And what of Tooth and Nail? Tooth wasn't so much a part of the body in the body—a part of the making of the body— as the whole purposefulness of the body. Tooth had to do with results; that was why he had been the First One. Nail was really the same as Tooth. For as Mouth was the talking about, or anticipating of, results, and as Hand was Mouth in artificially forcing results, so Nail was Tooth in being sharp to seize on things—though they might not actually be results. As for Hair, it resembled Tooth not only in that it was, by persistence, Hairs, as Tooth was, by persistence, Teeth, but also in that it enjoyed, like Tooth, a very independent status in the body. Indeed it was technically more independent than Tooth; Tooth went with Nail, technically, but Hair went with nothing but itself. But then Hair was almost too independent —it was so independent that it was practically dead. Tooth's independence was a matter of leadership; Hair's independence consisted merely in hanging back. That was why Hair was the Last One. Something too might be said about Bone, which came between Tooth and Hair as a peace-maker. Hair was persistent because it was lazy and suspicious: it was stubborn. Tooth was really persistent. Bone was persistent because it was stupid. It neither led nor hung back. It was impartial; and in its impartiality it was Bones. Hair was outside the body, Tooth was at the edge of the body. Bone was altogether inside. Where opinions differed, therefore, Bone could speak for the body as a whole better than any other part—as in an argument between one Estate and another it is the Common Citizen who really has the point of view of the State.
All this was clear as the strong knitted themselves into the body; and the knitting together of the body was accomplished by Flesh, which was not a particular part of the body but the feeling which each part had of being as much the body as any other part. And as the strong people became one body, the body, it grew as big as the woman who was a spirit. And she was now not only a spirit but the spirit. She was the spirit of the body. She was inside the body now, deeper inside than Bone. Apparently the body, under the leadership of Tooth, had put its Hands on her, and driven its Nails into her, and eaten her! Or rather, she had fed herself to the body, carrying out the last condition of the humorous love-pact between them. There was nothing now but the body, and the spirit deep, deep inside it, deeper inside than Bone. It was she who spoke for the body as a whole, since Bone was, as a matter of fact, quite dumb. This was the result Tooth had been after, this was really to exist for a certain time. The body was not only beautiful and strong, it was true: there was nothing else besides it. The body was absolute for as long as it lasted.
How long would it last? No, the question was rather: How long was it lasting? The number that summed up its life was the number that summed up Tooth—thirty-two. There was also the number that summed up its death, which was the number that summed up Hair—the number that would never be counted. In Hair the strong people—individually speaking —drifted back and were lost among the weak people, who instead of becoming one body, became countless images of her, false spirits. The sky and the earth separated, and the sky vanished as false spirits vanish. And the earth—the bridge— also vanished; both the strong people and the weak people vanished. But the body of the strong people was there, because the spirit was inside it. And the spirit was deep, deep inside the body, deeper inside than Bone. And what was the number that summed up Bone? The number that summed up Bone was zero. From zero numbers sank into infinity, into Hair; from zero they rose to a mortal limit and result—to thirty-two, Tooth, Teeth. The number that summed up Bone, who could speak for the body as a whole better than any other part, was zero. Bone, that is, was quite dumb. And so it was she who uttered the zero. And in uttering it for the body as a whole she naturally made zero into one, since one was the number of wholeness if it was actually spoken.
But thirty-two was the living length of the body. This was the number of the earth, of the will of the strong people doubled into its utmost strength. The first doubling was the breaking into two of one, which was really the number of her. And there were five doublings before the will must fail. For after the fifth doubling fast come the millions; and in the millions fast is it zero again, and slowly one again. But five was the number of the senses. Five times the body knew itself. The body increased through its five knowledges from none to thirty-two. Beyond this was the knowledge of her, whom the body could not know singly and who could not be known but singly. And since the body could not know her singly, she came inside it, deep, deep inside, to the depth of five; and the body knew her in its five knowledges singly.
