Wittgenstein Jr (17 page)

We’re bored. Bored of study. Bored of preparing for life. Bored of waiting for life to begin.

ME: There’s one thing for sure—I’m not taking a fucking gap year!

EDE: Fuck gap years! Reality! That’s what we need! We need to know what we’re up against!

The high street. Office workers out for their Christmas parties. Women in round-toed high heels and maxi dresses and ankle bracelets. Men in Fred Perry shirts …

EDE: That’s you next year, Peters—Fred Perry shirt, and a look of damnation …

We imagine my office-job future. Office rivalries. Office flirtations. Conversations about cars. And football. And last
night’s TV. Watching the clock. Wandering the corridors. Cold-calling clients on a Saturday morning. Telemarketing on a Sunday night. Pulling all-nighters to impress the boss. Out on the town with people I can’t stand. Saving up for a starter house in an exurb. Hanging myself in the company toilets.

EDE: Not to worry, Peters. It won’t be much better for me …

He’s going to be one of the
bad
Edes, Ede says. These are probably his last weeks of lucidity. He’s going to go the way of Guthrie. The way of Scroggins. Drunk every night by cocktail hour. Then rehab. Then interventions. Then
360s
. Then suicide attempts. Then electroshock treatment. Then, finally, a shotgun to the head.

EDE (at the top of his voice): Fuck this!

ME (louder): FUCK THIS!

Only one more term to go. Only one more. The world is rushing to meet us. The world is crowding our vision. The world is flaming towards us, like a comet. When will it strike? When will it burst across our skies?

Terrible, decisive things are about to happen. Knives are glittering in the darkness.
Teeth
are glittering in the darkness. The night, the whole night, is opening wide.

We’re so vulnerable! So exposed! We’re drowning in possibility. In potential.

We’re lost in time. Lost
to
time. We’re abandoned to the wilds of time. Wandering in time’s night …

Last class before the Christmas break. Wittgenstein brings us Lebkuchen and wine.

He talks softly, as he always does. His intent, after all, is so utterly at odds with loudness. But today, his voice drops almost to a whisper.

An old Jewish legend tells that there are nine righteous people alive in the world at any moment, Wittgenstein says—but he likes to imagine there are
nine righteous thinkers
—thinkers who will know what it means for philosophy to have ended.

Nine righteous thinkers, who will know the burden that has been lifted … Nine last seers, who will feel the
relief
of the end, who will know themselves to have been unburdened from thinking and from the task of thinking …

Nine last logicians, who will be free to walk out beneath the summer sun … Nine last visionaries, who will emerge, blinking, from their thinking-shacks and thought-burrows … Nine righteous ones, who will open their eyes at last, who will breathe the air to the bottom of their lungs …

Nine righteous philosophers, who will
laugh
at last—who will really laugh, like children … Nine righteous thinkers, who only now will step into life, into the fullness of life.

A last walk on the Backs. Wittgenstein ahead, in deep discussion with Okulu.

Ede and I, light-headed from the wine …

We imagine the
righteous Inuit
, a virtuoso of despair, thinking about thinking as she crosses the dark ice on her snowmobile. Soon, the sun will rise for the first time in six months. Soon, the
post-philosophical
sun will rise. Soon, there will come the post-philosophical
dawn
 …

We imagine the
righteous Siberian
, eyes bloodshot, ruined by alcohol. Ruined by
philosophy
. Downing a quart of vodka every morning before breakfast, to be done with his thoughts. Soon, the bottle will fall from his hands. Soon, he will reach a new kind of drunkenness, a new kind of
sobriety
 …

We imagine the
righteous sannyasin
, a profound cousin of Chakrabarti, having died to the world, having condemned himself to wander until the end of philosophy. Soon, he will arrive at his destination. Soon, he will realise that he has already arrived; that the world, his place of exile, is everywhere his
home
 …

We imagine the
righteous mental patient
, zoned out on meds. Half awake for years, blurry-headed for years, but knowing that soon, it will be time to throw away her tranquilisers—that soon, it will be time to exit the asylum, and be welcomed in the world as the prodigal sister, the measure of sanity …

