1
It may be that it
is Tuesday, December 31, 2013. It may be
that winter is well underway, and that a chill runs through everyone and
everything. It may be that I am sitting
on the floor as I type these words, and the tiled floor beneath my legs is very
cold.
It may be that a Chinese lunar probe is
on its way to the moon. It may be that
the government of Thailand is in a state of transition. It may be that the NSA’s surveillance of
Americans’ phone records has been declared illegal. It may be that tensions increase between
certain ASEAN nations and China. It may
be that Joaquin Phoenix stars in the movie “Her.” It may be that the Seattle Seahawks are well
on their way to the playoffs.
It may be. It may be.
It may be that through the winter chill,
through the imminent New Year, through the nationalism of Chinese nationalists
and the insecurity of national security organizations, I am thinking about
him. It may be that I can see him
through all of the words. It may be that
I can see him through the present tense.
It may be that I can see him through all of the events he tried so
painstakingly to organize, from beginning to end.
It may be that in the present I see the
past, and in the past I see the future.
In the future I see the present and the past reaching an uncomfortable
agreement. Between the points of their
intersection I can see his handiwork, and in the present time I can see his
past misfortunes, played out just months before the time when all of this was
never written.
It may be that I think about him, and
that I feel a sadness over what he’s done.
But then again, it might have been beyond his power to choose from the
beginning. As I sit here in my room,
typing or not typing these words into a laptop, I have room enough and time
enough to regret him. I know that he was
always doing his best. I know that he
had the best intentions. But he was
handicapped from the start. Like so many
of us, he was doomed before he was old enough to walk.
It may be that I am wondering where he
is. I am looking for him, in my
thoughts. I feel that if I could turn
inward just enough I will see him there, staring back from the other side of
the world. I can feel him in the present
moment. I can feel him in all the
hundredfold things that have been witnessed, and all the thousandfold things
that have not been witnessed, or written down, or remarked upon afterward. I will not see him in the future, because
that is not where he wants to be.
It may be that we taught together at the
university, the professor and I. Or it
may be that I was his only friend. It
may be that I was the wife who bore him two daughters, or it may be that I was
her jealous lover, coveting everything that he thought was his. It may be that I was male or female, as the
scene requires, and that I am both everywhere and nowhere all at once. It may be that years have now passed between
us, and that I sit here in this white room with its flaking paint, and that I
am trying to remember what has come before today, which may or may not be
Wednesday, July 4, 2007.
It may be that I knew him. We struck up a conversation one day, he and
I. I found him in the university one
afternoon, and it may be that I came upon him as a stranger; it may be that I
was a long lost friend or else the person he saw at the beginning and the
ending of every day. I saw him staring
at the cover of the book I was holding, and I ventured to ask him if he’d ever
read Poe.
“Why of course,” he answered in his
high, nasal voice, “But I was only a kid then.
I don’t remember much.”
It may be that the two of us were
sitting outside in the springtime, on benches which occupied the quad where the
world famous cherry trees blossom. It
felt like the Ivy League, but wasn’t. We
were on the wrong side of the Continental Divide. We were on the wrong side of the
Rockies. We were just a hair’s breadth
from Canada, and the Pacific was only an hour’s drive away. He was sitting on a bench near the entrance
to the Humanities building, while I sat on the next bench over. As we spoke, students passed us by. I glanced up and saw seductive girls in denim
skirts, and laughing boys bearing a thousand logos.
It may be that he was wearing brown
slacks and a reddish-brown wool sweater.
One could tell that he was inclined to corpulence, but that there was a
wife somewhere, trying her best to keep him slim. He had pale skin, gold-rimmed glasses, and a
thin head of auburn hair. He looked like
someone meant for northern climates, where warm rooms are an adequate
substitute for outdoor recreation. One
could also tell that the sun rarely burned its way into his solitude, and that
he was a man more comfortable with lectures than with conversation, more at
home in the midst of books than in the midst of friends. He was clumsy. He was shy.
It may be that we began talking about
unimportant things. We might have talked
about our work, if that was something that we shared. We might have talked about our family life. We might have talked about the writings and
the doings of the great Edgar Allan Poe.
I was immediately struck by his vast command of facts, not only in his
area of specialization – the Middle Ages – but in other time periods and
subjects as well. His knowledge ranged
from the earliest cultures to the present day.
It may be that he was a difficult man to
talk to, and our conversation struggled, but I found him engaging that
day. I found a warmth in him that I
would not see again. It is often like
that with people. Try as we might, we
usually fail to see them as they truly are, until one day – through what
combination of circumstances we will never know – we are granted a window into
their souls. We look upon them at that
fateful moment and there they are, in all their virtue and frailty. For just that instant, we see them as even
they cannot see themselves.
