Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

by Miller, Henry

  And some people imagine that He’s going to climb down from Heaven and repeat the performance.

  For all we know He may.

  In Bruges, where they have preserved a few drops of the precious blood shed on Calvary, something happens each year—on the very same day!—to make that coagulated blood liquefy. Nobody else’s blood has ever behaved in this manner.

  Wouldn’t it be a surprise if next time, instead of handing Jesus over to be crucified, they handed Him over to be beheaded? If the blood of our Lord and Saviour, when it bubbled forth, suddenly spoke with tongues of fire?

  FOOL, I AM INDESTRUCTIBLE. MAN IS INDESTRUCTIBLE. THE WORLD IS INDESTRUCTIBLE. GIVE OVER, YOU IMBECILE! ENOUGH! IT HAS BEEN REHEARSED 79, 457, 648, 325, 496, 721 TIMES. IN THE NAME OF THE GREAT JEHOVAH, PUT DOWN THAT AX!

  If there is a geuine need, it will be met. Not through the vain creation of robots, not by unlocking the sluices of memory, not through the coming of little men from outer space nor by bombarding the enemy from platforms in the sky. Not by eliminating all the dangerous germs and viruses, nor even by virtue of the second coming of Christ and the awakening of the dead.

  First you will have to prove that your need is genuine. (And not by non-Euclidean logic!) Second, you will have to produce a certificate of sanity whereby to substantiate your sincerity. Third, you will have to be vaccinated against possible irruption of undue pride and egotism.

  This accomplished, you will then be ready to undergo initiation: an ordeal imposed by the Brotherhood of Fools and Simpletons. Three questions will be put to you. Just three. The first: “How would you order the world if you were given the powers of the Creator?” The second: “What is it you desire that you do not already possess?” The third: “Say something which will truly astonish us!”

  If you answer these satisfactorily you are then to return to your birthplace, sit quietly with hands folded, and meditate on the needs of all God’s creatures, including the germs, the bacilli and the viruses. When you know what it is they need—down to the last cockroach!—you are to report back to the Brotherhood and dissolve the order.

  Now isn’t this much simpler than trying to squeeze yourself back into your mother’s womb or trying to find an equation that will yield a bomb guaranteed not to backfire nor disturb other planetary beings? The earth reveals its wonders daily. We’ve only begun to scratch the surface. Patience! If time lacks, there is always eternity. And it’s always on hand—like that pale, cool, refreshing beer advertised over the radio.

  This is an interlude. It may be off-key, but that’s because my throat is dry. Any contradictions which may have arisen thus far—I know how touchy you are!—can be ironed out on the piano clavier where there is absolutely no difference between sharps and flats, though some keys are white and others black. Besides, all this is preliminary and by way of coming to grips with a lacuna. To explain….

  As I went to the edge of the cliff a few minutes ago to void a little urine—it’s vulgar to say “take a leak”—I suddenly realized that I have said almost nothing about The Millennium of Hieronymus Bosch. If you purchase the book, as I know you will, I would like you to turn to Plate 23, the last in the book, which you will find opposite page 147. It is called “The Cave of Pythagoras.” If what meets the eye doesn’t electrify you at once, send the book to the nearest insane asylum where it will be kept in a strait jacket.

  The last five words on the page from which I am about to quote (page 127) read thus: “… the task of genuine love.” Let me repeat it:

  THE TASK OF GENUINE LOVE

  Don’t look for the passage immediately, I beg you. Sit down, wherever you are, and let your mind dwell on these words. Ask yourself if, in all the years you have been dwelling on this planet, you have ever given a moment’s thought to such a problem. Assume, if only for a moment, that there may be a problem which outweighs all the problems which now burden you. (Including the problem of not having any problems.) Don’t put yourself in Sunday school to establish the proper frame of mind. Take it for granted that you are able to think your own thoughts. Then, allowing for deflation, ask yourself the question: what is the task of genuine love?