The first knowledge was the hearing of her, as of a spirit at an unknown distance from the body. The second knowledge was the touching of her, as of unknown spirit. The third knowledge was the seeing of her, a spirit like eyes, to see whom is only to see with. This was the intermediate knowledge, during which will changed to compulsion. The fourth knowledge was the quick inhalation and exhalation of her, when she became a passion, a spirit unbearable to know, yet unbearable not to know. Then came the fifth knowledge, the actual tasting and knowing of her, like a spirit swallowed, eaten, absorbed by a body—which, of course, could not really happen, only seem to happen. And at the fifth knowledge she changed finally from a spirit into the spirit. This was the knowledge that Tooth, the First One, achieved.
She was not only inside; she was everywhere. The body was somewhere, but she was everywhere. It was her body, and she went everywhere with it; but at any point it was only somewhere, while at any point she was everywhere. Alas, the strong people—she was the body now. And this was the beginning of the sixth sense, the sense of speech, which the strong people had previously enjoyed only as a weakness borrowed from the weak people—a sense suffered rather than enjoyed, a sense of the impossible, which in the weak people had meant stuttering notions of immortality, and in the strong people, up to now, only a terrible crying out sometimes with a pain they didn't feel. Nor was it so much the sixth sense as the nth sense—a sense of death. Alas, the strong people—they were dead now. She was the body now, and the body had but one sense now, the sense of speech. One sense only had the body now, and one knowledge: to speak, and to know that the words it spoke were only broken meanings of the word that she spoke—even as at any point the body was only somewhere, while at any point she was everywhere. You ask me, "What is this word?" It is a word not to say but to know. It is a word that as a number is one in its nth multiple of oneness, or none in its oneth multiple of everythingness.
You see how it is all a matter of the humour of the thing. Not that our story is on that account any the less true. It is true that the earth is not round; but we have had to learn that lesson oh! so cautiously—in order not to interfere with the natural course of history. Lessons in geography must not interfere with history. Geography contains many errors, but history corrects these errors—which are, indeed, the substance of history—by passing. Lessons in geography are really quite unnecessary. For example, if we had not had this lesson in geography, we should, in any case, have learned soon enough that the earth was not round. In fact, we have let a great deal of history into our lesson, in order to interfere with it as little as possible. History, that is, consists of inaccurate statements; and, I assure you, we have made a great many not altogether accurate statements. Nothing, for example, is quite so inaccurate as numbers. But we have got on, have we not? We have allowed the strong people to exist for a certain time (as was our object, and as they were destined to), and shown how close they came to the truth, in so perpetuating themselves. We have also shown that they could not come so close as actually to be the truth. The truth is a world which lasts for ever, and the strong people do certainly exist for a certain time. But to exist for a certain time in a world which lasts for ever can only mean to be somewhere—here or there or there—in it; only she is everywhere in it. And here, we must admit, we have gone a little too far in our lesson. But not because we are interfering with the natural course of history. Rather because we have finished with history, having let it take its natural cou
rse, and the rest is not a subject that can be taught. There are no more errors to be made, and so no unnecessary lessons to be given.
The rest is, even still more, a matter of the humour of the thing. For we have been deceived by our own delicacy into talking about something that we should not try to talk about— at least not in this way. It is all very well to exploit the very fine margin of logic by which humour differs from joking, and delicacy from cleverness. It is all very well to know somewhat how one really stands. But the very fine margin is the impossibility of saying in so many words exactly how we stand. The very fine margin is the difference between so many words and so many words. We exploit this margin and learn—I suppose we may say that we learn how to smile; which means, I suppose, that we learn what to smile at. We learn to smile at what cannot, for all our delicacy, be put into so many words. I suppose we have put it into some words; but, strictly among ourselves, we know that we have not said more than that it is a smiling matter. We only know that the relation between him and her is based on a mutual sense of humour. We cannot but know this if we know that a relation exists between them at all; we cannot but know this if we know about her.
