CHAPTER SIX
'That's
a relief!' thought Michael, as he shut the door to his room and flung himself
down upon the bed. 'I've
just closed the chapter on five-and-a-half years' service to a firm
specializing in classical music examinations. I'm free at last! A brisk handshake with the manager, last
thing this afternoon, settled the matter for good. From now on I'll have to condition myself to
another life, another world, and bury the past.
I'll have to work hard at my writings over the next few months, do
something creative for once, utilize my time
constructively. By Christ, I should have
enough to write about! A dream become reality.
I wanted to dream about being a writer, so I dreamt about it. The time was ripe for dreaming because I was
so far removed from the possibility of actually becoming one, so deeply
enslaved by the conditions under which I was then living, that the dream served
as the basis of an intention I subsequently proposed to enact. For a while the dream was more important to
me than its possible future realization.
I was immersed in it, in the natural flow of events, the genesis of my
intentions until, with the passing of time, those events and intentions began
to fade away, to lose their legitimacy, their potency, and the dream
accordingly ceased to function as a guideline to future actions but became,
instead, an encumbrance, leading me inexorably towards a situation I hadn't in
the least bargained for - namely, a painful neurosis!
'My dream had ceased to maintain the
balance with reality, to function as a legitimate reaction to my being unable,
at that time, to do anything else. I no
longer dreamt of being a writer, I was a fish-out-of-water, a piece of
psychological flotsam on the road to paranoia, a creature in desperate need of recentring, reintegrating.
I had read in Camus, somewhere, about the hero
being irremovably centred, though I didn't quite understand exactly what he
meant by it. There seemed to be so much
hidden meaning there that I automatically undervalued it at first, even though
the phrase stuck in my mind and was to haunt me for several weeks. But those days are now dead and buried! One learns from one's mistakes. I've since come to view that notion in a
rosier light, to perceive it as a beacon on the road to moral enlightenment.'
Getting up from his bed, he ambled across
to the alarm clock, which was still resting face-down on the top shelf of his
bookcase, picked it up and read the time.
As it was now
'My goodness, I am in a sombre mood this
evening,' he thought, turning away from his alarm clock. 'I suppose it's a kind of significant
turning-point in my life, leaving the firm today. It makes me want to break out in more than
one direction; for instance, leave London, which has always been something of
an embarrassment and even humiliation to me.
Maybe also something to do with that conversation I had with Gerald
Matthews at lunch time, his spilling the beans about having a gay man after him,
and all the rest of it! Though, in all
honesty, I wouldn't be surprised if he was a bit that way himself, what with
his effeminate airs. Even smokes his
cigarettes in a cigarette holder, doubtless afraid that his delicate pianist's
fingers may get stained with nicotine, to the detriment of such professional
standing as he may have in his pupils' eyes.
Then touches his hair up every now and then, as though to make sure it
hasn't got out of place or is still there or something. Always makes me feel self-conscious, walking
along the street with a bloke like that.
False representation. You imagine
people are staring at you, weighing you up, seeing if you really look all that
different from other people, people who aren't gay, that is. Still, you feel much better afterwards, once
you've ditched him somewhere and gone your own way. A great relief in fact! Better than being pushed around from hand to
hand, made to feel sorry for yourself because you haven't the guts to
disappoint anyone. If I couldn't get the
woman I wanted, I'd rather stay solitary any day. At least you're still in with a chance then,
provided you aren't solitary for too long of course. Anyway, I probably won't ever see him again,
so what matter? I'll mail him that short
story tomorrow, the one about a music teacher's illicit relationship with his
favourite pupil, and then keep my fingers crossed that he won't get in touch
with me about it. If he doesn't want to
read the damn thing he can always throw it away. That would be the simplest course.'
Shortly before
"Yes, it was pretty good,"
replied Mary Evidence automatically, not really remembering to which playlet he was alluding.
"But I'm afraid I didn't grasp it all."
