by Lars Iyer
PRAISE FOR SPURIOUS
“It’s wonderful. I’d recommend the book for its insults alone.”
—SAM JORDISON, THE GUARDIAN
“Viciously funny.”
—SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
“I’m still laughing, and it’s days later.”
—LOS ANGELES TIMES
“A tiny marvel … [A] wonderfully monstrous creation.”
—STEVEN POOLE, THE GUARDIAN
PRAISE FOR DOGMA
“Uproarious.”
—THE NEW YORK TIMES
“[Dogma] brings back W. and Lars, the most unlikely and absurd literary duo since Samuel Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon … Like Godot, this novel is a philosophical rumination, at once serious and playful, on the nature of existence and meaning. While it’s comic, there is at bottom a profoundly tragic sense of the chaos and emptiness of modern life. Despair has rarely been so entertaining.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Just when my hilarity over the first book of their misadventures, Spurious, had faded to a low chuckle, Dogma comes along. Between the two books, there’s almost no point in breathing, much less coming to any strong conclusions about life, the universe, and everything.”
—LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS
“Witheringly, gut-bustingly funny.”
—THE NEW INQUIRY
“The epithet ‘Beckettian’ is perhaps the most overused in criticism, frequently employed as a proxy for less distinguished designations such as ‘sparse’ or ‘a bit depressing.’ But Lars Iyer’s fiction richly deserves this appellation. His playfully spare—and wryly depressing—landscape, incorporating a bickering double act on a hopeless, existential journey, is steeped in the bathos, farce, wordplay and metaphysics of the man John Calder referred to as ‘the last of the great stoics,’ its characters accelerating towards a condition of eternal silence, fuelled only by the necessity of speaking out.”
—THE TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
PRAISE FOR EXODUS
“There is a superfluous joy to these novels … They are satisfying paradoxes—‘difficult’ books which are consummately readable; exuberant books about bleakness.”
—THE SPECTATOR
“The saddest, funniest undynamic duo since Vladimir and Estragon … Like Spurious and Dogma, Exodus is a novel which depends almost entirely on the quality of its scorn. And on any scorn-rating it scores pretty highly.”
—THE GUARDIAN
“Iyer’s books aren’t so much sad as brimming with good tidings about a utopia that remains pure as long as no one ever does anything … Like Beckett, they use art to remind us that the whole point is to try, and fail, then try again, and fail better next time.”
—HAZLITT
“The saddest, funniest undynamic duo since Vladimir and Estragon … Like Spurious and Dogma, Exodus is a novel which depends almost entirely on the quality of its scorn. And on any scorn-rating it scores pretty highly.”
—THE GUARDIAN
“With Exodus, as he did with Spurious and Dogma before it, Iyer has shown that a picaresque novel can be as good a vehicle for philosophy as any.”
—RAIN TAXI
“It was more than a book: it was a revelation, in that Biblical sense of words being exposed down to their meaning, to the deed in the world to which they referred.”
—THE QUIETUS
Also by Lars Iyer
NONFICTION
Blanchot’s Communism: Art, Philosophy and the Political
Blanchot’s Vigilance: Literature, Phenomenology and the Ethical
FICTION
Spurious
Dogma
Exodus
WITTGENSTEIN JR
Copyright © 2014 by Lars Iyer
First Melville House printing: September 2014
Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201 and 8 Blackstock Mews
Islington
London N4 2BT
mhpbooks.com facebook.com/mhpbooks @melvillehouse
ISBN: 978-1-61219-377-9 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014945089
Design by Christopher King
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
When you are philosophising you have to descend into primeval chaos and feel at home there.
—Wittgenstein
1
Wittgenstein’s been teaching us for two weeks now.
Was it Ede’s idea to call him Wittgenstein? Or Doyle’s?
He doesn’t look like Wittgenstein, it’s true. He’s tall, whereas the real Wittgenstein was small. He’s podgy, whereas the real Wittgenstein was thin. And if he’s foreign—European in some sense—he has barely the trace of an accent.
