Diary Extract 7
Fragments that Have Slipped from the Notebook of a Dog’s Companion
In his very engaging book The Philosopher and the Wolf, Mark Rowlands explains that a wolf and a dog, even though they can express themselves, cannot lie to us. To convince us of this he relates an amusing episode in which Brenin, the wolf who shared his life for more than a decade, plays a revealing role. The philosopher was in the middle of swallowing a ‘microwaveable plate of monosodium glutamate known as a Hungry Man meal’. Brenin, lying next to him, was ‘watching like a hawk’. The telephone rang in the next room. The philosopher went to answer it, leaving the food on the table. A few seconds later he returned to continue his meal while Brenin, ‘having quickly devoured [the] Hungry Man meal, was making his way rapidly over to his bed on the other side of the room’. The return of the philosopher, ‘unwelcome, but not entirely unexpected’, nailed the wolf to the spot. He was frozen, says Rowlands, ‘in mid-stride, one leg in front of the other, his face turned towards me’. He was literally petrified. The message expressed with the whole of his body was clear: ‘Busted!’ It was neither ‘I don’t know how your plate got like that! I didn’t do it. It was like that when I got here’, nor ‘you finished it before you left, you senile old bastard’. And the philosopher then adds: ‘They [wolves] can talk. And what’s more, we can understand them. What they cannot do is lie. And that is why they have no place in a civilized society. A wolf cannot lie to us; neither can a dog. That is why we think we are better than them.’
Rowlands develops the idea that in the world of living things only the ape has a way of living based on self-interest and deceit. In the course of a long history of biological evolution, as a consequence of the social way of life that it has chosen, the ape came to acquire, as well as mechanical intelligence (the ability to enter into a relationship with the natural world) shared by other animals, a social intelligence (also described as Machiavellian), which lies in the ability to deceive, to manipulate and to exploit those of its own kind. ‘The ape’, says the philosopher, ‘is the tendency to see life as a process of gauging probabilities and computing possibilities, and using the results of these computations in its favour.’ This is a particular form of intelligence corresponding to a stage of cognitive development belonging to the primates. A single example will suffice, that of a baboon that keeps for itself a vine (a favourite food of baboons) instead of sharing it with its fellow baboons. It is an example that is sadly revealing of the Machiavellian intelligence with which we are endowed:
A troop of baboons is travelling along a narrow trail. One baboon, female S, spots a nearly obscured clump of Loranthus—a vine that is highly prized by the baboon palate—in one of the trees. Without looking at the others, S sits down at the side of the trail and begins intently self-grooming. The others pass her by and, when they are out of sight, she leaps up into the tree and eats the vine.
The behaviour of S is no different from ‘pretending you have to tie your shoelace when you have, in fact, spotted a twenty-pound note lying on the ground’. It is somewhat disconcerting to note the similarity between the baboon enjoying the delicious vine on her own and someone who wants to pocket the twenty-pound note surreptitiously. But it is even more disconcerting to know that it is in our case, with human beings, that this ability at cheating reaches its very highest point.
We are therefore, according to Rowlands, prisoners of a simian mode of existence, which results from the fact that apes, at a given moment of the general evolution of species, took a path leading to civilisation, one radically different from that of wolves.
I like The Philosopher and the Wolf. Many passages touch me because they resonate with the years I passed with Mélodie. But I feel the need to comment briefly on the use the author makes of this word civilisation.
Rowlands infers that there is a line of demarcation separating the primates from other living things and that this line of demarcation is called civilisation. On the one side a world whose structure is societal, essentially characterised by the practice of deception; on the other a world inhabited by the solitary animals unaware of this practice. Agreed. But it seems to me that the idea is enhanced by refining the concept of civilisation a little more, by introducing into the very heart of the world of living beings the opposition between civilisation and non-civilisation—what can be called, without attaching the slightest pejorative nuance to it, barbarism. In the very long history of humanity the state of barbarism precedes civilisation, which only dates from yesterday. And in the case of Western Europe the absolutist seventeenth century is, according to Norbert Elias, the moment when the civilising process is affirmed. The society of the court, at its apogee under Louis XIV, is a world subject to unceasing measures of self-control in hiding one’s emotions on the part of all of its members. For confirmation of this we need only turn to a page of The Misanthrope or The Princess of Cleves, or to reread La Bruyère’s Characters. Or to recall one of La Rochefoucauld’s maxims, for example, ‘Humility is often only a feigned submission which one employs to bring others to submission; it is an artifice of pride which abases itself to raise itself up; and although it is transformed in a thousand ways, it is never better disguised and more capable of deceiving than when it hides behind the face of humility.’