It was like talking to a very large,
very shy, yet very arrogant encyclopedia, or perhaps like talking to some kind
of robot, which has at its disposal certain unconvincing mannerisms, and the
entire history of the world. He evinced
a knowledge of the most obscure people, places, and things I could imagine, and
his ability to summon up the most esoteric information seemed to occur without
any real effort on his part, as if he could remember – really and truly
remember – everything that had ever happened to every person that had ever
lived.
It may be that we exchanged phone
numbers, and that after that initial conversation he took to calling me at odd
intervals, once or twice a semester. We
would also run into one another in other places, at other times. But when I saw him in the malls and coffee
shops and parks of our city, it was as if we were strangers all over
again. I later realized that our first
encounter had been an unusual occurrence for the professor, and that he had
little meaningful interaction with either his colleagues or his students. Perhaps it was only the beauty of that spring
day that had thawed him. I can never be
certain. Yet I do know that after meeting
him on subsequent occasions he was even more difficult to talk to, even more
remote. He stuttered or mumbled, he
looked for excuses to leave, or he pretended not to see me waving at him from
afar.
It may be, however, that when he called
me it was like talking to another person, and on the phone I found it possible
to talk to that remarkable man from the quad yet again. On the phone we talked for hours, and on the
phone I learned much of what follows here.
It was on the phone that he told me the story of his life, not so much
in bare details as in casual remarks, in his choice of topics, or in the
questions that he asked me. He told me
the story of his life, without meaning to do so.
It may be that in the telling of his
story you will come to see my professor as an immoral man, if not an evil
man. Let me only say that he lived his
life for a purpose, and that purpose was to prove the world wrong. When it came to most other people – all of
their feelings, and motivations, and dispositions – he was entirely at a
loss. He never claimed to know the human
heart, least of all his own, and for this reason guilt, and the moral sense
that guilt implies, were for the most part outside of his experience. He lacked a compass, yes, but I don’t think
that he was evil.
I call him the Tail, for this is a name
that he sometimes gave himself. He wrote
to me that the tail is the hindmost part, carried far behind the seat of
consciousness, carried far behind any sense of right or wrong or good or
bad. In this he saw himself as a
rearward action, as an aftereffect, with all of his motives and reasons and
second guesses removed into both the past and the future. He saw himself suspended somewhere beyond
these things, fearful and uncertain, unwilling to contemplate all those
accidents that had culminated in both his being and in the tragedy that struck
his family. He was the Tail because he
was a stranger to himself. He was his
own extremity.
Reflecting on the emails he sent me –
these, few, ephemeral documents that form his personal history – I am
continually surprised at what a remarkably lonely man he was. He was, as far as I can ascertain, the only
man I have ever known who truly lacked a single friend. My recounting our correspondence in this
manner might imply some kind of contradiction, but in this respect I feel that
I was more an outlet for his despair, a kind of confessional. He felt safe telling me the stories of his
life, because he knew that I was too far away to hurt him. No, I was not his friend, and if his messages
to me were true, he had none.
It may be that much later I also learned
about his troubles from a shared acquaintance, a man who I later learned was
very close to my professor. This man’s
narrative also forms much of what follows, for reasons which will become
obvious later. I have of course also
changed his name to protect his identity.
Not that it matters much now.
Some secrets must be kept however, even beyond their dates of
expiration.
2
But it may be that I have digressed too
far from my original intentions, and that I should instead explain what the
Tail was searching for, in the wake of his tragedy. Perhaps I should begin at the beginning, with
the Book.
This book was is and will not be like
other books. This book is was and will
not be secret. None of the other scholars
in the Tail’s field knew where this book reposed, though some had
theories. It was a mystery, this
book. It was an adventure that he chose
to embark upon.
It may be that he had only ever seen
this book described in the writings of others, and that most of those
privileged – or perhaps cursed – to know of its existence had died hundreds, if
not thousands of years before the Tail’s birth.
Almost every scholar in his field considered this book to be a myth,
something not unlike Noah’s Ark, or like Cibola, the city of gold. It was, however, a myth that he chose to
believe in, and as both science and history are ever ready to teach us, myths
can often be proven true.
It may be that after leaving behind everything
he knew, the Tail set out on his search for this book. Perhaps it was a sense of panic which led him
to do this. Perhaps it was an
unsatisfied desire for revenge. Whatever
it was that led him, it led him to the very ends of the Earth. He walked, or drove, or flew over the globe,
and his thoughts were every moment upon his goal.
His book, which had been written to
bring about the end of the world. His
book, which is being written to bring about the beginning of the next. His book, which will be written for another,
idealized age that never should have been.
His book which I am remembering.
His book, which remembers.