But he has a Wittgensteinian aura, we agree. He is Wittgensteinisch, in some way.
He has clearly modelled himself on the real Wittgenstein, Doyle says (and Doyle knows about these things). He dresses like Wittgenstein, for one thing—the jacket, the open-necked shirt, the watch strap protruding from his pocket. And he behaves a bit like Wittgenstein too: his intensity—his lips are thinner than any we’ve seen; his impatience—the way he glared at Scroggins for coming in late; his visible despair.
And of course, like the real Wittgenstein, he has come to Cambridge to do fundamental work in philosophical logic.
He sits on a wooden chair at the top of the room, bent forwards, elbows on his knees. His gaze is directed downwards. His eyebrows are raised, and his forehead is furrowed. He has the appearance of a man in prayer (Doyle). Of a constipated man (Mulberry).
He doesn’t prepare his teaching. He doesn’t lecture from notes. At most, he produces a scrap of paper from his pocket and reads out a phrase, or a sentence. He wants simply to think aloud about certain problems, he says.
Sometimes he writes a word or two on the blackboard on the mantelshelf. In the first week: Denken ist schwer (thought is hard). In the second: Everything is what it is, and not another thing. Today: I will teach you differences.
None of us understands the problems he is wrestling with, we agree. None of us can follow his method—what is he looking for?
Not all of us care, of course. Mulberry is drawing cocks in his notebook. Guthrie wears sunglasses over closed eyes. Benwell groans audibly when Wittgenstein asks him a question.
When will he actually say something? When will he present an actual argument?—Mulberry’s taking bets.
He proceeds from reflecting on one question to another. From one remark to another. But when will he answer his questions? And what do his remarks mean?
A hand in the air.
DOYLE (humbly): I’m having trouble following the argument.
WITTGENSTEIN: That’s because I’m not presenting an argument. I am posing questions, that’s all.
DOYLE: I don’t understand. I can’t follow your class.
WITTGENSTEIN: I have no intention of making myself understood.
DOYLE (imploringly): I have no idea what’s going on.
WITTGENSTEIN: That is to the good. At this stage, you should have no idea what’s going on.
Silence in class.
DOYLE: Perhaps we aren’t bright enough to follow you.
WITTGENSTEIN: Intelligence is nothing—you’re all clever. It is pride that is your obstacle. It is pride that is your enemy as students of philosophy. For pride leads you to believe that you are something you are not.
Wittgenstein surveys the room, looking carefully at us. He can see we know ours
elves to be clever, he says. He can tell we believe ourselves to be full of Cambridge cleverness. But that means we’re also exposed to the danger of Cambridge pride.
We must not think we can hide, he says, scrutinising our faces. The inner life reveals itself in the outer life. It cannot help but do so. The secrets of the inner life are written on the face, he says. They reveal themselves in the simplest gesture. The way you sit on your chair … The way you button or unbutton your jacket …
We must learn to read the face, he says, just as much as we learn to read the page. We must learn to read the gesture.
The number of students is falling: forty-five in the first week, twenty-three in the second, eighteen in the third, and this week only twelve. Twelve! An auspicious number, Wittgenstein says. He’s glad to be rid of the hangers-on.
Twelve faces, to give him the sense that he is not alone. That there are others who might follow the movement of his thinking. He is glad there are others who need to be brought along with him, who might accompany him.
We’re thinking with him: Don’t we understand?
Naturally, he is suspicious of impatience, he says. But he is wary, also, of patience—one mustn’t wait too long in one’s studies.
Of course, he dislikes the stab-in-the-dark answer, he says. But he also dislikes the ready answer—all answers must have something wild about them.
Beware clarity!, he says. Beware the well-trodden path! But beware obscurity, too! Beware the never-trodden path!
Avoid explanation, he says. But also avoid obfuscation. Suspect conclusions. But suspect inconclusiveness, too.
