Wittgenstein Jr

by Lars Iyer

  The old world! The old dons! The old lawn—spreading into the distance! The old dream of a Jerusalem to be built on England’s green and pleasant land!

  The English lawn is receding, Wittgenstein says. And with it, the world of the old dons of Cambridge.

  New housing estates, where once was open countryside … A new science park where once were allotments and orchards … New apartment blocks near the station, their balconies in shade … And towering barbarisms: Varsity Hotel, looming over Park Parade; Botanic House, destroying the Botanic Gardens; Riverside Place, desecrating the River Cam …

  They’re developing the English lawn, Wittgenstein says. They’re building glassy towers on the English lawn. They’re laying out suburbs and exurbs on the English lawn. They’re developing new business parks on the English lawn. They’re constructing Megalopolis on the English lawn.

  And they’re developing the English head, Wittgenstein says. They’re building glass-and-steel towers in the English head. They’re building suburbs and exurbs in the English head …

  The new don is nothing but a suburb-head, Wittgenstein says. The new don—bidding for funds, exploring synergies with industry, looking for corporate sponsorship, launching spin-off companies. The new don, courting venture capitalists, seeking business partners, looking to export the Cambridge brand. The new don—with a head full of concrete. A finance-head. A capitalist-head.

  Do we believe the dons teach at Cambridge? No, they train at Cambridge! Do we believe the dons think at Cambridge? No, they bid at Cambridge! They network. They grub about for money. They ride the waves of global finance.

  The new don has sold his soul!, Wittgenstein says. The new don has sold his university! The new don has monetised Cambridge! The new don has made Cambridge into an advert.

  It was the new dons who made Oxford unbearable for his brother, Wittgenstein says. The new-style philosophers!

  English philosophy has become business philosophy, grant-chasing philosophy, his brother told him. The Oxford philosophy department dreams only of being Big Philosophy, his brother said. Of founding Philosophy Parks, of donning philosophical lab coats …

  There are Oxford chairs in the desecration of philosophy, his brother told him. In the murder of philosophy. In the destruction of philosophy. In the strangulation of philosophy.

  His brother overheard a don use the phrase learning competencies, Wittgenstein says. His brother was asked to demonstrate the real-world applicability of his fundamental work in logic. His brother was expected to make a case for the impact of his thought on the world at large.

  His brother said nothing, Wittgenstein says. He kept mute. But he knew he had to leave the high table, and to leave Oxford. He knew he had no choice but to leave England.

  Almost all of us have liaisons. Brief encounters, lasting no more than a night. But relationships—no, not really. Never anything that serious. There is never anything that serious at Cambridge. The Cambridge years don’t count. They’re years out, years on holiday. Frivolous years, not part of ordinary life. Cambridge is just a playground …

  Brief encounters … One-night stands … One-week flings … One-term relationships … But romance? Romance has nothing to do with us.

  A one-nighter—snog in a club, home in a taxi, pulling off clothes, opening a condom packet, a study-bedroom fuck, bed rocking, bed creaking, staggering home in the dawn. A whole weekend—lying in bed and doing it again, and then again and again. As long as a fortnight—as long as infatuation surges through us, until, one day, lust gets bored, yawns and stretches its limbs …

  But Ede’s love for Phaedra (Fee) is entirely different, he says.

  He tracked her down, he says. He found her at some dreadful rah birthday party.

  Raves are full of posh girls now, waving glowsticks and going all trippy, he says. And the DJs have double-barrelled names.

  And there she was, in the middle of it all, Ede says. The sum of all beauty. The centre of the world.

  EDE: Do you know what it means to dance, Peters? To really move?

  He danced, Ede says. He broke out his moves. He mouthed song lyrics. He acted them out. He was slick. He was funny. She laughed. He smiled. He mouthed, I like you. She looked demure. He mouthed, Shall we go outside? She mouthed, Yes.

  Outside into the cool clear night. Fee: the centre of the world. And he, beside Fee, close to the centre. The pair of them, carving out their little channel in space-time.