It is no doubt useful and even necessary to recognise that the ability to deceive, to dissimulate, to manipulate, to lie, is inherent in the human condition as the philosopher suggests, considering himself, for his part, a brother to his wolf. But it seems to me just as important, if not more so, to know, from a point of view not so much anthropological as historical, that this hardly laudable ability experienced an unprecedentedly significant development at a particular moment in the evolution of human society in which the habitus of the civilised person was set in place, characterised by a set of mechanisms of psychological self-control. It seems that among the primates it is only mankind that possesses a highly developed language. The tragedy is that this complex language has become an instrument allowing the art of cheating to be carried to its extremes. But what deserves special attention here is that, paradoxically, the sophistication and increasing complexity of this pernicious art have given rise at the same time to the birth of a certain literature that denounces this same art. Literature, then, appears as a mechanism that can thwart lies and dissimulation. Rousseau’s work is in some way the culmination of this particular literary concern in the intellectual space of the Enlightenment.
Mark Rowlands (who also quotes, if in passing, the passage from ‘Karenin’s Smile’ that I have taken from The Unbearable Lightness of Being) wonders why he loved his wolf so much and why he suffers so painfully from his absence. The answer is simple: his life with Brenin has taught him that ‘in some ancient part of my soul there still lived a wolf’. Here is a philosopher who is capable of remembering having been a wolf in the very distant past of humanity with which he identifies and, because of that, preserves the awareness of having a little of the wolf in his being today. The elegance of a philosophical reflection, the height of civilisation, shedding light on its own failing through the neon eye of a wolf who, himself, does not indulge in reflection . . . Civilisation in its highest realisation remembering the state before civilisation. That is a ray of hope, some grounds for comfort.
I remember a scene from Akira Kurosawa’s remarkable film Seven Samurai. Among the seven warriors who dedicate themselves to the defence of the peasants’ village against the faithless, lawless brigands there is one who is not quite like the rest. It is Kikuchiyo, unforgettably played by Toshiro Mifune. He claims to be descended from an honourable family of warriors, but all the signs mark him out from the others, from the long sword that he carries over his shoulders rather than on the hip at the side in the correct way, to his loose talk, not to mention his nonchalant gait and his constant shambling, swaggering movements. To be accepted by his fellows he has to undergo a test that will prove to them his qualities and talents as a samurai. Kambei
(played by the admirable Takashi Shimura), the leader of the group, tells Katsushiro (the youngest of the recruited warriors) to strike Kikuchiyo hard when he comes through the door of the inn where they are waiting for him. A poor tramp berates Kambei, telling him that the candidate is blind drunk and that it isn’t playing fair to attack him when he is like that. To which the head samurai, for whom Kikuchiyo in fact feels a great admiration, replies, ‘A true samurai would know how to dodge the blow. He never drinks until he loses his wits.’
The blind drunk samurai receives a blow on the head, thus conclusively revealing his non-warrior origins . . .
I don’t know how many times I’ve seen Seven Samurai since my first viewing when I was still a high school student, I’ve lost count . . . Each time I’m struck by the beauty of scenes like this one. And I especially like Kambei’s firmly articulated reply: ‘A true samurai, even in a state of drunkenness, never loses control of his body.’ Spoken by a character who is the embodiment of moral integrity (Kambei is the first samurai to decide to take part in re-establishing the res publica of the peasants), this phrase had sounded in my ears as a lesson to be remembered.
The savage candidate has failed the test. But that won’t prevent him from being accepted among the true civilised samurai. Kambei, the civilised philosopher, becomes attached to Kikuchiyo, the savage who secretly admires him. As for me, I like them both and I admire the filmmaker who created the two of them together, placing one opposite the other as if they were two complementary beings.
27
UNFAITHFUL—YET YEARNING FOR FIDELITY
AFTER MÉLODIE’S DEATH the habit of the daily walk was abandoned for a while. However, the need to take physical exercise together with our unfading memories of our dog meant that Michèle and I quite quickly rediscovered our enjoyment in taking a walk around where we lived, each time retracing one of the routes that we had taken with Mélodie.
It was May 2011. One Sunday morning, the weather mild and glorious, we let ourselves be tempted into going for a long walk, immersing ourselves in the profusion of light. It was one of those rare days that the inhabitants of Tokyo really appreciate, when the weather is dry, neither hot nor cold: a day without any climatic discomfort, midway between the oppressiveness of summer with its heat and humidity and winter sadly stripped of all adornment. Every street corner, every tree that signposted the route we used to follow, the cul de sacs where once, in complete safety, Mélodie would go chasing after a tennis ball, Philosophy Park with its sandpit and swings, the memorial garden of Hyakkannon with its cherry trees, its maples and its Hundred Statuettes of the Merciful Goddess, all brought back the indelible presence of our dead dog, reminded us of the signs pointing to her singular existence. We took pleasure in every step, every stop we made, short or long, every laneway we ventured into, every play of light and shade created by the foliage quivering in the cooling breeze.
And so we had now arrived at the park of the Peaceful Forest. It was here that we used to shelter with Mélodie when it began to get hot in May or June: we were protected by giant trees majestically spreading their soft shade. It was here that we met our canine acquaintances. It was here that we’d met John, the huge pure-white golden retriever, Mélodie’s father. We headed towards the shadiest part of the park, walking beside the 400-metre oval track, some early long distance runners there before us. Michèle pointed:
‘Look over there! Isn’t that a cousin of Mélodie’s?’