The Backs, along the Cam. The colleges in a row across the river. Ivied walls and trim lawns sloping down to the water. Gloomy clouds, very low.
Twelve students and their teacher—walking to wash off their brains. Wittgenstein, hurrying along, his hands behind his back. Okulu, a few paces behind, his hands behind his back. Chakrabarti, a few paces to the left of Okulu, his hands behind his back. Whippet-like Doyle, his hands behind his back. The Kirwin twins, their hands behind their backs. Benwell, scowling, close to the river’s edge. Guthrie, singing his hangover song. Mulberry, stripped to his FUCK YOU T-shirt, texting on his phone. Ede, sauntering, looking refined. Scroggins, looking spaced out.
Wittgenstein says nothing. The rest of us report on our summer. Titmuss did India, learning the Om Namah Shivaya chant and smoking bhang sadhu-style in the Himalayas. The Kirwins did the Iron Man in Mooloolaba and Lanzarote, and rowed on the Thames. Mulberry did strangers in the dark rooms of Madrid, and ran with the bulls in Pamplona. Doyle did the Edinburgh Fringe, Guthrie in tow, performing their show, Li’l Leibniz.
Wittgenstein gestures to the university buildings across the river. None of this is real, he says. None of it.
Then, after a long pause: The world is emptying out. The sky is emptying out …
Silence. We look at one another, confused.
He’s trying see Cambridge, Wittgenstein says. He’s done nothing else since he arrived. But all he sees is rubble.
The famous Wren Library!, he says, and laughs. The famous Magdalene Bridge! Rubble, he says, all rubble!
We look around us—immense courts, magnificent lawns, immemorial trees, towers, buttresses and castellated walls, heavy wooden gates barred with iron, tradition incarnate, continuity in stone, the greatest university in the world: all rubble? What does Wittgenstein see that we do not?
Wittgenstein is fervent today. He seems to blaze before us.
Written on the board in capital letters, and underlined three times: LOGIC.
We all know what logic is, he says. It is the study of the laws of thought. Of all the forms of reasoning and thinking. The trouble is, we do not know what logic means, he says. What reason means.
WITTGENSTEIN: If the laws of logic are not followed correctly, then reason is impossible. If reason is impossible, then what is said has no validity. If what is said has no validity, then what ought to be done remains undone. If what ought to be done remains undone, morals and art are corrupted. If morals and art are corrupted, justice goes astray. If justice goes astray, chaos and evil run amuck.
We’re drowsy, some of us hungover. Audible sighs. Guthrie, snoring. Mulberry, wearing a FUCK ME T-shirt. Benwell, gouging out an obscenity in his desk with a compass point. The Kirwin twins, Alexander and Benedict, in sweatbands and shorts, fresh from rowing. Doyle, in velvet, looking theatrical. Ede, in a sports jacket, refinedly attentive. Titmuss, with his dreads and his pointless wispy beard. Chakrabarti, with his Cambridge University sweatshirt. Scroggins, half high as usual, mouth agape. Okulu, listening to Brahms on his oversize headphones.
A whiteboard full of logical symbols. Who does he think we are, that we could follow him? Who does he take us to be?
• • •
Wittgenstein fixes his eyes on the parquet floor.
He tells us about the vistas of logic. About logic’s austerity.
Logic makes you lose the world, he says. Logic drives you away from the world, into the eternal ice and snow.
You could say he’s only sat at his desk for a few idle hours, he says. You could say he’s only opened and closed a few books. You could say he’s risked nothing more than paper cuts.
But there are dangers to logic, he says. There’s its difficulty—the arduous training necessary in philosophy, in mathematics. And there’s its purity—its reflections on thinking itself. Logic can cut you off from the world, he says. You can lose yourself in logic’s hall of mirrors.
He’s inclined to think of logic as a sickness, he says. As a fever on the brow of thought. As the demented smile of a madman.
Logic is only for those who cannot leave it alone, he says.
He seems upset. His voice trembles.
What nonsense he has said, he murmurs. What nonsense we have made him say.