We imagine the
righteous pair of philosopher-saints
, living at the edges of the Egyptian desert. Philosopher-lovers, completing each other’s thoughts, each other’s sentences. Soon, they’ll kiss away philosophy. Soon, very soon, they’ll weep away philosophy …

We imagine the
righteous AI
, blinking into consciousness, thinking electronic thoughts in Bell Laboratories. And, in a nanosecond, exhausting every philosophical move. Every
existential
move … Soon, it will sink back into blissful non-consciousness. Soon, it will rejoin the inanimate world …

We imagine the
righteous philosopher-dolphin
, diving through the waves—wanting only to love diving through the waves, wanting only to love the sun on its back … Soon, it will be reunited with the elements. Soon, it will be no more than a part of the sea, diving through the sea …

We imagine
God Himself
, Wittgenstein’s God, born of torment as the opposite of torment, born of pain as the opposite of pain, knowing that the time has come to vacate His throne. Soon, divinity will be reborn on earth. Soon, the godhead will show itself in the sky …

Grantchester meadows.

Ede proposes we create a
living orrery
.

Chakrabarti is the earth. Okulu, the moon, begins an orbit around him. Then Chakrabarti and Okulu begin to orbit Guthrie, the sun.

Doyle/Mercury runs rapidly round Guthrie, and Ede/Venus does the same a little farther out, but both inside Chakrabarti/Earth’s trajectory. I am Mars, running in a wider circle, and Mulberry is the asteroid belt. Alexander Kirwin is Deimos, and Benedict Kirwin, Phobos: Mars’s moons, orbiting me tightly. Titmuss, zigzagging through the grass, stands in for all the outer planets.

A laughing solar system, with laughing planets and laughing moons, and Guthrie in the middle, the great laughing sun. And even Wittgenstein laughs—even his wintry face breaks into laughter.

After philosophy
, we will be as children at play, he says. Any seriousness will be
put-on
seriousness. Any solemnity will be
playful
solemnity.

• • •

We walk back along the river. Mulberry, stripped to his
MESSIAH
T-shirt, carrying Doyle on his shoulders. Guthrie, flush-faced, walking on his hands. The Kirwins, all muscle, in matching rowing vests, shouting and laughing. Chakrabarti, in deep conversation with Ede. Titmuss, flowers in his dreads, chanting
om
. And Wittgenstein at our head, beaming.

Cambridge opens to us as to Christ and his disciples.

After philosophy
, the
fact
of Cambridge will overwhelm us, Wittgenstein says. The
fact
that it is, that it even exists.

After philosophy
, we will lose our way in Cambridge, he says. The most familiar streets will become unknown.

After philosophy
, Cambridge will
hatch
. The walls of the colleges will crack like eggshells …

After philosophy
, the suburbs and exurbs will crumble, and the new developments will return to grass.
After philosophy
, the hideous buildings will fall down one by one …

Saturday. End of term. Parents come to collect their offspring. The open boots of cars packed with things—with Anglepoise lamps, with bicycles, with rolled-up posters, with pots of cacti … Boarding school all over again.

A last walk with Ede.

EDE: So you’re really staying on?

ME: I’m staying on.

EDE: Do you really expect to be able to help him?

ME: I want to be here when he calls.

EDE: Peters! Help me
mit mein lederhosen
!

Farewells on the steps. Hugs. See-you-laters. Saying goodbye like World War II fighter pilots.
Well, this is it, old man. Cheerio, old chap. Take care now. Goodbye, old sock. Toodleoo, old thing. Chocks away, groover. Chin-chin, old pal!
Goodbye for six weeks, until the new term in January. Goodbye, until the new calendar year.

TITMUSS (pressing his palms together in a Hindu gesture):
Namaste
.

I embrace Chakrabarti in a rush of spurious emotion. Safe journey home, old chap. And goodbye to Guthrie. Goodbye to the Kirwins! To Okulu! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

The campus, deserted.

The colleges, hired out for conferences, on every topic under the sun. Dental Hygiene. Phospholipids. Phage Display. Entrepreneurial Innovation. Angel Investors. Process Design. Tapeworm Infrastructure …

A handful of tourists, dressed up against the cold. A few dedicated postgraduates, in Moon Boots and puffa jackets …

Snow, in drifts. A frozen River Cam. The sky, blue and cold and far. Cambridge, as Scandinavia. Cambridge, at the North Pole.