And at this point we have to be still more careful of our attitude, the rest being, even still more, a matter of the humour of the thing. The rest is a subject that we cannot teach. It is simply and purely the subject of her—her alone. Granted that we know about her; but it is a subject that we cannot make a lesson of. We can give a last lesson in geography, with the finest smile on our faces, but we cannot give a lesson in perfect understanding. During this last lesson in geography we did our best to smile, though we were not quite sure what we were smiling at: we knew, at least, that not to smile would show that we did not understand, and that if we confessed to ourselves that we did not understand we should grow discouraged and weak-minded and have to rely on history alone for instruction—which would have meant throwing ourselves miserably back into history. We all know the importance of a little geography—of a little intelligent information as to how the land lies, even if we do not understand why it should lie just like that. And we smile, not quite sure what we are smiling at. But beyond this? To go on smiling, and to feel not merely that we do not altogether understand, but that, in effect, we do not altogether exist, that, in effect, only she altogether exists, that only the truth altogether knows—in which we cannot give ourselves a perfect lesson, since we as a whole do not altogether exist?
That is the question: can we, in these circumstances, go on smiling? If you can, if we can, you, we, are indeed saved. To go on smiling is to be somewhere—here or there or there—in the world which lasts for ever. For that world is in itself a smile. And to wear a smile, and to continue to wear it—well, that is always a sign of good will; and good will, believe me, is not easily forgotten. Surely she will not forget that here or there or there certain smiles faded into her smile, certain broken meanings or words into her meaning, her word? Surely she will remember how close we, you, came to being everywhere and lasting for ever? Do you not already begin to feel yourselves engraved in her memory? Her memory is a smile engraved with smiles, a word expressed in words, an everywhere mapped out from somewhere. This, at any rate, is how I feel about it. I do not feel that things are quite so bad as they seem. A great deal of pleasure would, I feel, be thrown away if our attitude became too stoical. If there is anything left to us at all beyond a last lesson in geography, it cannot but be, I feel, rather pleasant. This is why I have stressed throughout the humour of the thing. I was sure that if we could go through a last lesson in geography with a smile on our faces the rest would be not at all hard to bear. It would make me very happy if I could feel that I had imparted a little of my optimism to you.
IV: A Crown for Hans Andersen
1
THERE are many strange things to try the understanding of man, and some things stranger than others, and one thing so strange that it makes man say not "How strange it is!" but "How strange am I!" And in this strangeness of himself man is either afraid or not afraid. If he is afraid he grows older and older, in the loneliness of his strangeness and of trying to understand it; more and more blind to that so strange one thing by which he himself is so strange. If he is not afraid he grows younger and younger, in his pleasure to be something, no matter what, in the same world with that so strange one thing by which he is able to feel, though perhaps not understand, himself.
The thing makes itself less strange to the child-man who is not afraid. The great one makes itself into the little people. And it's not there but here. In fairy tales it's here, though a wizened kind of here—like the thoughts of a sensible and practical child. In the tales of the bemused black people everything happens 'here', too. They as much as say, "Where else should we be? Would it not be presumptuous in stupid creatures like ourselves to call where we are a separate place?" That's to be stupid and yet know how to behave well. Fairy tales are to be stupid and yet to be as wise as possible, being stupid. Such an attitude makes friendship possible. Richard Rolle sought a friendship with Jesus. "Jesus Christ is the end of my desire," he said. A fairy-tale-man does not talk like this. "Oh," he says, "what luck to be here! I hope everything will be all right." Then there are fables. Fables are not fairy tales. A fable-man says, "We are where we are, and the important thing is not to commit ourselves one way or the other."