'No, I didn't think you bloody would,'
thought Michael, taking the typescript of the playlet
in question from the mantelpiece where, unbeknown to himself, it had lain ever
since he first parted with it. 'It's
just one of those things!' For it
certainly embittered him to think that he only showed her his literary efforts
because there was nobody else, apart from his stepfather (who, in any case,
took absolutely no interest in his affairs, literary or otherwise), to whom he
could have shown them. If he only had a
dog for company he would probably have felt compelled, by force of
circumstances, to show examples of his work to the dog instead. It was like that with creative
endeavour. You wrote something that you
believed had value, and then you wanted someone to read it in order to
corroborate your belief, to verify that you weren't wasting your time, to
confirm that you could commit your thoughts and experiences to paper in a
passably accomplished manner, and to establish that someone, even someone intellectually
insignificant, could acquire a degree of enjoyment and worthwhile preoccupation
from it. Whether or not his mother read
the works he regularly entrusted to her keeping, she almost invariably said
something encouraging about them, if only to keep the peace or get the subject
out of the way as quickly as possible.
But such encouragement, being superficial, had ceased to mean anything
to Michael. He had seen through it, sensing
that anything he wrote would only serve to remind her of his late-father's
influence, of the fact that Patrick Savage had more brains than her and didn't
really belong to the same social class.
What was the use, he had so often wondered, in saying or thinking things
which your actions subsequently contradicted?
For example, he had on more than one
occasion decided not to visit his mother again, to stay in his bedsitter all evening and keep his literary efforts to
himself. But the very next day, when his
mood had changed and bed-sitter life was becoming (under renewed pressure of
neighbour noises) somewhat distressing, he would change his mind, only to
return to her place, hand her another typescript, and marvel at the
unpredictability of his intentions. And
yet his mother was a woman who, in his judgement, had never read a worthwhile
book in her life. A woman moreover who,
at the behest of her TV-addicted husband, could send him scurrying for shelter
from some sordid serial or raucous comedy into their spare front room, where he
would immediately seek out spiritual companionship from the works of the
handful of authors whom he could still aspire to read. Well, life was certainly no joyride as far as
that was concerned! His mental isolation was virtually complete.
"So how's the cricket going today,
Gus?" he at length asked his stepfather, in an attempt to change the
subject to what was currently taking place on the screen in front of them.
"Oh, not too bad," replied the
latter, after due deliberation.
"The
"Have they indeed?" responded
Michael, as a multitude of black arms shot into the televised air to the
resounding encore of 'Howzzat!', and another
belaboured England batsman, mindful of the lateness of the hour, awaited mortal
judgement from an umpire whose hands, surprisingly, remained imperturbably
confined to his coat pockets.
Not having any real interest in cricket
herself, Mary Evidence turned to her son and said: "So today was your last
day at work, then."
"That's right," he
confirmed. "I got free of the firm
at precisely four-twenty this afternoon."
"Then you may have to do some extra
writing next week," stated his mother while simultaneously picking up the
evening paper. "I'll let you know when it's
Reluctantly, he opened the thin laminated
door that separated 'their' room from 'his' room on such occasions and, gently
closing it behind him, ambled over to the front window. As usual he was thoroughly depressed by the
way his life was spent in the evenings, by the absence of compatible
communication between his mother and himself, by the absence of congenial
companionship with people his own age, by the absence of regular or, indeed,
irregular sex with a young woman of his choosing, and by his consequent
inclination to withdraw into what he not altogether uncontemptuously
regarded as 'enforced intellectuality' in the spare room. If there had ever been an occasion when he
had exchanged more than ten minutes' inconsequential chatter with his mother
and stepfather, he had long since forgotten all about it! His mother only succeeded in exasperating him. He would never, so long as he lived, be able
to hold an interesting conversation with her.
She was an incorrigible philistine who cared absolutely nothing about
the arts, took no interest in classical productions, and, frankly, didn't give
a damn about his literary aspirations.
It was more than likely that his visits to her flat only succeeded in
arousing self-hatred in him by reminding him of his past, by placing him in
direct contact with her stupidity, ignorance, poverty, lethargy, etc., to the lasting
detriment of his self-esteem. If only he
could get away from her for good, get far away from this constant reminder of
all the things he was in rebellion against and which he now perceived as the
root cause of his parent's incompatibility and the demise of their
all-too-brief marriage, his life would take on new horizons, find happiness,
become reintegrated. He would never be
content with it so long as he lived under her influence. Not in a hundred years!
