It may be of course that dominant domestics, with their inability to have much sense of their own identity except by hurling resentment at others, will sooner or later blow up the world: and then what will it avail the non-privileged elite that they will have, with such tip-toeing difficulty, learned to understand complex patterns and to carry their own resentments? They may have come to accept, even, that in the course of evolution all individual organisms have to die: that it is only by throwing cards in and shuffling them and re-dealing them as it were that a continuing strain, a genetic shape, may stay alive. But there is no evolutionary sense in everything dying. A game that can be played with oneself in the middle of the night (those hours when grown-up gentleness needs a little infantile sustenance) is to try to imagine a circumstance in which a natural or man-made holocaust would destroy preponderantly those whom it might be of evolutionary advantage to destroy — the power-hungry, say (in the game, at least, one has one’s own choice of enemies — perhaps those who might carry such infant dreams over into morning) — and would leave alive those whom it might be of evolutionary advantage to preserve — those self-questioners, say, who would in the morning laugh at their dreams. Some Noah’s Atoll when the ice-cap comes down from the pole? Some fire to test immortality, like that of Empedocles on Etna? But such games, though exercising the imagination, seem to have no practical relevance: and the qualities of imagination, as Jacques Monod has been quoted as saying earlier, seem to possess no obvious genetic advantage. He also said ‘modern molecular genetics offer us no means whatsoever for acting on the ancestral heritage so as to improve it with new features’. But none of this need cause dismay. If there is to be a relevant change — if the human species, that is, is to be able to adapt itself enough in order to survive — it is still in the mind that it seems likely that such a change should occur; mind being the latest product of evolution. It is possible, of course, that all minds may be destroyed: but until, and unless, they are, theirs is the ground on which seeds might grow — seeds that are random, of course, but the ground being able to be tended so that certain seeds rather than others might be encouraged to grow — in the hope (there is no other) that if this is done what in time might die would be just that which wants to die (the seeds are so myriad!); and what would live would be just that which does not want to push and pull at its roots and so kill itself but does its work and tills the ground and trusts that forces of life will do the rest for it.
What has been discovered in the science of genetics is that although it is true that the occasion as it were for natural selection is given by chance — mutations in genes happen at random: mutated genes are then ‘tested’ by environment so that most of them die and only very few prove to be more suited than the usual ones in the line from which they sprang — although this is true and there can be no ordering of chance, yet still it is also true that there are so many possible or latent mutations in humans’ genetic make-up that it is still possible for a person (persons) to do things to help, as it were, to bring certain mutations to the fore — by the provision of an environment — perhaps of an ‘environment’ within personality — by which characteristics which have hitherto been recessive (because unsuitable for survival) might thus be made to seem of advantage — and so not die. The area in which humans might be able to affect themselves, that is, even genetically, is through the environment; and an environment not only, or even mainly, outside; but of heart, soul, mind. It is here that there might be some moving on from the old idea that a human genetically is helpless. There are patterns and styles of thinking that are themselves like genes — could even as it were be genetically selected — and it is over this area that a person has some slight ordering. By the cultivation of a ground for a new style of thinking one might find that seeds suited to it that have been blown there by chance have become established and have grown there because of effort. There are such seeds — how else could one have the idea of such a ground? So — Dig for Circuitry! for Recognition of Complexity! for the Entity worked by the Outside Ground. And beware of Resentment: Helplessness: the Tares of Anti-life. Something like cancer may perhaps be ineradicable: but there is nothing better to do or to try to get established than the encouragement of that which (though it is this that cannot much be talked about) wants, in place of that which simply wants to die, to stay alive.
