Authors: Tim Robinson
My Time in Space (11 page)
After a session of several weeks of such fieldwork I would cycle out of the Burren and round by Kinvara back to Galway – I remember the shock of my reflection in a shopwindow, as ragged as Robinson Crusoe – and, before taking the steamer back to Aran, spend a day in the library of University College, where the librarians, politely ignoring my feral aura, obligingly went gliding across the grey-carpeted expanses and up and down the stairs looking out historical, botanical, geological and
geographical
references to the Burren for me. On the last of these occasions I took out a library book that, from its title, promised well as
antidote
to all I had been through: Wittgenstein’s
On
Certainty.
At the time I made no personal application of Wittgenstein’s remarks, my tendency always being to rush unreflectingly from one system of sensations to the next, from the physical to the intellectual, from thicket to theorem; but, looking into it again as I write, I am caught by this:
If my friend were to imagine one day that he had been living for a long time past in such and such a place, etc. etc., I should not call this a
mistake
, but rather a mental disturbance, perhaps a transient one.
The context is a discussion of the status of certain statements claimed by other philosophers to be indubitable, to the denial of which no one could assent. Wittgenstein holds that if anyone did in all seriousness utter the denial of such a statement, we would not think him mistaken so much as deranged. That is, such
statements
are not really about the facts they seem to assert, but refer obliquely to the conceptual framework within which those facts are to be understood and justified. Had I really been living in the world my diary records, or was my Burren experience ‘a mental disturbance, perhaps a transient one’? The facts asserted in the
map I eventually deduced from that experience and published are implicitly tagged as geography, folklore, placename studies, etc. The whole layout of the map breathes order, lucidity, certainty. But through its precise gridwork show, I suspect, many tiny darks.
1
. Turloughs are the transient lakes of Ireland’s western limestone regions, that fill and empty through fissures in their basins as the groundwater level fluctuates.
2
. A name as musical as falling water, which had stuck in my head from a study of the flora of turloughs by Praeger.
3
. A phrase from Westropp’s description.
The 2500th anniversary of the Enlightenment of the Buddha fell during my year in Malaya, and I witnessed some extraordinary ceremonies. But it was a much humbler and more ambiguous
ritual
that made the deepest impression on me, at a local Tamil
festival
in honour of the Goddess of smallpox. The roomboy had tipped me off that there was to be firewalking, and this I was determined to see. I persuaded a fellow conscript to creep out of camp with me through the hole in the perimeter fence we used whenever it would have been self-defeating to explain the object of our egress to the guardroom at the gate. My comrade was a Plymouth Brother of massive faith and physique; the latter I had cause to appreciate that day, but I fear I despised the former attribute for its letter-by-letter literality. On our first encounter I had thoughtlessly mentioned that the biblical account of Solomon’s great basin – ‘ten cubits from brim to brim … and a line of thirty cubits did compass it round about’ – implies that the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter is three; as a technician who knew the value of π to several decimal places he had been
upset by this and went to some pains in explaining away the anomaly. This slavish concern for fact was anathema to my florid High Anglicanism. Although by that period I no longer attended church, I still found it romantic to believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the sacramental bread and wine, because it was
impossible
; he, on the other hand took the sacraments to be purely
symbolic
.
I condense my letter home describing the event:
On
the
outskirts
of
the
nearby
village
we
met
a
procession
dominated
by
a
great
chariot
enshrining
a
figure
of
the
malevolent
Goddess,
with
pillars
and
crude
statues
and
an
elaborate
dome
supported
by
Devas
(flying
spir
its
),
drawn
by
two
white
oxen
in
red
and
gold
trappings,
their
horns
in
ornamented
brass
coverings.
A
large
number
of
Hindus
on
a
thick
rope
were
helping
to
haul
the
chariot,
with
a
lot
of
shouting
and
far
too
many
people
giving
advice.
Others
were
passing
up
offerings
of
food
on
little
trays
to
three
men
perched
on
the
chariot.
Dozens
of
small
boys
were
throwing
coconuts
onto
the
ground
before
the
oxen
to
burst
with
a
crash
and
splash
milk
everywhere.
Among
the
crowd
danced
two
men
wearing
tall
wooden
figures
of
a
man
and
a
woman
with
peepholes
in
their
waists;
the
two
giants
bowed
and
rocked
above
the
confusion
of
heads.
Another
man
danced
with
a
baton
longer
than
himself,
a
strange
slow
dance
with
static
posturings
and
smooth
leaps;
an
old
man
battered
a
drum
for
him,
and
the
group
around
him
called
on
each
other
to
try
their
skill.