Gradually his reflections ceased to run along
these rather depressing lines and returned, at length, to his art, his
writings, the various attempts which he made to express truthfully,
unashamedly, even boldly, the soul and situation of Michael James Savage, a
young man who might one day be permitted to present his work to the
English-speaking world, assuming he could find a publisher who, sympathetic to
subjectively-oriented literary
productions, would be prepared to embrace those aspects or areas of life with
which he was becoming increasingly familiar!
Turning away from the window, from where
the steady rumbling of heavy traffic was as obnoxious as the physical and even
metaphysical evidence of it passing up and down the Stroud Green Road, he took
the typescript of his one-scene playlet from his
jacket pocket and, sitting down in his favourite of the room's two identical
armchairs - the one farthest from the window - proceeded with difficulty to
read it. This particular playlet, half-fanciful and half-realistic, concerned the
chance meeting of two young people in his local park and, despite the banality
of the context, had been quite absorbing to work on, the previous week. Maybe it wouldn't require all that much
adjustment, after all. Though it would
certainly require a title, as, for that matter, would the one concerning the
hypnotic termination of unrequited love.
A small suburban park in
YOUNG MAN: (Turns towards her) Is
that an interesting book you're reading?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Slightly startled) What...? Oh, yes!
Quite interesting.
YOUNG MAN: You wouldn't be interested in some
conversation, by any chance?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Blushes slightly) No, not really.
YOUNG MAN: I just thought you might like to talk to
someone. To put it bluntly, you appeal
to me.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Thinks to herself, "God, he's
forward, isn't he? Fancy telling me
that! He might as well have asked me to
make it with him. I'd better be
careful.") Sorry, I'm waiting for someone.
YOUNG MAN: (Coolly impertinent) You’re
not wearing red panties under that skirt, are you?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Somewhat startled) Pardon?
YOUNG MAN: (Smiles) I bet you're wearing red knickers.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Starts to get up from the bench) Sorry,
but I don't want to answer that!
YOUNG MAN: (Catches her by the arm) Just a
minute! I'm not intending to rape you,
if that's what you're thinking. I'm
essentially very civilized: in fact, too damn civilized! Sit down a moment, let's talk together. Are you really waiting for someone?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Reluctantly sits down again) Why should
I lie?
YOUNG MAN: To keep me at a distance, of course.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Laughs nervously) I needn't lie to do
that! Besides, even if I were, what
business would it be of yours? (She
closes her book and is about to get up again when he puts a restraining hand on
her arm. She begins to look frightened.)
YOUNG MAN: You're very beautiful. That's the main reason why I must speak to
you. A man like me could spend years
looking for someone like you, someone who corresponds to his tastes. In a sense, you're very fortunate to be so
beautiful. Probably more than 90% of the
young women I encounter in this area make either no impression on me at all or
only a rather unfavourable one. Very few
of them actually appeal to me, the loner of loners. But I won't go into details. Normally I'm quite incapable of getting
worked-up about strangers. I have to get
to know people first, to find out more about the person I happen to be taking a
physical interest in, just to be on the safe side. But you pleased me from the moment I set eyes
on you, and that's very unusual. Look, I
don't really know why I'm telling you all this, spilling the beans to a
complete stranger ... but, well, I haven't spoken to anyone like you for ages
and, since you look intelligent, I'm making a fool of myself for your
benefit. You see, I need someone who'll
listen to me with a sympathetic ear because, whatever you may think, I'm no monster
but a human being in need of a little love and understanding once in a while,
just like a lot of other poor buggers who are daily coerced into maintaining a
false, pernicious, and self-defeating persona without necessarily realizing it! Believe me, I'm not homosexual or stupid or poxed or mad or dangerous or commonplace or ... believe me,
I'm a damned sight more caring and considerate than most of the men in this
world! Maybe you wouldn't understand ...
YOUNG WOMAN: (Shows signs of interest, in spite of her
misgivings) Go on.
YOUNG MAN: Well, for a time I thought I was
homosexual, not having a woman and not particularly going out of my way to get
one. But slowly, gradually, it dawned on
me that I wasn't really homosexual at all but simply choosy. I mean (He sighs, as from a realization of
the complexity of what he is trying to convey and the odds against his
conveying even a fraction of it convincingly), I had to have someone whom I
felt it would be possible for me to admire, to talk to, to love, even to
worship - yes, don't laugh! I mean
it! But poor and solitary as I was, I
never encountered anyone who sufficiently inspired such noble intentions in me. In fact, I rarely encountered anyone at all,
even casually. So
things just drifted: weeks, months, years, a face here and there, the
occasional disappointments, blunt refusals, hypocritical excuses, etc. I didn't go to university and I left all my
school friends behind in
YOUNG WOMAN: (Begins to show concern) But haven't you
tried computer dating?
