Читать интересную книгу Spurious - Lars Iyer

Then there’s the leak below the house, I tell W. You can hear the water streaming. The plumber said it might be spraying up into the walls, and that that might be the cause of the damp. It’s like acid, the plumber said, it’s eating the brick away. I should do something about it. — ‘Can you hear it?’, he said, turning off the stopcock, and going up to the flat above mine to turn off their stopcock. ‘Well, can you?’ And he’s right. There’s a great streaming, a rushing. Water somewhere close and rushing, spraying up into the wall and rotting it from within.

The plumber pitied me so much I had to press money on him, I tell W. He didn’t want to take it. He’d never seen anything like it, he said, standing, looking up at the ceiling. He seemed hypnotised. He wouldn’t leave, but just stood there, looking. And even when he went out the front door, he was still shaking his head. — ‘Howay, it’s terrible, man’.

Meanwhile, I throw out my pots and pans, which are rusting in the kitchen. Nothing is salvageable. The tins in the cupboards rust into the shelves. The washing powder box has liquefied. The walls, once a new, replastered sand, have turned deep brown, and in places, green. All along the window ledge: deep green. What horror! And small snails sometimes fall through the hole in the ceiling, I tell W., but I don’t mind that.

And there’s mildew, mildew everywhere, spreading, its spores drifting through the air. Perhaps I’ll become tubercular, I tell W., and that will be the making of a true European intellectual. But in truth, when I cough — and I do have a hacking cough that won’t leave me — it drives the few thoughts I have from my head, I tell him. W., who is also ill, is likewise disappointed with his cough. He’s just ill, he says, and it doesn’t help with his thinking.

These are truly the last days, W. says, over honey beer in Cawsands. How long do we have left? — ‘Oh, not long. We’re fucked, everything’s fucked’. This as we look out to sea. — ‘But we’re essentially joyful’, says W., ‘that’s what will save us’. And then, ‘Actually, it won’t — we’re too stupid. We’ll be the first to go under’.

Where did it all go wrong? muses W. We both know the answer: literature! If only we understood mathematics! If only we were mathematically inclined!

W. has books about maths, and every year he tries to read them. — ‘I can never do differential equations’, he says. It’s like Greek: every year he tries to learn the language, but falls at the aorist. — ‘The aorist breaks me every time’, says W. We list the names of our friends who are mathematically inclined, and sigh. — ‘They’ll amount to something’, says W., ‘we won’t’.

But what we do have, says W., is joy. We are essentially joyful. I agree. — ‘We are content with very little’, W. says, ‘it doesn’t take much to keep us happy’. The inane are happy, we agree. We are quite content, as idiots are. — ‘I think that’s what you’ve given me’, says W., ‘idiocy’.

We’ve always known our limitations, W. and I agree, which is very different from accepting them. In fact, our entire lives have been concerned with not accepting our limitations, and battering ourselves against them like moths against a window.

Our limitations fascinate us, we agree. From the first, we aimed ourselves against them, in defiance not of the world that expected something from us, but of our own expectations.

Of what did we think we were capable? From whence came that ferocity of hope? Ours is a very pure kind of idiocy, we agree. We’re idiots, we agree, idiots who do not quite understand the depths of their idiocy. We’re mystics of the idiotic, we agree, mystical idiots, lost in our cloud of unknowing.

Idiocy, that’s what we have in common. Our friendship is founded upon our limitations, we agree, and doesn’t travel far from them.

We’re full of joy, W. says as we walk back from the supermarket, that’s what saves us. Why do we find our failings so amusing? But it does save us, we agree on that; it’s our gift to the world. We are content with very little: look at us, with a frozen chicken in a bag, and some herbs and spices, walking home in the sun. The gift of laughter, I say. — ‘The gift of idiocy’, says W.

‘These are truly the last days …’ W. is making me listen to Godspeed’s Dead Flag Blues again. ‘Shut up and listen’. He plays this to the students, he says. And he makes them watch Béla Tarr. That’s what he calls teaching, he says.

The last days! What are we going to do? — ‘We’ll be the first to go under’, says W., ‘we’re weak. Gin?’ Yes to gin, no to the apocalypse. What time is it? Already late, though you can never be sure in the shuttered living room.