Monday comes. Then Tuesday. Then Wednesday.

A text from Wittgenstein.
Please come. Am unwell
.

I buy a bag of scones from the patisserie, and clotted cream and jam from
Sainsbury’s
.

He looks ill, in his armchair, with his flannel pyjamas and his dressing gown, and his hair in disarray.

I make tea in his kitchen. A metal teapot. A tin for loose leaves. An enamel tray.

He’s had fever for a week, he says.

On his desk, tiny slivers of paper. Trimmings from a photograph, of a young woman at a piano with her eyes closed. His mother, he says.

Picture-taking is a sacred thing, he says. It should be like
learning to see
. It should take a great mental
effort
. That’s why he’s trimming his photo, he says—he’s trying to learn how to see.

For the Kabbalists, beauty was once a golden whole, which then shattered, he says. But it isn’t so. Beauty is real. Beauty is here. It is
we
who have shattered.

Next day. Another text.
Do come again
.

Up the staircase, with another bag of scones. He wears a chunky sweater, like a ’60s folk singer.

He serves tea.

His hands are refined. Not delicate, exactly.
Wise
. A
philosopher’s
hands.

To be touched by those hands … To be held by those hands …

He’s been reading Augustine’s
Confessions
, he says—the most serious book ever written.

It’s not as if Augustine has anything
dreadful
to confess, Wittgenstein says. It’s not as if Augustine was a murderer. He is really only
typically
sinful.

Augustine’s distinction lies in his
awareness
of his sin, Wittgenstein says. He is aware of it as others are not. He has the
capacity
for awareness, as others do not. This is what makes him more sinful—
extra
sinful.

His voice drops to a whisper.
He
dreams of confession, he says. Of simply
showing
his sins. Even the sin of
self-consciousness
, he says—barely audible.

After philosophy
, everything will be shown, he says. There will be no shadows.
After philosophy
, there will be a name for everything, and not just for every
kind
of thing.

After philosophy
, we will have learnt the art of reading faces, he says. There will be no secrets. Our inner lives will be open to all, like glassfish.

After philosophy
, the dark side of the moon will turn to face us.

7th December

He texts after lunch. Need to wash off brain. A film? Something trashy?

Pretty Woman
, showing at the
Kino
. He sits up close to the screen, wholly absorbed. He laughs and claps his hands at the final scene. The snow-white limo, necktie tied to the aerial like a knight’s colours.
La Bohème
blaring. Richard Gere standing through the sunroof, a bunch of roses in his hand, waving. Julia Roberts on the fire escape, letting down her hair. Richard Gere clambering up, sweeping her into his arms, kissing her …

RICHARD GERE: What did the princess do when her knight came to rescue her?

JULIA ROBERTS: She rescued him right back.

We walk back through the snow in silence, following the great walls of the colleges.

Do I know what he said to himself when he came here?, Wittgenstein asks.

I will do such things—

What they are, yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth
.

And what
did
he do? He smiles. The walls did not come tumbling down. Everything remains exactly the same. Cambridge is Cambridge is Cambridge …

He speaks of the Cambridgean
void
. Of the Cambridgean
nothingness
. He speaks of the Cambridgean
emptying-out
. Of the Cambridgean
hollowing
.

He speaks of
eroded hours
and
emptied-out days
. He speaks of
time void of time
—of minutes, of seconds. Nothing is happening, not in Cambridge, he says. Nothing is happening—rubble is piling upon rubble, and that is all.

Cambridge is a
shore
, he says. A shore, waiting for a sea. When will the sea crash in and reclaim the Fens? When will the flood come that will drown Cambridge?

8th December

Carollers in the courtyard. The vast Christmas tree—a present from Norwegian alumni.

The Hasidim say that everything in the world to come will be almost as it is in this world, Wittgenstein says. Just as the Christmas tree is now, so will it be then. Where the carollers sing now, so they will sing then. The gloves and hat we wear in this world, those we will wear then. Everything will be as it is now, only a little different …