Behind
the
Goddess’s
chariot
stepped
slowly
a
singer
and
a
group
of
men
with
little
drums,
odd
wind
instruments
and
cymbals,
playing
as
fast
as
music
can
go,
with
a
rattling
rhythm
and
a
swiftly
rising
and
falling
melody,
vital,
exciting,
and
finally
crazing.
There
was
also
a
band
in
uniform
of
some
sort,
with
big
drums
and
trumpets,
playing
a
different
tune.
Each
group
of
the
straggling
procession
had
its
own
heady
music
and
moved
at
its
own
speed,
stopping
every
few
yards
for
more
dancing;
everyone
was
shouting,
motorcars
honked
to
get
past,
policemen
moved
slowly,
ineffectually
and
resignedly.
The
men
destined
for
the
firewalking,
garlanded
in
little
white
flowers,
their
bodies
streaked
with
yellow,
were
in
a
group
by
themselves,
quiet
and
detached.
We
hurried
ahead
to
the
field
where
the
firewalking
was
to
take
place.
A
solid
excited
crowd
was
struggling
around
a
small
area
isolated
by
a
rough
fence,
with
an
arch
at
either
end.
Each
of
the
tall
palms
sloping
over
the
field
had
a
line
of
boys
all
the
way
up
its
trunk.
The
crowd,
mainly
Tamil
but
with
a
lot
of
Chinese
watching,
was
brilliant
in
saris
and
scarves
of
coloured
silks.
We
pushed
to
get
a
view.
I
sat
on
my
friend’s
shoulders
–
he
is
a
vast
fellow
–
and
saw
well.
In
the
enclosure
was
a
shallow
pit
about
18’
long
and
8’
broad,
heaped
with
smouldering
charcoal.
At
one
end
was
a
trench
full
of
water.
We
could
feel
the
heat
from
where
we
were.
Thunder
clouds
were
inking
out
the
evening
sky
and
the
first
heavy
drops
of
rain
hissed
in
the
charcoal.
The
horizontal
light
of
the
setting
sun
caught
the
swaying
tower
of
the
chariot
in
greens,
golds
and
reds
as
it
lurched
in
the
gateway
and
was
dragged
quickly
across
the
field.
The
crowd
swayed
and
shouted,
the
music
gripped
everyone
in
its
rhythm
as
the
cli
max
approached.
An
excited
face
appeared
in
the
narrow
arch
of
the
enclo
sure,
a
man
forcing
his
way
through
the
mob
with
his
arms
spread
to
hold
back
the firewalkers
behind
him.
Four
men
with
long
rakes
ran
round
the
pit
spreading
out
the
coals,
their
faces
twisted
from
the
heat.
Fruit
and
rice
were
flung
into
the
pit.
Then
the
first
victim
pushed
through
the
archway;
he
looked
tall
and
troubled.
White
powder
was
scattered
over
him,
the
crowd
yelled,
and
he
stepped
onto
the
coals
and
strode
out,
staggered
a
lit
tle
,
took
a
few
more
long
strides
and
jumped
into
the
water.
Another
man
was
at
the
arch
already,
but
he
hung
back,
closing
his
eyes;
they
clustered
round
him
shouting,
slapping
him,
but
he
wouldn’t
go
and
they
finally
pushed
him
aside.
The
next
I
swear
was
a
man
I’d
seen
at
the
feast
of
Thaipusam
dancing
exhausted
under
a
tall
contraption
topped
by
the
fig
ure
of
a
peacock,
supported
by
a
cage
of
sharp
inpointing
wires
against
his
bare
flesh.
He
walked
out
firmly
with
his
head
flung
back,
and
halfway
across
he
smiled
like
heaven’s
opening
…
And
so
they
came
one
by
one,
some
with
tongue
and
cheeks
pierced
by
skewers.
Some
had
to
be
held
back,
some
pushed
on,
some
walked
slowly
with
stately
strides,
some
broke
and
ran
halfway.
But
only
that
one
so
visibly
possessed
by
God.
As
the
last
one
jumped
into
the
pit
the
crowd
swayed
forward
with
a
roar,
men
hurled
water
onto
the
coals
and
a
cloud
of
steam
rose,
everyone
was
shout
ing
drunk
with
the
rhythm
of
the
hammering
music.
The
boys
slid
down
the
palmtrees
like
drops
of
rain
running
down
a
wire.
People
scrambled
to
flick
out
bits
of
coal
and
gingerly
wrap
them
in
leaves
to
take
home.
And
we
went
home
too,
having
seen
and
felt
too
much
for
words.