There are signs, now, as if some part of the social body (some individuals in the social body? some part of the mind of each individual in the social body?) might want to die: as if to try to preserve this part might make the whole body die, as it were from some cancer. It is amongst the denizens of powerful and fashionable worlds that there is the malaise, the will to extinction, that is commonly talked about — the love of seeing and hearing things only violent and appalling; the reassurance from the perpetual round of preying upon others; the passion for titillation, for dope, for the fruitlessness of pornography. But it is these people, nowadays, who are not likely to have children. Or perhaps their children, if they do, will not be likely to have children: children, within such attitudes, are a drag: parents may only render them more impotent. This, even in the mind, is appalling. But it is also here that there is hope. (Can this word be used, if something so appalling can hardly be talked about?) Such people may simply die; may withdraw themselves, modishly, from the area of selection. And it may be just the non-privileged, the unfashionable — who have some drive towards life, some effort towards orderliness, some containment — who might produce at least — children! In the mind at least; or in the flesh; as if they were genes in the body politic — the things which may survive. There does seem to be some force of selection at work here: but at the moment the confusion, the taboos, are such that although a force like this might be respected, it is scarcely encouraged. And although some form of self-destruction may seem inevitable, even justified, it indeed can scarcely be applauded. But what if it were possible to say in some form — to say with that part of one’s mind that wants to live while addressing that part of one’s mind (as well as that of others) that wants to die — All right, if you want to die, die! but know also that the saying of this is the best way possibly of stopping you. This is the point. This is the sort of thing a father might say to self-destructive children; who would know that it would be his way of stopping them; that a strict injunction would encourage them to be deathly; that his way of making them want to live, and thus of loving them, would be simply to remind them that they had the greatest gift of all for life — that of freedom. For this, still, is the word that can bridge a gulf between, be understood by both those who want to be fruitful and the deathly — it being a commonly acceptable highest moral imperative. One of the fallacies of old ways of thinking has been — if something is bad, stop it! — and it has been observed that this seldom satisfactorily works. But still, it is an attitude that is persisted in, because logical. But as Nietzsche knew, as Popper knows, as any scientist should know, as a proper parent knows with children — it is by your mistakes that you learn: it is by being free to face what is ‘bad’ that you can learn that it suits you to try to stick with what is good’: that it is this sort of freedom — trial-and-error, circuitry — that is the only way of becoming something out of reach of the rules of slavery, So, it might be possible to say to people publicly — For goodness’ sake, yes, destroy yourselves if you want to! — if this were said with love: this being the hope (the best hope) of preventing them. But this, certainly, needs a difficult sort of language. And some bright understanding. It would have to be seen — half seen — that one was talking about mind; but that this was of direct relevance (the most direct relevance) to the outside world; the outside world being available to patterns of mind; but not in the old bullying type of language; not even in the simple languages in which things are set out dead as on a platter; but in the circuits and secrets and lightning flashes that are the provinces and provenances of life.
CELL
ANDERSON
who played
ARIEL and BERT
HORTENSE
who played
JUDITH and the OLDER HOSTESS
THE MOOR
who played
ACKERMAN and the BARMAN
DIONYSUS
who played
JASON and HARRY
FLORENCE
who played
HELENA and the CHAR
SIVA
who played
JENNY and the YOUNGER HOSTESS (SOPHIE)
SCENE: A cellar in a town.
The structure contains two levels. The upper level consists of two rooms separated by a central partition: it is in darkness. The lower level is one long room, with pipes and cables along the back wall as if for telephones, drains, gas, electricity, etc.
This lower level is dimly lit. Left of centre is an old-fashioned stove, which glows. Centre is an elaborate brass bedstead. On the right is an area of junk in semi-darkness. Far left are screens as if in an actor’s dressing-room. The flue-pipe of the stove goes up crookedly above the bedstead and into the floor above.
The whole structure is contained within vertical side walls and a flat roof so that it is like a doll’s house with the front removed. There are narrow vertical spaces between the side walls and the sides of the stage. In the left vertical space there are ladders descending from what seems to be a manhole at the street-level above: the right vertical space is like a disused ventilation shaft.
A young man, Anderson, is on the bed in the lower level. He sits cross-legged, in his underpants, and has the handpiece of a telephone wedged beneath his ear. The wire from the telephone goes up to a clip on to a cable over his head.
Anderson appears to be listening. After a time he enunciates carefully —
ANDERSON
Get out at Westminster, cross the road, go to the gates, and you’ll find a policeman. You’ll wear knee-breeches, black waistcoats, and those conical hats, you know, like witches. You’ll have the pram, and two barrels of gunpowder like imitation leather suitcases. And when you come to the policeman you will say — Excuse me, mate, where’s the team? Excuse me, mate, where’s the fucking team —
He seems to listen.
Then he unclips the wire from the cable above his head. He clips it to another cable. He takes from a table by his bed a tuning fork, which he strikes and holds against the bedstead.
There is a high-pitched humming noise; which fades. Then Anderson speaks with the deadpan voice of someone on an intercom radio —
Bert. Two tadpoles. Coming up through the sewers. Tell them what to do, will you?
He stares at the audience.
There is a deep rumbling noise from the pipes; as if from an organ, or faulty plumbing.
Anderson puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone.
The rumbling fades.
Anderson says in an ordinary voice —
Put your hands and feet on the floor. Your body on the ceiling —
He listens.
Then he unclips the wire from the cable: he clips it on to a bar of the brass bedstead. After a time he imitates, rapidly but just intelligibly, the high-pitched gibberish of a voice on a tape being played too quickly —
When they came to the barricades against its soft grey walls they battered —
He stares at the audience.
Then he imitates ponderously but again just intelligibly, the deep distorted drawl of a voice on a tape being played too slowly —
There-were-not-many-left-to-tell-the-tale.
He listens.
Then he takes from the table by his bed a small instrument which makes clicking noises such as is found in children’s crackers. With this he makes clicks, in bursts, into the mouthpiece of the telephone; as if establishing a programme in a system by a code.
He listens.
Then he speaks in an ordinary voice —
— The doctor says it must have been agony —
He watches the audience.