YOUNG MAN: (Faintly smiles and nods) Yes, I was desperate
enough to give it a go. And d'you know what happened? (He
hesitates to choke back rage and resentment) I wasted my money! Most of the bitches the firms informed me
about didn't even have the courtesy to reply to my letters, quite apart from
the fact that those who did took ages doing so.
Even some of the firms had to be reminded about my application virtually
every-other-month! And when they
eventually got round to replying, it seemed as though they'd taken a lucky dip
and, to pass muster, sent me whatever came up, irrespective of my
preferences. Anyway, the few women I
eventually got around to meeting were plain, to say the least! They'd have humiliated me on the street and
exasperated me in the bedroom. As far
as the likelihood of my being able to kindle any genuine desire for them was
concerned, it would have been tantamount to flogging a dead horse! In fact, they might as well have been cows or
sheep, for all the passion I felt towards them!
No, I regret to say that computer dating didn't work for me. You never know exactly what you're getting
and, besides, I found the whole idea too degrading. I had to take one girl back to the station
after barely an hour of her company, because she was so damned
incompatible. She hadn't even read one of
the several hundred books in my possession at the time. Not one!
And that was after I'd categorically stipulated a preference for someone
literate. But if that was bad enough, I
thought it even worse that she hadn't even heard of, let alone heard, any of
the albums in my record collection. And
they call that compatibility? Well, I
soon got rid of her, as well as most of the others they inflicted upon me, too! Of course, a majority of people always end-up
doing what they imagine everyone else is doing at the time. Climb on the bandwagon, let others think for
you, and wait for the lucky number! For
if, by any chance, a man with an ounce of self-determination approaches an attractive
female in the park, on the street, or in any other public context with the
intention of acquiring her, the spirit of technological progress will declare
him to be either an anachronistic idiot or a potentially dangerous maniac who
should learn to live with the times instead of wilfully following his personal
inclinations, obeying the voice of his desire in his own sweet fashion, and
taking the law into his own hands irrespective of the consequences. As though men were still capable of
self-determination in an age like this, when the sheep-like collectivity
counts for everything and the lone individual, especially the self-willed
creative individual, next to nothing!
Thus speaks the spirit of technological progress!
YOUNG WOMAN: (Raises her brows in apparent concern) I
see! But what makes you so sure that I
may be able to assist you?
YOUNG MAN: Simply the fact that you appeal to me. I mean, I wouldn't mind being seen in your
company. You're very beautiful and, from
what I can gather, intelligent as well.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Smiles) Flattery will get you
nowhere. Anyway, I'm waiting for my
boyfriend, as I think I told you.
YOUNG MAN: (Frowns) So what's
he like: strong, tall, handsome?
YOUNG WOMAN: Oh, good-looking, hard-working,
intelligent, loyal, generous, considerate, able. A good all-round sort
really.
YOUNG MAN: And how long have you known him?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Obliged to scan her memory a moment)
Just over a year actually.
YOUNG MAN: And you had other boyfriends before him?
YOUNG WOMAN: Yes, a few. (She becomes puzzled) Why d'you have to ask so many questions?
YOUNG MAN: (Unable to restrain himself from shouting) Because I haven't given so much as one kiss to a woman in
nearly ten years!
YOUNG WOMAN: (Becomes indignant) Is
that my fault? I'm sorry, we all have
our problems, you know.
YOUNG MAN: Yes, and some of us more than others! (In
desperation) Can't you drop him?
YOUNG WOMAN: Are you out of your mind?
YOUNG MAN: (Frowns and sighs in exasperation) Why
should that bastard take all my share of loving? Haven't I as much right to love as him, as
you, as anyone? Or is that merely
presumptuous of me, a gross delusion, a mode of self-deception engendered by
the sight and sound of so much commercial propaganda pertaining to sex?
YOUNG WOMAN: (On the verge of tears) But it's not his
fault. He's as entitled to choose a woman as anyone else, isn't he? It's not his fault if he happened to be in
the right place at the right time and you, through no particular fault of your
own, weren't.