"No," says the bemused black man, giving a different turn to the matter, "we must not imagine ourselves the centre of things. Even when we are not happy we must not over- complain: it is man who forces himself on things, not things which force themselves on man." Then there is the fantasy- man. "No," he says, "we are unequal to the strain of our own sensibilities, but what a temptation! Nothing but disgrace can come of it, but what a temptation, to take liberties and meddle with the secrets—what a beautiful disgrace!" "Yes," says the bemused black man, "the secrets that are not spoken of except by the initiated dance-men. Even they would rather dance than speak of them; for in the dance one may be only foolish, but in speech one may be both foolish and wicked." But the Grimm Brothers say, "What are these secrets? Is not everything nonsense that cannot be spoken of intelligently? So why should we be afraid to talk nonsense? If it is nonsense, so much the worse for it. If you do not approve of your portrait, Queen Story, you must be content to remain invisible." Then there have been the many story-makers who do not think about Queen Story at all. Everything is Mr. Story this and Mr. Story that with them: Mr. Chekhov, for instance: "How very simple a thing a story is," he said, "just a pretty touch or two to our own disgusting portraits, and there you are." And then Miss Mansfield, sickly fancying herself the poor, neglected Miss Story of the after all so very busy Mr. Stories, sketches her own portrait apologetically, saying, "Yes, dear me, I'm not a lively subject." And, in sum, what would the world of stories have done without Hans Andersen?
Hans Andersen saw this here, this little seen place, this place where man and the other thing may be together—never mind on what terms. The place is; everything depends on man's looking at the situation in the right way. The right way is to look and not to see too much. You see little like this, but what you see is true. If you close your eyes to the other thing, you see man himself as the here, and a very big here it can look. Look around you and see how big everything looks. And it's all lies and closed eyes. To tell the truth you have to look at the truth. Hans Andersen looked at the truth and saw small and talked small: this is what his Fairy Tales are. Hans Andersen is looking; he meant what he said for now—in a little while, now. If you are too proud to talk small, and want to talk big, as if you were one day going to tell the whole truth, then don't look at the truth; and that not-looking makes prophecy, and the talking is of a future not to come about in a little while, or ever. That's pride—you are talking about how big your eyes are. "Wait," you are saying, "until I look at the truth. That'll be a tale to tell."
Seeing the truth in such a future makes time. Someone not yourself, but rather an exaggerated opin
ion of yourself, is saying, "Wait until I am alive, the real I. Just wait until then." Hans Andersen was alive now. Then is the now of the history- men. The now of fairy tales is no different time from the always in which the different thing lives. It is a little moment in always. But the history-men are not satisfied with a little moment in always shared with the different thing. They want an always of their own. And so their now is only a then, always a then. Their now was then. Hans Andersen was alive now, but their story-king, King Arthur, is alive then. King Arthur is already crowned. We have still to put a crown on Hans Andersen. And in order to be able to do so we must think of ourselves as that Queen Story to whom he yielded himself and who, because he yielded himself, in a little while yields herself in the crown she puts on him. If you find it impossible to think along with me, I am sorry. Perhaps in a little while it will not seem so impossible. At any rate, in a little while it must all be over.
In a little while Queen Story must have put a crown on Hans Andersen; she must really let loose the little people, her sympathies. For in this always of man and the other thing, the other thing must be quite small—not to embarrass him. And there must be any number of it, since man might easily miss it if there were only one of it—he might easily miss his little moment in always, poor fellow. Man finds it so difficult to see things. But he can manage to see—just a little, and in a little while—if one is gentle with him. If you cannot think along with me in this, you must, of course, think along with King Arthur and the history-men. If you are then-fellows rather than now-fellows, you can only think of yourselves as King Arthur and, remembering back, put up your hands to see if your crown is still on. Ah, yes, it will still be on. Queen Story will not take it off: it is not that crown with which she means to crown Hans Andersen. That crown is no real always, only an always of eternal dying. But do by all means make it your glory, if you cannot honestly take pleasure in what is not heart-breaking.
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