After a time a light comes on in the room upstairs, left. This room is piled high at the back with books and old newspapers. There is a stove against the wall of the central partition on the right. (It is into the bottom of this stove that the flue-pipe goes up from Anderson’s room below.) The flue-pipe from this stove goes halfway up the central partition and then through into the room which is in darkness, right.
On top of the pile of books against the back wall in the room on the left is perched an elderly man, the Moor, who wears a white robe and has a beard. He reclines on one elbow just under the ceiling — like Michelangelo’s God the Father on the roof of the Sistine Chapel; or like Karl Marx, or a gorilla. He has a hand on a light bulb which is on the ceiling. After a time the bulb seems to burn his fingers. He takes his hand away. The light in the room goes out: there is a tinkle as if of glass on the floor, breaking.
Anderson gets off his bed, goes to his stove, takes off the lid, and looks inside.
After a time he drops the lid of the stove as if it has burned his fingers.
He looks at the audience.
Then he goes to his bed, lies on his back underneath the flue-pipe, unscrews an inspection plate in the bend of the pipe above his bed, opens it, and peers up as if the pipe were a telescope. After a time he puts his mouth to the inspection plate and enunciates carefully —
ANDERSON
— She will wear a belt, black stockings, and something loose round the top —
He puts his eye to the inspection plate. The light in the Moor’s room, upper left, comes on again. The Moor has fitted another bulb into the socket which hangs from his ceiling. (He has beside him a paper bag from which he seems to take his light bulbs as if they were nuts.) He keeps his hand on the bulb. After a time it seems to burn his fingers again. He holds on. It is as if he were in agony.
Anderson takes his eye from the inspection plate. He looks at the audience.
Then he puts his mouth to the inspection plate and enunciates carefully —
The world is on a tortoise. The tortoise is on a bird. The bird is on the sea —
He puts his ear to the inspection plate.
The Moor, upstairs, as if he can hold on no longer, lets go of the light bulb. The light of his room goes out. There is a tinkle as if of glass on the floor, breaking.
Anderson gets up, goes to his stove, and makes as if to lift the lid off. Then he seems to think. The light in the Moor’s room comes on again. This time the Moor is holding the bulb with the hem of his white robe.
Anderson looks at the audience. Then he puts a hand in his underpants. He lifts off the lid of his stove using his underpants as protection.
The Moor begins to climb down from his perch of books. He finds this difficult, since he is holding on to the light bulb. But as he pulls on the wire, he finds that this can be drawn down through the ceiling. Then as the wire comes through the ceiling there are cries and gasps from the room, right, which is still in darkness, as if someone were being garotted there.
Anderson looks up.
After a time the lid of the stove which he is holding through his underpants seems to burn his fingers: he drops it.
The Moor has reached the floor. He gives the wire from his light bulb a jerk, and the cries from the room, right, are abruptly silenced. Downstairs, Anderson looks at his hand.
Upstairs the Moor, still holding the light bulb with the hem of his robe, comes and stands in front of his stove which is against the central partition.
(In this position it might be difficult for some of the audience — in the right half— to see exactly what he is doing, since their view is somewhat obscured by the central partition.)
The Moor lifts the lid off his stove with his other hand using the hem of his robe. He stands with his robe raised as if he is about to pee into the stove.
Anderson leaves his stove. He goes to his bed and lies underneath the flue-pipe and looks through the inspection plate again which is directly under where the Moor is standing. The Moor seems to be having di
fficulty in peeing. After a time there is the sound of flute music (a flute sonata by Bach) from the room in darkness, top right.
Anderson takes his eye away from the inspection plate. He looks at the audience.
At this moment the Moor seems to be able to pee.
Anderson closes the inspection plate.
There is a puff of steam from the stove by Anderson’s bed, where the Moor’s pee seems to have gone.
Anderson stares at his stove.
After a time, there is a smaller puff of steam from the Moor’s stove upstairs.
The Moor puts the lid back on his stove. He looks at the audience.
The flute music stops.
Downstairs, Anderson gets off his bed. He puts the lid back on his stove. Then he comes to the right front of his room and looks up towards the Moor’s room, left, as if trying to see (as if from the point of view of half the audience) what the Moor has been doing. He looks at the audience. Then he goes to the front of his room on the left, and looks up towards the room in darkness, right, as if trying to see (from the point of view of the other half of the audience) where the flute music had come from.
After a time there is in this room a flash, as if of a flashlight photograph, or from a small explosion of gas.
Here there can be glimpsed, briefly, the figure of a man hanging by the neck from a wire from the ceiling.
Then the room is in darkness again.
Anderson looks at the audience.
The Moor, on the left, has turned away from his stove. He takes a step towards the left: then he appears to tread on broken glass. He lifts his foot. He holds it as if in agony. He lets the bulb go. It is pulled up, as if by a counterweight, on its wire through the ceiling.
Catastrophe Practice Page 16