  Everything is true, he thought to himself, as they walked. The stars are hard and bright and true. The moon is true. The night is true …

  Remember this, he thought to himself. I am awake and the world is new. Life is alive in me. Life is alive in a new way.

  Does she know how beautiful she is?, he thought to himself. She’s Guinevere. She’s Helen of Troy. Wars could be fought over her. Murders committed. Holy vows broken.

  I should kneel, he thought to himself. I should fall to my knees. I have been called, like a prophet. I have been chosen. I have a mission. The bells of life are ringing in my ears.

  It was as if the world was rocking, Ede says. His knees were weak. To walk was to stagger. The pavement was a ladder mounting upwards.

  He laid his coat on her shoulders. She nestled into him. I am Certainty, he thought to himself. I am Protection. I am the Firm Ground. And her heart was the fluttering bird that he wanted to stalk, to catch, to hold, to free …

  And later that night, he bared her upper body. Later, he saw her white skin, her breasts, her luminous face, full of everything divine …

  Wittgenstein is hoarse this morning. He pulls a tube of cough sweets from his jacket pocket. He unwraps one, and pops it into his mouth.

  He speaks of the undoing of logic. Of logic’s deactivation. He speaks of the release of logic, as of captive birds into the wild.

  He speaks of giving logic a kind of freedom. A kind of wildness. He speaks of unfettering logic. Of taking off logic’s blinkers. He speaks of letting logic soar up wildly into its own sky …

  Logic is lost, that’s the trouble, he says. Logic has got lost. We must lead logic back to itself, he says. We must let logic recover its memories.

  And one day, logic will whisper in our ears, he says. Logic will say the kindest words. We will mistake it for roaring, he says. We will confuse it with the howling wind …

  And logic will bloom in our hearts, he says. And then we’ll see it—that our hearts, all along, were logical hearts. And logic, which we think we master, will be our master, he says. Logic will be the crown we wear on our heads …

  Redemption: that’s what he seeks. Logical redemption. Logical love. It must sound strange to speak of logical love. But there really is such a thing as logical love.

  It must sound strange to speak of the blood of logic, he says. Of the heart of logic. But there really is such a thing as the blood of logic. As the heart of logic.

  In his dream, the Logik is light, he says. The Logik laughs.

  In his dream, the Logik can be expressed in a single greeting. In a single word. In his dream, the whole of the Logik can be expressed in a gesture. In a handshake. In a friendly nod of the head.

  A walk in Grantchester, under the weak winter sun. Wittgenstein, in a terrible mood. Whose idea was this?, he demands.

  Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have worn a path to Grantchester, he says. Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have sought to cool off their minds in the willow-shade of Grantchester. To slip down a few gears on the river-path to Grantchester. The Grantchester walk was part of the rhythm of their work; the respiration of their work. The Grantchester walk let their work breathe. The Grantchester walk expired in their work.

  It’s the very opposite for him, he says, as we walk along the river. His work suffocates from the Grantchester walk. His work becomes increasingly airless as a result of the Grantchester walk. He might as well place a plastic bag over the head of his work as take the Grantchester walk. He might as well place a plasti
c bag over his own head as take the Grantchester walk!

  Leaving Cambridge for Grantchester means you have to return to Cambridge, he says. The walk to Grantchester and back is still in the orbit of Cambridge. In Grantchester, there is still the dreadful gravitational pull of Cambridge. The dreadful tractor-beam of Cambridge. Cambridge still calls you back. Cambridge still waits for you, laughing at you. You thought you could escape me? You thought you could get away?

  In the end, the walk to Grantchester is only a way to pace the floor of his cell, he says. As indeed any trip from Cambridge is only a way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to London from Cambridge is only a way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to Norwich from Cambridge is only another way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to Ely Cathedral—just another way to pace the floor of your cell.

  To leave Cambridge is to return to Cambridge. To try to escape Cambridge is only to be more imprisoned in Cambridge.

