, by pushing a little harder I manage to arrive. But if the superficial tension of the liquid were greater, you would see my boat circle around the continent without ever touching it. Now, suppose this invisible structure of oil around the continent repelled not only so-called ‘material’ bodies but light rays as well. The navigator on the ship continues to circle around the continent, not only without touching it but without even seeing it.

  “This analogy is now too crude, so let’s set it aside. You know, though, that any body does, in point of fact, exert a repulsive action of this kind on light rays that pass near it. This fact, theoretically foreseen by Einstein, was verified by the astronomers Eddington and Crommelin, on March 30, 1919, during an eclipse of the sun. They proved that a star is still visible, even when, in relation to us, it has already passed behind the solar disk. This deviation, no doubt, is tiny. But might there not exist unknown substances—unknown for this very reason—capable of creating around them a much more powerful curvature of space? This must be the case, for it is the only possible explanation of humanity’s present ignorance of the existence of Mount Analogue.

  “Here, then, is what I have established simply by eliminating all untenable hypotheses. Somewhere on Earth a territory at least several thousand kilometers in circumference must exist, where Mount Analogue rises. The base of this territory is formed of materials that have the property of curving the space around them in such a way that the entire region is enclosed in a shell of curved space. Where do these materials come from? Are they extraterrestrial in origin? Do they come from the Earth’s core regions, whose physical nature we know so little about that, according to the geologists, all we can say is that no substance can exist there that is either a solid, a liquid, or a gas? I don’t know, but we shall find out sooner or later on the spot. What I can deduce, however, is that this shell cannot be completely closed; it must be open above to receive radiation of all kinds coming from astral bodies, which are necessary to the life of ordinary men; it must also encompass a considerable mass of the planet, and doubtless opens toward its center for similar reasons.”

  (He stood up to make a quick sketch on a blackboard.)

  “Here is how we are able to represent this space schematically. The lines I’m making represent the path of the light rays; you see that these directional lines open out, as it were, into the sky, where they join the general space of our cosmos. This opening out must take place at such an altitude—much above the layer of our atmosphere—that we must not imagine entering the ‘shell’ from the top by airplane or balloon.

  “Now, if we represent the territory on a horizontal plane, we have this schema. Mind you, the area around Mount Analogue must offer no perceptible spatial anomaly, since beings like us must be able to subsist there. We are dealing with a large, impenetrable ring of curvature, which surrounds the land at a certain distance with an invisible, intangible rampart—thanks to which, in short, everything takes place as if Mount Analogue did not exist. Supposing—I’ll tell you why in a moment—the territory in question is an island, I would represent the path of a ship going from A to B like so. We are on this ship. The lighthouse is at B. From point A, I aim a telescope in the direction of the ship’s progress; I see the lighthouse at B, whose light has bypassed Mount Analogue, and I will never suspect that between the lighthouse and me lies an island covered with high mountains. I follow on my course. The curvature of space deflects the light from the stars and also the lines of force of the terrestrial magnetic field, so although navigating with sextant and compass, I will always assume that I am going in a straight line. Without the rudder moving at all, my ship, curving itself along with everything on board, will hug the contour I have shown in the diagram A to B. So, this island might be as big as Australia, it is entirely understandable now that no one would ever suspect its existence. You see?”

  Miss Pancake suddenly turned pale with joy.

  “But that is the story of Merlin and his magic circle. I’ve always been convinced that the stupid business with Vivienne was invented after the fact by allegorists who missed the whole point. His very nature was to be hidden from our eyes inside his invisible circle, which could be just about anywhere.”

  Sogol was quiet for several moments to show that he very much appreciated this apt remark.

  “Okay,” Dr. Beaver said then, “but one day, surely, won’t our captain notice that in order to go from A to B, he has consumed more fuel than he had foreseen?”

  “Not at all—by following the curvature of space, the ship stretches out in proportion to this curvature; it’s mathematics. The engines stretch, every piece of fuel stretches …”

  “Oh, I understand! In effect, it all comes down to the same thing. But then, how shall we ever land on the island, supposing we could determine its geographical position?”

  “That was the second question to resolve. I have tackled this by following the same methodological principal, which consists of assuming the problem solved and deducing from this solution all the consequences that flow logically from it. This method, I may tell you in passing, has always worked for me in every field.

  “To find a way to reach the island, we must assume on principle, as we have always done, the possibility and even the necessity of doing so. The only admissible hypothesis is that the ‘shell of curvature’ that surrounds the island is not absolutely impenetrable—that is, not always, everywhere, and for everyone. At a certain moment and a certain place, certain people (those who know how and wish to do so) can enter. The privileged moment we seek must be determined by a standard measure of time common to Mount Analogue and the rest of the world; therefore by a natural clock, very likely the course of the Sun. This hypothesis is strongly supported by certain analogical considerations, and it is confirmed because it resolves another difficulty. Go back to my first diagram. You see that the lines of curvature are going to open out high up in space. How does the Sun in its diurnal course continually send radiation to the island? We are forced to conclude that the Sun has the property of ‘uncurving’ the space that surrounds the island. At sunrise and sunset it must in some fashion make a hole in the shell, and through this hole we shall enter!”

  We all sat there stunned by the audacity and logical force of this deduction. Everyone was quiet, and everyone was convinced.

  “There are, however,” Sogol went on, “a few theoretical points that are still obscure; I cannot say that I understand perfectly the relation between the sun and Mount Analogue. But practically, there is no doubt. All we have to do is position ourselves to the east or the west of Mount Analogue (exactly east or west, if it is the moment of a solstice), and wait for sunrise or sunset. Then, for a few minutes—while the solar disk is still on the horizon—the door will open and, I repeat, we shall enter.

  “It’s already late. Another day I will explain to you (during the crossing, perhaps) why it is possible to enter from the west and n
ot from the east: both for a symbolic reason and because of the air current. We still have the task of examining the third question: Where is the island situated?

  “Let’s continue to follow the same method. A mass of heavy materials like Mount Analogue and its substructure ought to provoke perceptible anomalies in the planet’s movements—more serious, according to my calculations, than the few anomalies observed to date. Yet this mass exists. Therefore this invisible anomaly of the earth’s surface must be compensated for by another anomaly. Now, we are lucky that this compensatory anomaly is visible; so visible even, that geologists and geographers have noted it for a long time. This is the bizarre distribution of dry land and sea which divides our globe into a ‘hemisphere of lands’ and a ‘hemisphere of seas.’

  He took a globe from a bookshelf and put it on the table.

  “Here is the principle of my calculations. I first draw this parallel—between 50 and 52 degrees latitude north. This is the one that runs along the greatest length of dry land, across southern Canada, then across the Eurasian continent from southern England to Sakhalin Island. Now I draw the meridian that crosses the longest stretch of dry land. It is between 20 and 28 degrees longitude east and traverses the Old World approximately from Spitzbergen to South Africa. I leave this margin of 8 degrees because we can consider the Mediterranean either a true sea or simply a maritime enclave within the continent. According to certain traditions, this meridian should pass directly through the Great pyramid at Cheops. Well, the principle still applies. The junction of these two lines, you see, takes place somewhere in western Poland in the Ukraine or, in white Russia, within the quadrilateral Warsaw-Kracow-Minsk-Kiev …”

  “Marvelous!” cried Cicoria, the Hegelian tailor. “I understand! As the unknown island surely has an area greater than this quadrilateral, the approximation is good enough. Mount Analogue is located, then, at the antipodes of this region, which puts it—just a minute, I’m making a few calculations—there: southeast of Tasmania and southwest of New Zealand, east of Aukland Island.”