  The author of the book I am about to quote from had, on the previous page, been speaking about the “unum necessarium of Adamite eugenics.” As to who the Adamites were, their connection with the “Millenium,” and other more disturbing conundrums, I beg leave to refer the reader to the book itself. But first a quick glance at the world. At the state of affairs, as it’s called.

  Once the radio is out of order, or the television set, and you enjoy a day or two of no news, you are bound to ask yourself what all the hubbub was about. What was it they were shouting and screeching about the other day at the U.N.? Was it the other day or ten thousand years ago? Seems to me they’ve been talking law and order, peace and harmony, the brotherhood of man, since eternity. Now they’re in earnest, of course. Or so they would have us believe. (“Waiter, another stack of wheat cakes, please! With honey and cream, yes.”) There’s a genuine need and it’s going to be met. Everyone has agreed that we must stop fighting; the trouble is, no one wants to surrender his weapons. As it stands now, those who are against wholesale destruction are opposed by those in favor of piecemeal destruction. Virtually all the natural-born citizens of this one and only world are represented at the U.N. except for a handful of savages in Africa and Australia, the American Indians, and the few million Chinese, who, though they are the descendants of the most ancient, the most cultured people that ever was, are not to be trusted. (Not today, at any rate. Tomorrow we may sing another tune. Today it’s thumbs down.)

  When you witness one of these epoch-making sessions in which nothing ever happens except more vetoes, more referenda, more adjournments, more protocol, more full-dress regalia, more banquets, more airplane trips, more threats, more preparedness, more panic, more hysteria, more stockpiles, more and better bombers, more and more battleships, cruisers, submarines, tanks, flame throwers, you know quite definitely that the millennium is not being ushered in. You know that two lascivious monkeys at the zoo, two monkeys picking fleas off one another’s backside, are doing just as good a job.

  One could settle the issue in a jiffy—what is the issue, by the way?—by bringing together three men of undisputed wisdom and benevolence and having them meet in a rice paddy clad only in loin cloths. They wouldn’t have to be interplanetary diplomats either. Just normal human beings, on the order, say, of Lao-tse, Gautama, Jesus. Practical-minded men, not statesmen, not politicians, not dreamers. Men of good will, in other words.

  One of the traits which distinguished the above-mentioned trio was this—they spoke only when they had something to say. When they were silent they were even more succinct.

  Try to imagine the honeyed words of wisdom which would flow from the lips of our distinguished representatives at the U.N. if tomorrow there were slated for discussion—the task of genuine love. Contrast this imaginary scene with the following description of a scene (page 127) from The Millennium of Hieronymus Bosch:

  “… These fair-headed people of both sexes are all so alike that they could hardly be told apart, and their attitudes are anonymous and selfless. They are a single family, reminding us of a plant family all the more in that their expression is confined to a silent dreaminess and mute gazing. Theirs is a stillness as of vegetation, so that the fine-drawn, groping hands appear like tendrils seeking neighboring flowers for support.

  “And they seem to grow up out of the ground as much at random as wild flowers in a meadow. For the vague uniformity of this naked life is not subjected to any formal discipline. Yet however arbitrarily the pattern of the moving bodies may be concentrated and condensed in one place and may loosen and scatter in another, there is nowhere any overcrowding and nowhere any random emptiness. However free each may be to follow his own inclination, there remains an invisible bond holding them all together. This is the tenderness with which all these inhabitants of the heavenly meadows cling to
gether in brotherly and sisterly intimacy.”

  14.

  The English man of letters has his club to repair to, the millionaire his yacht, the muezzin his minaret. As for me, there are the hot sulphur baths at Slade’s Springs.

  If I am lucky and no one is there, I share the delicious solitude with the rocks, the sea otters, a passing whale, the drifting clouds, mist and fog, the floating islands of kelp and the screeching gulls. If the tide is out, I commune with a two-faced rock out of which the blazing sun and pounding surf have sculpted a king and queen of the Ptolemaic line. Under the rays of a slanting sun their features are as clear cut as those of the king and queen of spades. Curiously enough, I have never observed a gull defile their features.

