LIVING IN THE CITY

 

Pascal had said that a man would save himself a lot of inconvenience if only he could learn to sit still in his room, scorning the outside world as much as possible.  Matthew Ryan, a leading twentieth-century writer, had come, through bitter experience, to appreciate the shallowness and narrowness of Pascal's oft-quoted dictum.  He had indeed spent a great deal of time sitting still in his room, but instead of saving him the suffering that would presumably have come from venturing out of it for any length of time, this reclusive habit had resulted in his experiencing more pain than ever he would have got from the outside world, had he chosen to dwell there in defiance of Pascal.  But he hadn't done so, and for the simple fact that he was a writer who needed somewhere private to work.  He couldn't bring himself to write in the reference department of the local library, despite the ample provisions for sedentary toil, since he would have been exposed to public scrutiny and become self-conscious.  He would also have been exposed to the coughings and shufflings, comings and goings, questions and answers, wailings and slammings, snivellings and sneezings, etc., which figured so prominently in the reference room on an average busy day, whilst from the street he would have heard children crying or dogs barking or cars honking or workmen hammering or women shouting or any number of other extraneous noises which invaded all departments of the library at virtually any time of day.

     No, he couldn't force himself to work in the local library!  There was far too much noise about and, besides, he needed privacy.  Serious writing regularly entailed periodic deliberations, not to mention frequent erasions or modifications of unsuitable material.  He would have felt embarrassed to behave in such a way in public, particularly as he also needed to take periodic breaks from his work during which time, usually amounting to ten minutes, he would simply be sitting there doing absolutely nothing.  What he did or didn't do in private, on the other hand, was his own business.  And so, eschewing the temptation - sometimes very pressing - to visit the local library or, for that matter, work in the local park when the weather was fine, he remained in his room, which became for him a kind of study.  He had no option but to remain there.

     Yet, contrary to Pascal's wisdom, he didn't escape all that much suffering by remaining put.  For it was one of the noisiest rooms conceivable, or, to be more precise, was exposed to the noises made in other rooms of the house, as well as to noises issuing from the surrounding external environment, as with the library.  He kept the noise level in his own room down to a minimum, but his neighbours had, for the most part, no pressing desire to follow suit.  Rather, they indulged in it to the limit, or so it often seemed to him.  Consequently the ordinarily difficult task of writing along serious philosophical lines was made doubly, nay, trebly difficult by the all-too-frequent prevalence of neighbour and environmental noises which, conspiring together, could only make for increased suffering.  God knows, one suffered enough from one's work, without having to endure external noises as well!  But there it was; by sitting still in his room, Matthew Ryan had discovered the relative and altogether limited applicability of Pascal's famous dictum.  He had come to despise it!

     But here a discerning reader may well wonder why, if he hated noise so much, our writer couldn't find somewhere quieter to live.  Well, the explanation here is simply that he couldn't afford anywhere quieter to live, that, for want of a sufficient income, he was obliged to remain in the relatively inexpensive accommodation in which he was living.  But why, the reader might then wonder, was he in want of a sufficient income?  Ah, the explanation there would have to be that he was a writer whose writings were too progressive and sophisticated to earn him a sufficient income and enable him to move to somewhere quieter.  Yes, here was the paradoxical truth of the matter.  For instead of serving to make him rich or, at any rate, moderately well-off, his writings only served to keep him poor, despite what he considered to be their intrinsic intellectual value.  And they kept him in poverty because they were too elevated to appeal to the broad masses, the bourgeoisie - to all but a comparatively small number of people who preferred the pursuit of truth to the indulgence of vice.  They kept him poor because of their quality.

     Oh, you may well wonder, but isn't it odd that work of quality should fail to be appreciated on its true merits and granted due recognition?  Ah, you clearly fail to appreciate the nature of contemporary capitalist society if you wonder that!  You fail to appreciate the fact that, the commercial requirements of publishers notwithstanding, a majority of people are simply incapable of recognizing the merits of a work of real quality.  You haven't realized that the majority of people in countries like England are too philistine to care anything for exceptional writings, but are only too willing to continue reading literary trash - assuming they read at all.  You haven't appreciated the hideous spiritual inequality which exits between man and man, as between the cultural Few and the barbarous Many.