YOUNG MAN: No, it's life's fault! Life is always to blame. That's why some people get everything whilst
others get next to nothing. Fate!
YOUNG WOMAN: (Unable to hold back her tears) Oh, don't
make such a damned fuss! There are
plenty of people worse off than you.
Look, if everyone went about spilling their problems over people the way
you do, we'd have a civil war on our hands.
At least you're still young.
YOUNG MAN: Yes, and that's precisely what riles
me! Young and bitter! My God, it sickens me to see so many blatant
half-wits, so many ugly, uncouth, depraved men with good-looking women just
because they happened to be in the right place at the right time. I might as well have been born crippled,
considering what use I make of the advantages I possess!
YOUNG WOMAN: (Dries her eyes) Haven't
you ever had sex with a prostitute?
YOUNG MAN: No, I haven't! For one thing, I can't afford to. And, for another, I distrust them. Besides, they're not the kind of women who
appeal to me, as a rule. So for anything
approaching sexual satisfaction, I'm mostly dependent on the occasional wet
dream. Actually, I used to be a bit of a
wanker at one time.
However, these days masturbation would only arouse my self-contempt, so
I tend to avoid it.
YOUNG WOMAN: Masturbation's puerile.
YOUNG MAN: Fortunately I didn't succumb to it all that
often, just once or twice a month in order to clean the works out, as it were,
and reassure myself that I hadn't become impotent. After a while I loathed the self-degradation
involved with the use of sex magazines, the models of which I rarely found
stimulating. So I'd resort to my
imagination instead, fantasize myself into a climax and hope that I wouldn't
become irredeemably perverted or the victim of a cerebral haemorrhage. Nowadays I don't fantasize as persistently or
regularly as I used to; I stop myself going beyond a certain low-key point and
limit myself to one or two a day.... Frankly, I believe the fact that I was
born in
YOUNG WOMAN: (Smiles through her nose) I wouldn't
particularly blame him. After all, one
doesn't normally ask strangers those sorts of questions. In fact, one doesn't normally approach
strangers at all, at least not in
YOUNG MAN: I suppose I was being a bit silly then but,
well, one sometimes feels the urge to do or say something unusual, if only to
prove to oneself that one is still capable of self-determination and isn't
utterly predictable.
YOUNG WOMAN: But having it off with a prostitute, or
just about anyone, presumably isn't one of those urges in your case?
YOUNG MAN: No, I guess not, since the thought doesn't
hold any great attraction for me. With a
man of my sort it has to be all or nothing.
I'd willingly continue to remain celibate until death, if only to keep
away from half-measures, or anything which only served to compromise and
humiliate me. I've seen too many
half-measures in life to be particularly impressed by them. God knows what would become of me if I had to
settle for someone I secretly despised!
I'd probably become bad-tempered, jealous, cruel, cynical:
any number of disreputable things!
YOUNG WOMAN: But aren't you most of those things
already?
YOUNG MAN: (Sighs dejectedly) Well, at least I'm
suffering on my own terms at present, which is some consolation. There's always the possibility of my meeting
someone who'll really matter to me. I
wasn't born for charity, that's all.
I've seen too much of the negative side of it, its detrimental
consequences.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Smiles gently and edges closer to him) So you think I may be able to provide you with the
companionship you lack at present?
YOUNG MAN: (Visibly surprised) Eh? But aren't you waiting for someone?
YOUNG WOMAN: No, not any longer.
YOUNG MAN: You mean someone else is going to suffer on
account of me, then?
YOUNG WOMAN: Not necessarily. Anyway, you've been alone long enough
already, haven't you?
YOUNG MAN: Yes, I suppose you're right. But I may take some getting used to.
YOUNG WOMAN: (Smiles encouragingly) Don't
worry! I'm a fairly patient person.
YOUNG MAN: Yes, you are, aren't you? (He squeezes her
hand thankfully) By the way, my name's Stephen Kelly. What's yours?
YOUNG WOMAN: Susan Connors. And I'm not wearing red knickers.
YOUNG MAN: You're not? (Blushes profusely) Oh
damn! I was just teasing you. Please accept my sincere apology. (They
embrace each other and, following a tentative exchange of kisses, the scene
ends with the young couple slowly walking away from the bench hand-in-hand.)