Rosenzweig wrote the entirety of The Star of Redemption on postcards to his mother, W. says. All of it, every line, from the Macedonian front, where he was fighting. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to do at the Macedonian front — that’s not where the big battles were, but nevertheless. An entire book! Written on postcards! One after another! To his mother! W says.

Rosenzweig! He’s the measure of all things to us. The measure of commitment (he meant every word!). The measure of religiosity. The measure of integrity. He turned his back on the university! says W. He devised a new form of educational institution! He taught young Jews … He lived what he thought. He acted on what he thought, which is inconceivable to us now (as is even the capacity to think).

Rosenzweig is our guiding star, burning brightly above everything. He’s our inspiration. Ah, if only we could write like him, wholly in declamations! If only we could let our thought flash out in sentences like bolts of lightning!

Imagine him, Rosenzweig, at the Macedonian front, says W., shells falling around him. Imagine him in the trenches (were there any trenches in Macedonia?) propped up against a dirt wall, writing another postcard to his mother.

Dear mother, he would write, and then off he’d go, W. says. Dear mother, and then he’d write his thoughts about God or death or Judaism horizontally, in the space left for you to write, and then vertically, as they used to do in the nineteenth century.

He might die at any moment! A shell might fall and explode then and there! But he’s writing horizontally, then vertically and then slantwise across his postcard. Death was very close to him. And not just his death, but the death of everyone and everything, the death of old Europe. Didn’t Rosenzweig above all understand the apocalypse? And didn’t he understand how the messianic idea must be thought from within the apocalypse?

By the time The Star of Redemption was published, he’d already left the university, W. says. He’d left it behind! He’d founded a new kind of establishment. — ‘He was educating young Jews’, says W. ‘Including Kafka. Did you know he taught Kafka?’, W. says. ‘Well he did. Rosenzweig taught Kafka. Which is quite extraordinary, when you think about it. Kafka and Rosenzweig, in the same room as one another, teacher and pupil’.

Thought! cries W. What does it mean to think? Why can’t we think? Why are we so singularly incapable of thinking? We cultivate the external signs of thinking, W. says. We can do good impressions of thinkers, he says, but we’re not thinkers. We’ve failed at the level of thought.

He knows they’re out there, W. says, real thinkers. He knows how natural it is for them, how they glide through the milieu of thinking like whales through deep water. It’s effortless! It’s as natural as breathing! They’re used to thought, they’re fully confident of their ability to think, which might as well be God-given.

They can’t help it! They couldn’t do otherwise! Thought is their element, their milieu, we agree, just as idiocy is our element and our milieu. They are virtuosos of thinking just as we are virtuosos of idiocy. Do you think they envy us as we envy them? Do you think they even know of the existence of idiocy? They don’t know of it and they don’t believe in it. They don’t need to. Thought is not the absence of idiocy, although idiocy is the absence of thought.

‘Do you think our leaders had a sense of our idiocy?’, W. asks. Was it real for them? Did it confuse or confound them? Did it prevent them from thinking? Not at all. Not for a moment.

Do you remember how he spoke? he says of our first leader. His seriousness? He wasn’t swayed by us. Our idiocy was annulled. Just for a moment, we were quiet. Just for a moment, idiocy was interrupted and we were calmed. It was marvellous, W. said.

And our second leader. Do you remember what he told us? How he’d dropped out of college. How he’d worked as a pastry chef. How he’d taken up featherweight boxing — and all in the name of thought. All because he felt himself unworthy of thought, and tried to turn away from it, but there it was nonetheless, his fate: thought. There it was, waiting for him, the most natural thing in the world: the capacity to think.

There was no presumption about him, we both agree. Thought was natural to him; it didn’t surprise him and nor did it give him any sense of distinction. He was just like us, we agree, except that he could think. Which means he wasn’t at all like us, not really.

And our third leader, perhaps the greatest of them all! Do you remember how quiet he was? Do you remember how silent the room became when he spoke, and how we leaned in to listen more closely?

We thought we were party to something, we remember. We thought we were in on a secret, that now, at last, the power to think would be here, in person. We thought we would be on a par with it, the emergence of a thought. It was terribly flattering. We were, for once, to be the occasion of thought, rather than its obstacle. Thought had been very close to us that afternoon, hadn’t it? Maybe we even believed we could think, which is the greatest illusion.

