Wittgenstein Jr (7 page)

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 plastic 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 studies. 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.