'So much for that!' thought Michael,
throwing the typescript to one side as soon as he had finished with it. 'I must have been out of my mind to have
written such a thing! Why, I could spend
the rest of my life writing about sexually-frustrated solitaries if I'm not
careful! Imagine I'm enjoying myself,
what with all those lewd images monopolizing my imagination to the point of
surfeit, the inevitable consequence of the gratuitous existence I lead. Maybe I ought to write a thesis on the pros
and cons of celibacy.... No shortage of sexually frustrated people about these
days though, and not all of them are ugly or stupid either! Most of them probably don't know what to make
of themselves. They wind-up blaming
their celibacy on the times or, failing that, the sort of people around them,
the environment in which they live, or are obliged to live, etc. Well, I wouldn't get unduly worried about
it. Either you've got access to regular
sex or you haven't. Solitude and
frustration are quite enough to bear, without the need to drag an overwrought
imagination into the problem as well!
Too many people become the victims of that tendency, quaking beneath
some Lawrentian or Reichian
sex propaganda. Indeed, you might as
well keep an eye on your potency by jerking off every so often, as quake
beneath that! Admittedly, a somewhat
disreputable kind of self-indulgence, and quite inadequate as things go. But far safer than the pox, and financially
attractive in these economically hard-pressed times.
'Depends what sort of imagination or moral
sense you've got, though. No use
degrading yourself beyond a certain point.
Bad enough with conventional sex.
Remember what happened to Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Flaubert, Maupassant, and
Nietzsche, to name but a few of the nineteenth-century's most famous victims of
syphilis. It didn't matter who you were,
the pox was rife in those days. At least
they were fortunate not to have got mugged on the job. Did happen sometimes. Even happened in Villon's
day. Coquillards! Some callous brutes hiding in the background
with the express intention of robbing the client of his money and/or valuables
as soon as he was in a sufficiently compromising position. Better safe than sorry! Too many risky situations in life as it is,
and not merely in relation to mugging and prostitution! Risky situations in virtually every
context. For example, computer
dating. Find oneself dating a woman who
embarrasses one by not matching-up to one's aesthetic requirements. I'd feel somewhat self-conscious in public,
what with people evaluating her, comparing us, identifying me with her and vice
versa. I'd have to get rid of her as
soon as possible and, if I couldn't find someone else, return to my solitude
again. At least that's preferable to
indulging in an ungainly compromise with anyone. No altruistic hypocrisy here, thank you! Haven't the charity for it anyway. Risky in other ways, too. Might lead to an "accident" some
day. Find myself partly responsible for
putting another cynical brat into the world, the unfortunate consequence of an
ill-matched liaison.'
He halted in his mental tracks a moment,
tired of the one he had just gone down and anxious to change to one not having
any particular connection with his playlet.
'World population on the rise and hope on
the wane,' he went on thinking.
'Imminent spiritual recession prophesied by eminent spiritual
authorities. Detrimental materialistic
consequences virtually inevitable.... I must watch out for the Devil's
disguises since, according to what I was reading on a religious pamphlet
someone had the audacity to put through the front-door letter flap the other
week, it appears that His current disguise takes the form of powerful psychic
emanations which, penetrating the brain cells of the unwary, goad people into
perpetrating all manner of despicable crimes.
Of the crimes listed for what appears to be the benefit of the general
public, we find activities such as mugging, rape, murder, theft, and arson, but
don't find activities like fraud, perjury, blackmail, and embezzlement,
presumably on account of the Devil's preference for coarse minds in matters of
brutality and for subtle minds in matters of deceit, the environment I inhabit
evidently having more of the former than the latter in it!
'Well, he's certainly a versatile old devil
who always has an iron in the fire, kindling crime. Uses the unfortunate to further his
infamy. Instigates all manner of callous
deeds, from the theft of a young bride's wedding presents by the best man to
the murder of an old woman's husband by one of her long-standing
girlfriends. Won't stop at anything. It seems that even the Almighty can't manage
without him. He wouldn't have Quakers
quaking if it wasn't for the Devil's influence in the world. They might become too complacent. Even forget to pray sometimes.
'But I dare say that a majority of
religious maniacs don't realize they're crazy.
I mean crazy in a particular way.