     But, of course, Matthew Ryan had appreciated it and, being unable or unwilling to stoop to the popular level, had done his best to live with the fact, even if this did mean that he was obliged to resign himself to poverty while lesser writers grew wealthy on the stupidity and gullibility of the masses, grew rich by producing the kinds of writings which he, through spiritual nobility, was utterly opposed to producing.  All he could do was carry-on with the kinds of writings which meant something to him and became him.  And those writings were largely what kept him chained to the humble lodgings in which he lived - a prisoner of circumstances.  There was no alternative fate, since he couldn't alter his style or content, bringing them more into line with popular taste, and thereby 'sell out', as the expression goes, to the lowest-common-philistine-denominator, producing not literature but commercial trash!  A man is what he is, and nothing can change him.  If he is destined to be like Schopenhauer or Nietzsche or Spengler or Hesse or Baudelaire or even Huysmans, there is nothing he can do to alter the fact.  One doesn't choose to write for a mass readership; one is either disposed to doing so or indisposed, as the case may be.  And for anyone with any degree of above-average intelligence and an appropriately serious temperament, there is not the slightest chance of one's being disposed to writing for the broad masses.  There is not the slightest chance of one's stooping to the level of adventure stories or thrillers or ghost stories or sentimental romances or war novels or science fiction or horror or whatever else is usually read by a majority of the reading public, which is still a minority - even quite considerable - of the public in general.  One simply can't do it.  And consequently one can't expect to make all that much money from what one does do - from work which seems to one of real literary value.  On the contrary, one has no option but to accept the fact that only a comparatively small minority of people are going to appreciate it, no matter how progressive it may be.  Even Lenin and Marx didn't really write for the masses, but for those who would lead them.  That is a significant distinction!

     And so Matthew Ryan had come to accept the harsh reality into which circumstances had inexorably led him, contriving to persevere with it as best he could.  In a sense there was no real alternative, short of suicide.  But suicide wasn't something he particularly wanted to entertain, since death, whilst it might put an end to one's personal and professional problems, would hardly serve the world's improvement.  For the world could only be improved by people like him remaining in it, continuing to fight on behalf of quality and progress, continuing to impose his higher thought upon it.  To kill oneself would simply be to destroy what opportunity one had, by living in the world, to work for the general good.  It would be to succumb to the evil in life, to fall along the way.  But the most enlightened people had to survive if the world was to be improved.  They had to continue the war against the Devil, against everything low and evil, vain and predatory.  That was their raison d'être for being in the world, not simply to enjoy themselves.  Only the people or, rather, a broad and usually youthful stratum of the masses could content themselves with self-enjoyment, with simple irresponsible hedonism - as Ryan had learnt to his cost!  How many times, he reflected, had he struggled with his writings during the day while neighbours played rock 'n' roll or pop music on their record-players for hours on-end!  Ah, it was terrible, the extent of the irresponsibility and inconsideration of these half-witted people, these mass types!  Irresponsibility and inconsideration - weren't they the most frequent evils one encountered in lodging-house accommodation?

     Yes, there could be no doubt of that fact in Matthew Ryan's mind!  He knew his neighbours well enough, by now, to know that much!  He hadn't spent years dwelling among them to be blind or deaf to their abuses.  He knew that, left to themselves, they tended to behave just as they pleased, without respect or consideration for anyone else.  Indeed, there were times when he had felt obliged to complain about the noise and humbly request that the volume of radio, television, record-player, or whatever, be turned down a bit.  Sometimes the neighbours responsible for the noise responded sympathetically.  Sometimes not.  On one occasion, when his next-door neighbour's radio had kept him awake all night, he had received as response to his complaint at 4.00am a punch on the face and a barrage of highly abusive language that continued until after 4.30.  The man had evidently been drinking in the company of some woman, presumably his latest girlfriend, and, being desirous to impress her or at any rate not lose face, had resorted to violence and bad language when asked to show some consideration.  Inevitably, Ryan had beat a gentlemanly if, under the circumstances, slightly ignominious retreat to his room, since he had no desire to indulge in physical violence with the man, who, in any case, was older and stronger.  Physical violence was all very well when one was on a par with the average muscular type, but when one was above it - ah! there could be no question of one's doing anything but turning the other cheek or, if one felt unduly endangered, threatening to sue the man for assault.  After all, it isn't in the interests or nature of one who was more spiritually evolved to resort to physical violence, like a beast.  The only kind of violence such a person could or should resort to is spiritual violence, like strong words or sharp looks, in accordance with his status as a gentleman, or someone who, for a number of reasons, was above physical threats.  Spiritual violence was a gentleman's prerogative, in view of the fact that he shouldn't be expected to demean or compromise himself by indulging in physical violence.  Only a 'man of the people' could reasonably be expected to resort to the latter, since he was less spiritually evolved and, consequently, more under the influence of his senses, his emotions, his body.  And this was precisely what Ryan's nearest neighbour had resorted to on the night in question!