Sure enough, it was a young, pure-white golden retriever being walked a little awkwardly by a woman in a green hat with a wide brim.
We went up to the dog, which careered in every direction, skipping and jumping for joy. Michèle said:
‘He’s still very young. How old is he?’
‘Three months … Today—it’s his first outing after the vaccinations!’
At that moment a look of astonishment appeared on the face of the woman who was replying to Michèle’s question while at the same time I recognised her as the woman I’d tripped up several months previously, the evening that Mélodie died.
‘It’s you!? This is a surprise! What a coincidence!’
As soon as I’d expressed my amazement I asked her what her dog’s name was.
‘Cello.’
‘Cello. As in the instrument?’
‘Yes, I like the cello. That’s why …’
‘Goodness!’
I explained to Michèle the whole mystery behind this unexpected encounter. Conversation then sprang up around Mélodie—I showed the woman with the green hat one of her photos that I’d kept on my iPhone—and about Cello, who was skipping around us, still with the same exuberance. It was a long time before we could bring ourselves to leave Cello, whose pure-white coat reminded us of Mélodie’s at the same age. Seeing Cello we had the strange feeling of going back in time to the years when we were still young, very young, Michèle and I.
We wanted to make for the big avenue that separates the park from the administrative buildings that are part of the Ministry of Justice. Once the place where we’d meet other dogs, the straight avenue was deserted that morning. I remembered having taken a photo there of Michèle with Mélodie. Sitting on her hind legs next to Michèle, who was smiling that enchanting smile so typical of her, Mélodie too gave the impression that she was smiling …Words bubbled away in my head … I wanted to say something like: ‘We lived with Mélodie for twelve years. How happy we were! And, Michèle, you and I, we’ve been together for thirty-five years … thirty-five years, do you realise? So that makes thirty-five years that you’ve lived far from the land where you were born and grew up! … Yes, I know I’m one of those people who values deracination. You know that I’m fond of the words of Hugues de Saint-Victor, quoted by Erich Auerbach and again by Edward Said: ‘The man who finds his homeland agreeable is yet an innocent beginner; he for whom every land is like his native land is already strong; but perfect is he for whom the whole world is like a foreign country.’ I would go so far as to say that deracination is even the condition that makes possible the notion of citizen that we both defend. But I realise that deracination is also a kind of wrench, a tearing away … And that it hurts. You’ve been torn away from lots of things that were yours … for me and because of me … I know that it’s been painful, that it still is, whether we like it or not … I hope that having me by your side has been, is and will continue to be something that soothes this pain, even just a little … This is all that I can wish for in the time remaining to us, which, I have no doubt, we’ll spend together …’
But I didn’t.
My first book in French, A Language from Another Place, had been published a few months earlier. With the book the desire to write in French became incandescent. A number of subjects for a future book had me in their grip, if not obsessed me. And, if I remember correctly, it was on that day that I decided to write a book about Mélodie and weave into it a literary reflection about fidelity, this virtue that is at once human and yet scarcely human at all: human because man, by his destiny to be always already projected into an uncertain future, carries within him the prospect of fidelity, a desire for fidelity that is never extinguished; scarcely human because man—since he is a human, since he is no longer just an animal, since he has become fickle, as Don Alfonso teaches—by seizing this wonderful ability to transform himself, to construct himself continually, in short to give himself a story, could never be entirely faithful.
Oh, Mélodie! Have pity on me, I am just a poor wretched man who is unfaithful—but still I yearn for fidelity.
FINALE
28
‘ALL THE ANIMALS ARE DEAD’: THE AFTERLIFE OF MÉLODIE
I HAVE A cupboard—it has been made into a shrine, but it doesn’t look like a shrine at all—that is now the quiet resting place of some unforgettable and unforgotten souls. In the cupboard there is a little box of lacquered wood for powdered tea that contains a tiny portion of my father’s ashes that I had taken from his urn before it was placed in t
he grave. When I prepared this mortuary box, eighteen years ago now, I was brave enough to take a pinch of crumbled bones and taste them. Soon I think I’ll do the same for Mélodie, whose urn I still keep close by me in the exact spot where her mattress lay. I shall get another box of lacquered wood and put in it some spoonfuls of powdered bone and a piece of shoulder blade or rib. The rest will be spread in the garden or somewhere else to return to the earth.
My father and Mélodie. As I’ve said, they are the two beings who appear most often in my dreams. They are dead, but they are here. The ancients kept the ashes of the deceased for forty-nine days and then they would part with them in order to forget the sadness and to bury it away in their memories. I haven’t followed their teaching, because, while I understand the lesson, I wanted to go on living close to these two beings who, beyond the silence of death, continued to send me messages of encouragement. The man led me to the language with which and in which I write this book; the animal who never lies reinforced my loathing of sophistry and thus urged me to regard Literature still more as a vast and perilous attempt to expose words that lie. Man lies right up until death. But there are words, and arrangements of words, which, making this ultimate hypocrisy visible, escape at the very last from the lie. This text of Céline’s invites us to discover such words and such arrangements of words:
Melodie Page 15