Eating in class. Mulberry, chewing gum. Titmuss, sucking mints. Doyle, eating a packet of crisps and regretting it: the crackling! the rustling! the grease! Doyle, closing the packet when Wittgenstein glares at him.
Drinking in class. Guthrie’s water bottle, full of gin. Mulberry’s juice carton, squeaking as he sucks. Titmuss’s energy drink, fizzing over when he pulls it open. Titmuss, blushing bright red, wiping up the mess with his sweater sleeve as Wittgenstein stares at him in disgust.
Toilet breaks. Who dares ask permission to go? Who dares interrupt him? Who dares break into his tense, tortured silences? Scroggins, one afternoon, all but ran out of class, knocking over an empty seat as he passed. Wittgenstein looked up, midsentence, but said nothing. Titmuss left three times during one session, pleading Delhi belly.
WITTGENSTEIN: Haven’t you got any self-discipline?
The view from the classroom window. Trees losing their leaves. The football pitch, with its churned-up grass, and its thick white lines, newly applied, and its goalposts, newly painted. It looks cold outside. But we are inside, taking notes, understanding almost nothing.
Down by the river, watching the Kirwins in their wetsuits waiting for rowing practice.
They’re so tall! You get so much Kirwin for your money! And there’s two of them, of course. There’ll always be a spare Kirwin.
They’re like great prize bulls, we agree. Like a pair of twenty-two-hand Shire horses. The Kirwins must be for something. They must have some purpose. It’s impossible to imagine the Kirwins without a Destiny. They’re like Greek heroes. Like something out of Homer.
Mulberry speaks of his desire to fuck a Kirwin. To lick a Kirwin. What are the chances of that?
EDE: What about Wittgenstein? Would you like to lick him, Mulberry?
MULBERRY: Not my type. He’s gay, though. I can tell. He’s a virgin gay. A bit like you, Peters.
ME: I’m not a virgin gay!
MULBERRY: You have a thing for Wittgenstein, anyone can see that. You want to be fucked by genius. Well, perhaps you’ll have your chance.
EDE: The real Wittgenstein was gay, of course.
&n
bsp; MULBERRY: He was another of them: a virgin gay. He never fucked anyone.
EDE: I thought he had boyfriends.
MULBERRY: Oh, he had boyfriends, but they didn’t have sex. It wasn’t physical.
EDE: Then they weren’t boyfriends. They were just romantically coloured friendships.
MULBERRY: Just like you and Peters.
EDE: I, as it happens, am as straight as a die. As for Peters, I cannot say.
A Wittgenstein sighting.
The high street on a warm Saturday. Walking home with our groceries. Then, there he is: Wittgenstein, with his groceries. Wittgenstein with his shopping bags, walking towards us through the other shoppers.
Will he acknowledge us? Will he nod his head? Does he even know who we are?
He nods, murmurs a greeting, passes by.
We walk home in the sun.
EDE: So, genius shops at Sainsbury’s. Did you see what was in his bags?
ME: Scones, so far as I could see.
EDE: So, genius eats scones.
ME: I think the scones are for us, for our visits.
Wittgenstein has said we are to visit him in his rooms, one by one.
Late night in the Maypole, sitting outside in the cold.
Where does Wittgenstein come from?, we wonder. He sounds German, but his English is perfect.
EDE: Perhaps he was educated over here. We had Germans at my school. Actually, we had all kinds of people. Oligarchs’ offspring, dictators’ sons, sent to acquire some English polish …
MULBERRY: Do they still beat pupils at Eton? Are there still fags?
EDE: Oh, that’s long gone. It’s all counselling and bullying workshops now.
It was the same at his school, Mulberry says. He would have liked being beaten.
SCROGGINS: What’s it like being really posh, Ede? Do you have manservants?
Mulberry says he wishes he had a manservant.
DOYLE: Do you call your father Pater, Ede?
SCROGGINS: Have you met the Queen, Ede?