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
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.