  It is rare that I enjoy the baths alone. Usually I find the tubs and sunning tables occupied. Those who derive the most from the baths are the ones who hold their tongues. (What was it Goethe said? “I personally should like to renounce speech altogether.”) The wise ones have no need for talk. They are simply grateful to the powers that be for the privilege of steaming in the curative waters and basking in the sun.

  The patrons are of all stripes and colors, from idiots who delight in taking pot shots at the seals to busy executives who work frantically at crossword puzzles while broiling themselves like lobsters. When the men from Gilroy invade the place it’s like splashing about with a herd of water buffaloes. Astonishing physiques they have, all patterned after Apis the bull. The visitors who come most regularly are those with skin disorders and sufferers from arthritis, lumbago, gout, rheumatism and bursitis. One of these, a querulous bastard with the seven-year itch, has a backside so raw that it looks like a flaming sun. Another chap, who refuses to wear a truss, brings with him a monstrous pair of testicles which could just barely be squeezed into a wheelbarrow. As for varicose veins, there is every variety under the sun; the ones that look like rock candy colored blue and purple are the most intriguing.

  On certain days the members of the ancient order of hermaphrodites take over. (“Oh Ron, I just love the way you wear your hair now!”) Most of them are built like ephebes; many of them are artists, all of them are dancers, and idle conversation is something they adore. They’re always discussing impersonal things in a very personal way. And they’re always very busy—manicuring their nails, waving their hair, flexing their muscles, primping themselves, admiring themselves in their pocket mirrors. Delightful creatures, really. Especially when they let their hair down. When they get confidential with you. Often when observing them at their toilette I am reminded of the valiant Spartans—just before the battle of Thermopylae. I doubt, however, that the Slade’s Springs type would be ready to die to the last man. (“It’s sort of silly, don’t you think?”) Occasionally there will pop up a smart, dapper-looking European of dubious vintage accompanied by a handsome French poodle towards whom he behaves as a gallant fellow would with his mistress. This type of individual, usually a globe-trotter and more often than not a perfumer, is a delight to talk to. He can talk with equal felicity about anything, everything and nothing. The dog is his chief preoccupation; if he has anything of importance to communicate, it is to the dog he addresses himself.

  I’ve met every conceivable type at the baths, or thought I had, until the other day. Then I stumbled on a new one, probably the first of his line. It was of a day when I had been alone and at peace. The sea was calm, almost glassy, the tide at low ebb; the coral-colored gums of the boulders that line the shore stuck out prominently. Gazing at the charred, bleached rocks that dotted the water line, their flaky, scaly surfaces glittering like mica, I almost fell into a trance. Everything was just falling into whack. Even the old bathtubs which had been flung over the cliff seemed a part of nature and at one with the jungle of kelp, the ribbon of fog on the horizon and the motionless motion of the hills. I was a ripe prey for “the alligator of ecstasy.”

  When I turned round—I had been standing at the guard rail—I saw a dark-skinned man of enormous girth who looked as though he were made of blubber covered with India rubber. His piercing black eyes glittered like anthracite. Restless eyes that struck at you like fangs. With him was a lad of ten or so, white, whom he ordered about as if he were his Number One Boy.

  Soon we were joined by some old-timers just back from the hills with little bags of gold dust. A few minutes later my friend Bob Fink appeared. After a few words all around I climbed back into my tub to soak some more. Meanwhile the roly-poly fellow soaped himself vigorously, snorted like a bull, stood up in the tub, shook himself, pounded his chest, then stepped out to sun himself. He looked at everyone searchingly, then made for a table where he stretched himself out full length, face forward. His uptilted head was just about two feet away from mine.

  The conversation, desultory and good-humored, had begun with the subject of rattlers—and how they never bother the Indian. From this it had switched to hoboes and the meaning of anarchism. One of the men from the hills had a brother who was a confirmed hobo, that is, a man of principle. He had been explaining his brother’s philosophy at some length. I noticed that the dark man with the India-rubber skin had a mania for interrupting to ask for more precise details. He seemed to be a born sceptic, knew everything better than the next fellow, and with it all had the air of being a colossal ignoramus. His queries were brazen and defiant, more like taunts and gibes. In addition, his voice was anything but pleasing. When he grew excited, and everything that was said seemed to drive him to the point of exasperation, though no one ever addressed him, he would slide off the table, strut and swagger like a little Hercules, a comical one, then plant himself squarely in front of you and ask—“What makes the waves go up and down? Can you answer that?”