  Cambridge!, he exclaims. Grantchester!, he exclaims. Cambridge! Grantchester! The path to Grantchester! The path to Cambridge! The path to Grantchester is only ever the path to Cambridge!

  Byron’s Pool. The famous willows, the famous swans, the famous reeds. The concrete weir must be a new addition.

  Byron bathed here with his pet bear, we read on a plaque. And Rupert Brooke and the neo-pagans, a century later. And Augustus John came with his gypsy wagon and his clutch of sun-browned children …

  Signs everywhere. Explaining Byron’s Pool. Explaining Byron. Explaining Rupert Brooke and Augustus John. Explaining the trees. Explaining the wildlife. Explaining the green and blue corridor through Cambridge—the proposed cycle path and the planned BMX track.

  Why must everything be explained?, Wittgenstein asks. As soon as there are signs about trees, there are no trees. As soon as there are information boards about wildlife, there is no wildlife. As soon as there’s a Byron plaque and an Augustus John plaque and a Rupert Brooke plaque, the legacies of Byron and Augustus John and Rupert Brooke are entirely destroyed. As soon as there’s a plaque explaining Grantchester, Grantchester itself is wiped from the face of the earth.

  But perhaps that’s no bad thing, he says: wiping Grantchester from the face of the earth.

  • • •

  He has insomnia, he says. Terrible shrieks wake him at night. Screams—which should say, I am being murdered! Help me at once! But which in fact say, I am drunk! My head is empty! Cries—which should be those of dying men, mortally wounded men, lying in no-man’s-land or beneath collapsed buildings, but which are really the voices of students …

  Students, bellowing on their phones. Great, health-filled, stupid voices, booming out. Stupidity, echoing from the ancient walls. Stupidity, sounding through his rooms. Stupidity, shrieking through the hollow night.

  He can’t work, Wittgenstein says. He can’t write.

  His powers are failing, he says. What presumption even to speak of his powers!

  To begin—that would be enough. To take a single step forward. To discover a starting point that does not give way … Why do the foundations of his thought always crumble? Why does the path of his reflections always peter out?

  WITTGENSTEIN: The will to work is wearing me out. But not the work itself.

  He speaks of the joy of work. Of the bliss of work, and of honest exhaustion after a whole day of work. He speaks of the Sabbath of God, of the seventh day of creation. He speaks of the Saturday that does not set.

  How will he find his way to the eye of the logical storm?, he asks. When will everything become clear? When will it stay still? The heart of logic is terribly calm, he says. True peace, for him, is really logical peace.

  Mulberry and Doyle’s spat.

  EDE: How did it start?

  MULBERRY: He wrote wide arse in Greek on my door.

  EDE: But didn’t you write I will fuck both your arses and your mouths in Latin on his door?

  MULBERRY: I was quoting Catullus!

  EDE: He was quoting Aristophanes.

  MULBERRY. Well, he felt-tipped very cheap whore in Greek on my door.

  EDE: But you marker-penned hung like a Chihuahua on his door. In English, so everyone could read it! Where’s that from, anyway—Sophocles? (A pause.) There’s a frisson between the pair of you, anyone can see it. It’s like an electric storm.

  Mulberry likes that, he says: an electric storm. It turns him on.

  EDE: Everything turns you on, Mulberry. But I do wish you and Doyle would settle things. All this tension’s getting wearing.

  Wittgenstein’s questions!

  Is it actually the case that …?; Would you consider it important to …?; Is it, in this instance, really worth considering …?; Are we entitled to draw the conclusion that …?; Would we be entirely in error to …?

  Doesn’t he understand that we do not dwell with these issues as he does? That they do not exercise our thoughts night and day, as they do his?

  It would be alright if he didn’t expect us to understand him. If we didn’t need to understand him. If he simply thought for us, in our place. If he simply presented a spectacle—of what it means to think, of what it means to take thought seriously.

  No one expects very much of an undergraduate: he should know that. None of us will fail our degrees, it is true—no one fails anymore. But none of us will excel, either. We’re here to fill the classrooms, and pay the fees. We’re here to populate the corridors, and sit decorously on the steps.