The Words of Trismegistus, also known as
The Three Days. It may be that these
were but two names for the same book; a book copied, transcribed, or
transliterated into a language that all men can understand. A book written, some say, before the days of
Homer, before the pyramids of Egypt, and before the baths of Harappa. It was once a scroll kept within the Library
of Alexandria, perhaps given to one of our ancestors from the hand of another
race, or else handed down to us by a god.
It was a scroll before it was a book, and then it was carefully divided
into sheets, and these sheets were bound into a single volume. This book, once rendered, was then placed
within a jeweled case that sparkles with strange gems, and it is in this case
that the book still resides, somewhere, waiting to be found.
It may be that the Tail had learned of
this book long before his tragedy, while ensconced in the recesses of a
library, pouring over the history of the world.
It may be that he told me as much himself. One of the more ancient, more obscure authors
had made mention of it. In Arabic, in
Greek, in Aramaic, and in Sanskrit he found hints of it, enticements. He followed the clues through centuries of
books, and along the way he discovered some of the secrets that would make him
a famous man, a celebrated man, and a noted man within his chosen discipline.
It may be that it took him a while to
put all of the clues together. It was
certainly not until after his misfortunes took hold that he could connect all
of the dots, and see the larger picture.
By then he was well away from his university and from the life he had
known. By then he was ranging through
the world, and the home he had left behind was only a memory that singed the
corners of his heart.
It might be that if you had seen him in
the midst of his search, if you had seen him in a library somewhere, you would
have wondered at this solemn, feverish man with the shock of wild white hair,
this man who appeared to belong to nowhere, and to nothing, save to an
unspeakable future that even he dared not utter aloud. You would have wondered who he was, and how
he could go about unwashed and in such filthy clothes. “A professor,” someone would have said, “He
must be a visiting professor.”
Yes, he was a visiting professor, and in
the midst of those libraries I had friends, who later mentioned seeing him
hunched over a table somewhere, his concentration bent upon piles of dusty
books. They would have remembered his
face from the jacket of one of his own books, or perhaps from a lecture he gave,
and they would have remembered the talk of how he had disappeared, only to be
seen in that particular library later on, with his eyes peering into the depths
of yellowed pages.
And it may be that from such beginnings
he widened his search, crossing the oceans and seeking out forgotten
places. It may be that news of his
travels reached me, secondhand. It may
be that I was seeking him out in some fashion, and that as he searched for his
book, I searched for him – one shadow chasing another.
It may be that where texts ended he
found both stories and hearsay, where books failed to illuminate he found
markers in stone, and pictures chiseled into ruins. Where archaeology ended he deciphered clues
in the workings of nature, and in the alignments of the stars. He became a true alchemist, my professor, and
who better to discover that great work, lost for so many thousands of human
years, than an alchemist?
It may be that he wandered, at times he
wept, but at crucial moments there were always signs to point the way.
It may be. It may be.
3
When the Tail was a boy, his father told
him a story about stories. To his
father, everything was a story, right back to the beginning of the world. The Tail had once disagreed with this point
of view, mostly out of youthful rebelliousness, but as he grew older he saw the
rightness of it. He began to see all the
little stories that made up his own life, and also how these stories – both his
own stories and those of others – made up the larger story of the world.
And every story had a moral. Every story had a hero or a heroine. Every story had a villain, even if that
villain was often flawed with a good character.
Aristotle’s rules of drama could be applied, depending on where one drew
the line between one story and the next.
“When I was younger my father told me
many stories,” the Tail wrote to me one day, “And then he died.
“He told me stories about how it all
began. He told me stories about how all
stories end, if only to begin anew. He
told me stories about all of the things that people think and feel. But he never let me forget that they were
just stories, and as such were easily contradicted and contraindicated by other
stories, or what you might call other versions of the truth.
“Stories, my father said, were all that
people really had. Everything that
people thought, or wanted, or felt, or believed could be traced back to a
story, and this story could be traced back to other stories, without end. Everything, he said, was reducible to a
story.
“My father taught me to love
stories. Even the sad ones. And when he died, he became a story
himself. This was a story I carried
within my person, no different from any other heirloom.
“And it never seemed to me that by
making my father into a story that I was diminishing him, because as he himself
said, even the living are stories, and their status as such in no way alters
the objective truth of who they are.
Even where and when we are wrong.
That too is a story, and that is our truth.
“Stories grow and grow, and after my
father’s death I grew into other stories.
In a few of these stories I was the hero, while in others I was only a
supporting character. In some of these
stories I was the villain, while in others I played a more ambiguous role. Sometimes I never knew what role I was
playing until the end of a story, which is always only the beginning of another
story. Or so my father would have said.