  If you simply said No, he would give you a look of utter disappointment. What he wanted was for you to say: “No, can you tell me?”

  All the while I was calmly floating on my back, quietly studying him, wondering where on earth he came from and what could possibly be his occupation. Now and then I sat up and gave him a straight answer. He took it as if he had been given a jab in the jaw. Finally I decided to put him a question.

  “Are you Egyptian … or perhaps a Turk?”

  “I’m from India,” he replied, his eyes aflame, his head swaying from left to right, and, as if to manifest his own super-satisfaction, accompanying the words with a cooing, clucking sound which even the peacock would have difficulty in imitating.

  “Very good,” I said. “But you’re not a Hindu, are you? What part of India do you come from?”

  “Near Bombay … Poona,” he replied.

  “Then you speak Gujarati.”

  “No, Hindi.” His eyes lit up again. They danced with fire.

  “Do you know Sanskrit?”

  “No, but I can write it.”

  “Perhaps you’re a rajah.”

  “A maharajah!” he countered.

  “Not a mahatma?”

  “No, nor a yogi either.”

  Pause while we study each other amusedly.

  “What’s the difference, can you tell me, between a yogi and a mahatma?”

  “A yogi thinks only of himself.”

  (Very good, thought I to myself.)

  Aloud—“And how did you find that out?”

  “I know lots of things that are not written in books,” he replied with a smirk. “I travel. I travel around the world.”

  Another pause. He looks at me as if to say—“And your next question, please?”

  “In September … this September … I will be in England. Do you know London?”

  Before I could so much as nod my head he continued. “From London I will go to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, then to Vienna, and then to Rome, Athens, Damascus, Jerusalem, Cairo….”

  “In September … this September …” said I, “I shall be in Japan. After that Cambodia, Burma, India. …”

  “You have been to India before?”

  “No.”

  “You must go to India!” He said it as if it
were a command.

  More to lead him on than anything else, I told him it needed a little thinking. “It costs money, a trip like that. Especially to travel around in your country.”

  He gave a jackal-like laugh, threw back his head and screeched: “Money? What do you need money for?” He paused a moment, then asked: “What’s your business?”

  “I’m not in business. I write.”

  “You write articles, I suppose?”

  “No, books.”

  Immediately he was all animation. Squatting on his well-padded haunch, assuming the air of a buttered Buddha, he leaned slightly forward and fixed me with his glittering eyes.

  “You write an article … a good article … and I will get you five thousand dollars for it. More even…. How much do you need?”

  Before I could make reply he was on his feet and grasping my arm, as if to pull me out of the tub. “I’ll get you all the money you want, plus a free trip to Java, Burma, India, Ceylon, Bali….” He pulled himself up short. “Look,” he said, now fairly dancing with excitement, “I want you to write about Nature, not people—do you understand?” He took a few steps backward, pointed to the hills above us, then beckoned for me to get out of the tub. I did. “You see those trees up there … and that dark spot over there?” He indicated the area with an arclike motion of his hand. I looked searchingly, wondering what he saw there of particular interest. To my eye there was just the usual sweep of hills, the usual undulations, the usual trees, rocks, brush.

  He dropped his arm, looked at me as if he were giving me a koan to solve, then exclaimed: “Can you write about that, just that”—he indicated the area once again with a sweep of the arm—“without describing it?”

  Involuntarily my jaw dropped. Without describing it! (Sic)

  “What you must do,” he continued, “is to talk about such things as … how do you call it? … earth-quavers! about caves and grottoes, volcanoes, the waves, sea lions, sharks and whales … not people. You must give it symbology, do you understand? That’s what we are interested in.”