We’re Brod and Brod, we agree, and neither of us is Kafka. Neither of us; but we can dream, can’t we, of the imaginary Kafka we would fawn over and whose work we would promote? We can dream of our fervid works of commentary and our public statements — always needlessly simplifying, always full of empty pathos and sham hagiography — on behalf of our friend.

We can dream of nursing him through his final sickness and then of preserving his work for posterity. He’d ask us to throw it all away, all his unfinished drafts and private correspondence, but what would we do? Publish it piece by piece for a grateful humanity, with our stupid editorial comments that generations of scholars would read to one another in disgust and amusement.

‘We’re in free fall’, says W. ‘Or Limbo. We must have committed a terrible crime in a former life, that would account for it, wouldn’t it? That’s what you Hindus would say’.

This is our Purgatory, W. says, or perhaps it’s just his. Perhaps I am his Purgatory, says W., and I am his Limbo. Perhaps his friendship for me is only a punishment for some great crime he committed in a former life, he’s not sure what.

Above all, W. says, I should work earnestly on another book. It’s the only way I experience my own inadequacy, he says. He knows me: without some project, I’ll become far too content. My idiocy will become an alibi, an excuse, which is just a way to avoid it altogether. — ‘You have to run up against your idiocy, to shatter yourself against it’, W. says. ‘Nothing can begin unless you experience your idiocy’.

My idiocy is theological, W. tells me. It is vast, omnipresent; not simply a lack (of intelligence, say), though neither is it entirely tangible or real. We picture it as a vast, dense cloud, and then as a storm, flashing with lightning. It can be quite magnificent, he says. It can shock and awe, W. says. I am that I am, says W., that’s all it says.

On the other hand, he says, sometimes my idiocy is only a simple absence, a pellucid sky. Not a thought crosses my mind for weeks, does it? says W. Nothing at all. I’m untroubled by thought and untroubled by thinking.

His idiocy, says W. is more a kind of stubbornness or indolence. It’s never thunderous as mine can be, and nor is his head ever really empty. His idiocy is only a niggling reminder of his own incapacity, against which he runs up freshly each day.

Sometimes I think the damp is receding, I tell W. on the phone. True, the air is still full of water and little spores of mildew — no doubt of that, but the plaster is lightening, there at the edges where it was most soaked, and the walls no longer run with water, though the new cabinets are still full of mildew and the whole flat smells of damp and rot.

It’s the oldest smell, the most familiar one: the great rotting of everything, the great saturation. Away for a few days, my return confirmed it, I tell W.: home, for me, will always mean the smell of damp, and that first of all. Open the door, there it is, the old smell, breathe it in, along with the spores of mildew …

Of course, I’m also worried that the damp is returning to itself to regather its strength: withdrawing only to bloom once again across my walls and ceiling, only more magnificently this time, with a new palette of colours. What colours this time? What richnesses? No doubt the damp is regathering itself to return, I tell W., with more force, with more splendour, and with new and splendid spores to send out into the air.

There’s crumbled brick and wood on the work surfaces, I tell W.: the ceiling continues to cave in; the hole is still wide open. What’s up there? Something terrible. Something dark. There’s an open slice between the flats. I hear the voices of the tenants upstairs echoing there, ghostly, so I can’t make out what is said. Yes, there’s something terrible there, the source of all damp, there between the flats.

‘So how fat are you now?’, says W., ‘you must be really fat. Are you eating at the moment? What are you eating?’

W. has always been intrigued by my eating habits. He likes to put his hand on my belly. — ‘It’s big’, he marvels. ‘But this is just the start. You’re going to be enormous’.

W. remembers the elasticated trousers of the American professors he’s met. There was a whole herd of them, he says, like walruses on a beach, all with elasticated trousers. That’s what you’ll be wearing soon, says W., great billowing trousers with trouser legs like circus tents.

Food is a sacrament, W. has always believed, which is another reason he thinks I am so disgusting. I have no sense of food, he says, I could be eating anything. For a long time, he remembers, I lived only on discounted sandwiches from Boots, 75p a packet.