“I grew up in Seattle, my city, and a
few other places besides. I moved away
from my father’s house and went to college.
I studied history, for this was a discipline ripe for story-making and
storytelling. I learned. I loved.
I tried to live. Then I was a
teacher, a professor even, and I saw in my profession nothing less than the
fulfillment of what my father had told me about stories, all those years
before. I, like him, was enmeshed in
stories. And because I knew them to be
stories, I came to feel like a spider at the center of my web. I knew, somehow, that my story was the story
of all stories, and that everything in my past stories had combined to make my
present. Everything in my present
combined to spell out the future.
“But one evening I came home, and my
world ended. It didn’t matter what had
been obvious to others before that point.
It didn’t matter that I myself had been deluded. Whether the past embodied a collective
falsehood or a collective truth was not the issue. What mattered was the shift in my perspective,
and the fact that after this shift in perspective I could no longer continue on
as I had been doing. I could no longer
persevere in the old conceits. I could
no longer hide within my ambitions, within my family, or within my fragile
world – all pieced together from a forest of misunderstandings. I had to make an ending that evening, and
that ending was only the beginning.
“That was a moment when stories almost
stopped being stories, and when I realized that life is often so much more and
so much less than an amusement. All of
my stories fell apart that day, and I was left on the verge of something else,
something foreign. I floated in the
middle of a void.
“I cannot tell you what I thought after
that evening. I cannot tell you what
motives guided my actions. I was outside
of myself from that point onward. I was
outside of all my stories. I was also
the hand of much larger things.”
4
Yes, he was a hand
and a tail both. He was a cause and an
effect, an object viewed and the viewer.
Within him lay the entirety of the world, as the world lies within every
man, and every woman. He could see right
back to the origins of the cosmos, and from these origins he could view himself
as the product of so many certain improbabilities, so many happenings and
failures to happen. Yet within this
acknowledgment of his true scale lay a sense of destiny, and beside this sense
of destiny lay an unavoidable purpose.
He knew that he was the large within the small. He knew that a storm begins with a single
drop of water, and that actions at any distance are never distant, but rather
close, impenetrable, and inseparable from oneself.
He had to find the book.
He vanished into the world. He became everywhere. He took up strange passports and learned new
languages. He walked into places where
men such as himself were more often than not murdered, or held for ransom. Even so he was not touched, for the purpose
gleaming in his eyes put him beyond such molestations. They saw him, and were afraid. So it was that he went into the most lawless
of lands, untouched for all his storied value.
He walked, he drove, and he flew across
the oceans, until a certain day when he finally found his book, lying in the
ruins of a house that overlooked a lake, a house removed from almost
everywhere. He lifted the jeweled case
from the midst of other, ordinary books.
He opened the worded leaves, and he began to read about the end of
everything human.
He knew that this was the one book to
end the world. He knew that this was the
book he had been searching for. This was
the book to end all stories. This was
the book that was the story of the world yet unwritten. His story was a part of that old world’s
story, to be unraveled along with all the others.
A tired tapestry, the threads pulled
from the weave. No death could ever be
so complete. For after one’s death there
is the memory of others, still living, passing their memories of the dead
forward through time in words, in pictures, and in books unlike this one.
But here, here was a book to unmake all
other books, and to strike silence into the mouths of the speakers and the
keepers of tradition. Here was a book to
reinvent the past by erasing it. Here
was a book to wipe away his sadness, and every wrong idea he had ever pursued
and magnified. Here was a book to end
the story of the world. He took it up
with trembling hands, and began to read it.
He takes it up with trembling hands, and
begins to read it. He will take it up
with trembling hands, and he will begin to read it.
As he read, he knew that this was the
Third Day: the day that never comes.
5
It may be that
when I think about him I feel free. But
then again he held all of the cards from the beginning. As I sit here in my room, typing or not
typing these words into a laptop, I have no space nor any moments left to
regret him. I know that he was a
failure. I know that he often wished me
ill. But he was given his
opportunities. Like so many others, he
was free to choose or not to choose.
Even if he wasn’t.
It may be that in the past I see the
future, and in the present I see the present tension. In the presence of tension I see the past and
the future reaching an ultimate understanding.
Between the points of their intersection I can see our collective
futility, and in the future I can see nothing, nothing at all. He has undone all of that.
And it may be that through the winter
chill, through this first day of the last year, I would that he was thinking
about me. I would that he could see me
through the words of his fabled book. I
can see him through the passing of tenses.
He ought to see me through the events he has succeeded in erasing.
It is Saturday, March, and it is the
last first day of the first last year.
Winter has always been underway, and the passage of time has been halted
by the opening of a single book, on the other side of the world. I am sitting on a chair as I type these
words, and I can feel the weight of what he will do.
He did it from the beginning.