     However, as relations between them gradually quietened down again, he had no reason to fear a repeat performance of that experience in future.  Though he remained on his guard, so to speak, and refrained from acknowledging the man whenever they crossed on the stairs or in the hallway.  It wasn't as though Duggan had become an enemy to him; just someone to be avoided and despised for his foul behaviour.  An enemy, on the other hand, had to be someone closer to oneself, someone whom it was possible for one to hate rather than simply despise.  His next-door neighbour was simply one of 'them', meaning an average Joe.

     But Matthew Ryan had never gone out of his way to quarrel with average people or, more precisely, his neighbours.  He had simply wanted to carry on with his work and forget about them as much as possible.  Yet much as he wished to forget about them, they didn't necessarily wish to forget about him, but preferred to remind him, on various occasions, that he was a stranger among them, a social outsider.  They would feign polite coughs or make vulgar wretching sounds or purposely drop things on the floor (his ceiling) or slam doors and cupboards.  They had a number of ways of reminding him of his social origins, of the fact that his behaviour was inherently different from and even superior to theirs.  It didn't matter how socialist or progressive one considered oneself to be, they didn't care what one read or wrote or thought, but based their opinion of one on one's appearance, accent, general behaviour, and occupation.  Had Marx, Engles, Lenin, or Trotsky been living in similar circumstances, matters probably wouldn't have been any different.  The neighbours would have sensed their intellectual distinctness and accordingly taken measures to oppose them, no matter how humbly.  For the difference between average people and those who are above average is essentially one of intelligence, and it matters little whether or not the latter use their greater intelligence to improve the former's lot - at least not to the former themselves.  The fact that one's behaviour is different suffices to make them suspicious of one, to regard one as an enemy or, at any rate, potential threat, whether for good or ill.

     Thus Matthew Ryan had not struck-up friendly relations with any of his neighbours over the years of his confinement to this single room.  He had simply dwelt among them.  But, in dwelling among them, he had come to see them in a much clearer light than would have been possible had he still been living elsewhere - say, in the comparatively middle-class provinces.  And in seeing them in such a light, he had avoided the illusions which usually befell those who saw them less clearly, as from a rosy distance in the comparative safety of their suburban or provincial environments.  He had seen them as they really were, and that had been enough to convert him to socialism.  Previously he had been an anti-bourgeois intellectual.  Now he was a pro-proletarian intellectual.  That was quite a distinction!  He had changed from being a kind of latter-day Baudelaire into a kind of latter-day Lenin.  He wanted to transform average people, in turn, into something higher and better than themselves - in a word, to make them noble.