They've been indoctrinated so persistently and scrupulously, by the
clerical powers-that-be, that they actually wind-up believing all the superstitious
nonsense they hear. I mean, what real
choice do they have? It's like that POW who,
in order to get himself discharged on medical grounds, feigned madness to such
a convincing extent that he eventually went mad. Or like a fellow who hears so much talk of
reincarnation that he ultimately comes to believe in it and, in order to appease
his spiritual vanity, conceives of himself as a reincarnation of some famous
historical person, like Caesar or Napoleon.
Indeed, our capacity for self-delusion is one of our mainstays in life,
provided, however, that we recognize it for what it is and keep a regular check
on things, in order not to get ourselves locked away, exploited, or overly
abused in consequence of allowing it to develop beyond a certain socially
acceptable point, and thereby get completely out-of-hand. We might still be climbing trees or
grovelling in underground caves if it wasn't for our capacity to evolve both
logical and illogical tendencies
in a fairly harmonious if exceedingly complex manner. Darwin ought to have added a chapter to The Evolution of
Species entitled "Competitive Man - a Guide to Future
Developments", as a sort of thesis on the human rat-race. Every man for himself and the Devil take the
hindmost! What choice does one have? Anyway, at least I have the consolation of
knowing that I'm not a religious maniac, since
whatever madness or capacity for self-delusion I incline towards I've at
least taken the precaution of channelling it into a fairly inoffensive belief.
'How shall I explain? Well, I occasionally abandon myself to the
delusion of believing certain people to be endowed with an ability and/or
device which enables them to penetrate my mind and listen-in, as it were, to
what I'm thinking at the time, just as a Christian might believe that God was
listening-in to his thoughts on account of His divine omniscience. I say "occasionally" because I
wouldn't dream of allowing my thoughts to be highlighted in such a delusive
fashion on a regular basis, especially with regard to those changing moods and
circumstances which make yesterday's self-esteem tomorrow's self-contempt. Indeed, I might as well endeavour to believe
in God's omniscience ... as allow the recollection of a few past friends,
acquaintances, or potential girlfriends to usurp my mental freedom to such an
extent that the ensuing delusion claps me in psychic fetters. After all, what's state-organized religion if
not a means society has gradually evolved for channelling the psyche's
illogical tendencies into a given theological context, thereby providing significant
numbers of people with a common vent for tendencies which might otherwise
impose themselves upon society in any number of unexpected and possibly
detrimental ways?
'Naturally, any free thinker can tear
established religion to logical shreds in the cut-and-thrust of his rational
arguments. But that won't prevent him
from being illogical in his own fashion, nor ensure that his illogicality won't cause the world more trouble than the
institutionalized illogicality of the Faithful. I guess that was something I overlooked at
lunch time when talking with Gerald Matthews about religion, criticizing
Christianity for its irrationality and praising the spirit of rationalism. But the fact that I have certain beliefs of a
more private and secular nature makes it virtually impossible for me to cherish
various religious and occult beliefs, since, by their very existence, they
exclude the possibility of others. So I
don't consider myself a reincarnation of either Caesar or Napoleon. I don't go about with thoughts of some
transcendent Afterlife on my mind, and neither do I literally believe in
Christ's Ascension into Heaven or His miraculous ability to change water into
wine. I don't pay much attention to
astrological revelations in the papers, and neither do I put much faith in the I Ching,
or Book of Changes. I make no
effort to take spiritualism seriously, since I disbelieve in ghosts, and
neither do I seek to have my palm read.
In fact, I could draw up quite a long list of beliefs, hypotheses,
superstitions, allegiances, practices, neuroses, etc., which mean scarcely
anything to me, if I really wanted to distinguish my illogical predilections or
irrational manias from more prevalent ones in the world at large. At least I have the consolation of accepting
the situation in my head for what it is, whereas a good many religious maniacs,
class maniacs, nymphomaniacs, demonomaniacs,
megalomaniacs, dipsomaniacs, erotomaniacs, melomaniacs, and other types of maniac will probably spend
the greater part of their lives in virtually total ignorance of their mental
situation. Yet they're often among the
first to accuse others of being mad, the self-righteous shallow pates! Still, when one begins to consider the large
numbers of overt maniacs around, it's understandable that the more subtle,
refined, or introverted manias should sometimes get overlooked.