  What does it matter what we think?

  His questions!

  Might it not also be the case that …?; Is it worth admitting the possibility that …?

  Doesn’t he understand we just want to get things right? To do well? To get high marks? The rest, all of philosophy, doesn’t really matter …

  But he demands our attention. He addresses us directly. Okulu, what do you understand by this? Doyle, can you think of a way out of this apparent dilemma?

  He asks us the kinds of questions that he would ask himself. Questions beyond our understanding. Questions that soar above us. Questions that graze the philosophical sky … We try to answer, but how can we? We stumble. We stutter. We say silly things. But what else does he expect?

  Wittgenstein does not hide his derision.

  He knows the Cambridge student is encouraged to talk, he says. He knows the Cambridge student is to be treated as an intellectual partner, even as an intellectual equal, he says. He knows he’s supposed to take heed of whatever nonsense the Cambridge student utters. He knows he’s supposed to say interesting to even the most fatuous point.

  He knows he’s supposed to glory in the very fact that we can speak, that we say anything at all, that we’ve even turned up for class, he says. He knows he’s supposed to clap his hands in delight, that the Cambridge student has deigned to add his voice to the great tradition of philosophy.

  He knows he’s supposed to fall upon the most trivial comment as though it were uttered by Immanuel Kant, he says. He knows he’s supposed to nod seriously to every word that drops from our lips, as though it were Kant himself who was speaking. He knows all this, he says.

  He watches our faces, he says. He looks for signs of understanding. But what does he see? Nothing! Nothing!

  What do we know of the struggle to think? What, when everything has come to us so easily? That’s how he sees us, he says: as those to whom everything has come easily.

  What do we know of the desire to think? Of the love of wisdom?

  Perhaps we are simply too young for philosophy, he says. Too blithe. We haven’t yet run up against life’s difficulties, he says. Against the tragedy of life. You can see that in our faces, he says. We know nothing of life’s calamities—of madness, suicide, all that.

  In a sense, our indifference to philosophy is a kind of liberation, he says. It is lightness itself. We do not know the gravity of thought. We feel no philosophical weight. We walk like astronauts on the moon, in great blithe leaps, in huge bounds. Nothing keeps us to the surface of our stu
dies. Nothing holds us down.

  Once, it was possible to learn things, and to be shaped by your learning, he says. Once, to be a student meant to be formed by what you learned. To let it enter your soul. But today?

  We’re drowning in openness, he says. In our sense of the possible. We’re ready to take anything in—to learn about anything, and therefore about nothing. Everything is available to us, and therefore nothing is available to us. Everything is at our disposal, and therefore nothing is at our disposal. We are infinitely open-minded, which is to say, infinitely closed-minded.

  Our sense of our own potential—he sees it in us. Our sense of our youth. Our belief that the world lies open before us. Don’t we understand that it is our very sense of potential that is the problem? That it is our very sense of youth that is the problem? That it is our sense that the world lies open before us that is the problem?

  • • •

  There was a time when learning awoke unknown desires, he says. Desires for what lay outside you, outside your grasp.

  There was a time when students knew how to reach, and that they had to reach.

  And now? Before our desires even coalesce, they are answered. Before our desires become desires, they are satisfied. Our desires are met before we even have them.

  There’s no yearning, for us. No sense that something lies beyond.

  Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy: that’s what Pascal had inscribed on his posthumous memorial, Wittgenstein says. Those who know nothing of grief can know nothing of joy, either.

  Ede, hand in the air. Wittgenstein ignores him.

  He knows how we live, he says. He knows how we do not live.

  Drinking doubles and trebles at bars in which we cannot hear ourselves speak. Drinking doubles and trebles because we have absolutely nothing to say to one another.

  We drink because we do not live, he says. Because we have no idea what it means to live.

  He’s heard the thump-thump of our music. He’s heard our drunken laughter.

  We’re guzzlers, he says. Devourers. Cambridge is a trough, and we are its pigs.