     Yes, there could be no doubt in his mind that most people had to be transformed and thereby dragged out of their wretchedness and baseness.  How long it would take to improve the quality of the race, he didn't pretend to know.  But no matter how long, the job had to be done if life was to become better (or perhaps one should say less bad).  There were basically only two types of people in the world at present: namely, mob types and nob types.  The raison d'être of social progress, as he saw it, was to transform all mob types into nob types in due course, to raise the general level of human life to a point where the highest possible type of nobility prevailed in the world at large, and mankind thus became spiritually united in their quest for ultimate transformation into supreme being, if not actually into the Supreme Being itself.  At present, however, the mob type, which mostly stemmed from the proletariat, was ranged against the nob type, which mostly stemmed from the bourgeoisie.  This latter type was divisible between those who served themselves, as capitalist individuals, and those who served the masses, as socialists; between the hard-core of traditional bourgeoisie on the one hand, and the revolutionary supporters of the proletariat on the other.  There was no such thing, as yet, as a proletarian nob.  For at present the only possible kinds of nobility (using that word in its broadest sense) were either aristocratic or bourgeois, with the latter tending to predominate.  But bourgeois nobs can be in the proletariat's service, just as certain aristocratic ones were in the service of the bourgeoisie during the French Revolution, and this was certainly also true of many Bolsheviks at the time of the Russian Revolution.  Their nobility was put to the service of the proletariat rather than predominantly reserved for themselves, as is generally the case with nobles of a traditional cast.  But being a nob in the service of the mob doesn't mean that one intends to transform proletarians into bourgeoisie in due course, and Ryan was under no illusions whatsoever on this point.  On the contrary, progress towards the highest possible type of nobility presupposed the transformation of proletarian mobs into proletarian nobs.  The base clay, so to speak, of the urban environment had to be transformed into the highest possible humanity, not taken out of its rightful environment and reduced to a nobility compatible with the suburbs, if not the provinces.  There could be no going back so far as evolution was concerned.  Willy-nilly, a new nobility had to be created!

     But Matthew Ryan was essentially a bourgeois or, at any rate, upper middle-class nob who, through force of circumstances, had become stranded in the city and thereby cut off from his rightful provincial habitat.  Being confined to the city, he had not altogether surprisingly developed proletarian sympathies and become socially progressive, become revolutionary rather than remained rebellious, as he had been when still a suburban youth.  Yet he hadn't ceased to be intellectually middle-class through enforced confinement in the city, as his neighbours often reminded him.  And even if they hadn't reminded him, he would have known it, known he was fundamentally a fish-out-of-water or, rather, a deep-sea fish languishing in the shallows, which was how he saw the artificial nature of the urban milieu, with its scarcity of vegetation.

     Yet that is a relative matter, so let us return to the problem of our philosopher vis-à-vis his neighbours again, rather than remain in the realm of metaphysical speculation.  Nevertheless he was aware that his immediate neighbours were by no means untypical proletarians, being of a sensual disposition which allowed them to take city life more or less for granted.  They were, he had often noticed, of a different build from himself - either muscular or fleshy rather than thin.  They were what the American psychologist W.H. Sheldon would have classified as mesomorphs or endomorphs rather than ectomorphs, like himself.  And they had no compunction about regularly visiting the local pubs or leaving cigarette butts lying around the house.  Neither did they live alone, without the assistance of friends or the opposite sex.  Had they done so, Ryan reflected, life might have been a bit quieter for him.  But, of course, they couldn't be expected to do so, since they were too sensual to contemplate the prospect of remaining celibate.  They behaved in a manner which more or less guaranteed them mental health, free from crippling depressions.  Had Ryan stumbled upon a woman worthy of himself in the neighbourhood, life might not now be so trying for him either (assuming he would have been capable of responding to her in a relatively natural fashion - a somewhat debatable assumption in view of his lopsided spirituality!).  But, unfortunately, he hadn't done so, since the only women he ever saw were proletarians, and they could scarcely be expected to appeal to him, a man for whom cultural and intellectual company was a must, if he was to have any company at all.  An average girl, even when attractive, would quickly have bored him, having very little in common with him.  A woman had to be more than just a sex partner; she had to genuinely share his tastes and interests.  And, by god, there were very few women in his neighbourhood who could be expected to do that!

     No, an above-average man couldn't be expected to live with a proletarian.  His father had tried and failed hopelessly, leaving him the victim of a broken marriage and a half-witted and fundamentally philistine mother whom he had never ceased to despise.  He had no intention of making the same mistake himself!  If he were ever to live with a woman, she would have to be someone on or near his own wavelength whom he could respect.  But, at present, he was still hopelessly isolated and therefore alone.  The kind of woman he admired would probably be living in the provinces, somewhere far from him.  And, in all likelihood, she wouldn't be living amongst alien or hostile types either.  On the contrary, she would be living in accordance with the dualistic criteria of a compromise nobility, suburban and complete.  How would he relate to her, after all this time cooped-up in the city?  He wondered whether she would be as interested in Marx and Lenin as himself.  Probably not, he surmised.