'You'd think, though, that these public
exhibitionists would have more sense than to expose their misfortunes to the
vulgar eye in such an open manner, arms waving in the air, head nodding
vigorously up and down, tongue wagging incessantly, stupid grins transforming
their ugly features into grotesque masks.
Evidently not, because they're more often extroverts. Well, I certainly wouldn't want to invite
reproachful comments from passing strangers if it could possibly be
avoided! Nor would I want to deliver
myself into the hands of psychiatrists or social workers on account of my
personal delusions, either. I'd far
sooner grapple with them on my own and in my own sweet time than deliver myself
into their clutches. They'd probably cure me of one thing only to
expose me to something else, and probably to something worse at that - say, an
institutional or otherwise external delusion!
I could wind-up becoming a pathological numerologist or obsessed
astrologer instead! Who knows the number
of beliefs or manias to which one could alternatively succumb, given a push in
the wrong direction. You meet people and
the chances are that, by degrees, they influence you in some way and even
coerce you, eventually, into developing a different lifestyle. I was a confirmed atheist until, God only
knows how it happened, I met this young lady who was a devout believer and she
pleased me to such an extent that I gradually turned renegade, so to speak, and
went along to Sunday-morning worship with her until - wonder of wonders! - I
duly discovered a new lease-of-life and became a ductile convert to the
faith. That sort of thing has
probably happened to a fair number of desperately lonely and sex-starved people
over the years, though I certainly wouldn't want it to happen to me, even if
the woman I happened to fall in love with was very beautiful.
'Imagine me standing in church while the
vicar commences praying, and she is next to me with her worldly goods all
wrapped up, some of the congregation privately admiring her black-stockinged calf muscles and perhaps even wondering what
colour underclothes she's wearing, whilst others prefer to turn a blind eye to
such things and shut out all ungodly thoughts until the final AMEN, when the doors
are thrown open and the flock streams towards the fresh air outside amidst
respectful whisperings and discreet rustlings of quality garments worn by
chastened penitents who fear their psychological halo may fall from the tenuous
support upon which it perches if they don't get out of the church quickly
enough. And me wondering what the hell
it's all about, turning my nose up at other young women and pretending to be
unimpressed by her shapely little buttocks trembling in front of me, as I wait
my turn to shake the clergyman's hand and cause a smile to illuminate his
sagacious countenance. Though I needn't
have worried, because he hadn't noticed anything and wouldn't, in any case,
have said anything condemnatory, considering the nature of Nature and the
coercive element therein which, however one chooses to address it, initially
sanctioned the sexual bond between us.
But no matter, the sun's shining shamelessly outside the church and her
skirt's flapping in the breeze, though she keeps everything in place as best
she can in order not to give anyone a moral advantage over her, least of all
those old women cluttering up the doorway in their eagerness to shake the
vicar's hand, every one of them now moral vultures who would be only too
grateful for the prospect of alighting on unchaste behaviour among the young
people, the spectacle of someone whom they wouldn't have dreamed capable of
wearing bright underclothes on such an occasion.
'Good God, is that it? The one who led me back to the fold? No, I haven't fallen so low that I could
abandon my atheistic principles on account of someone else! If, by any chance, I encountered a woman like
that, I'd twist her arm in my direction, make her see sense, convince her of
the futility of her behaviour. I'd tell
her that she's a fool to other people's games, that it's high time she got her
head together, instead of continuing to make a fool of herself, and that if she
didn't mend her ways she'd have to find somebody else to slobber over in
future. I'd give it to her straight,
make myself feel like a man again ...'
"Nearly nine, Michael," declared
Mary Evidence, popping her head out from behind the door she had just thrust
open. "Now don't tell me you've
been day-dreaming all this time!" she added reproachfully.
"No, just thinking," responded
Michael, as he stretched out his hand for the angry little playlet
which had lain neglected on the nearby table.
Mrs Evidence smilingly sighed, before
saying: "Well, we'll see you Monday, then.
Have a good weekend."
"I'll try to," he said.
"'Night, then," concluded his
mother before returning to whence she had come, where the TV was still inanely
droning-on largely for her husband's moronic benefit.
'I think I'll call my playlet
A
Romantic Encounter,' thought Michael, as he swiftly made his way downstairs
and out into the street. 'It may as well
be called that as anything else.'
