⩩ 8
Alas, we act. We have to act, we need to to live, and this means we need judgment, knowledge, order, answers, words, ends. But these things are illusions, are untruth, are only in “ ”, and we should fly from them as soon and as much as possible: there is more reality in repose than in movement, more truth in questions than in answers.
From the jump these letters have been against action, in defiance of action, in favor of inaction, the raising of questions, the suspension of judgment, not ends but middles, — beginnings. The startling, the unexpected, the unintended, unplanned and wordless: so many essays up till now, so many strikes on the gong of inactivity. And an eddy in honor of conversation is in no way out of line; on the contrary, the condition of conversation is inactivity, stillness. How else could you ascend to such heights?
And yet we act, and must act, — and totally. So many kinds of people, so many kinds of lives; we must live reasonably. We would live a life that makes sense. We would order our actions, arrange them around the best, hang them like a quilt on the true point of things. We want, we ask for the wholly good and can’t ask for anything less: our nature demands it. And there are indeed people who picture it to us, who promise it, who call us to follow them. There are facts that must be come to grips with, arguments that must be fronted, thoughts that demand hearing, even obedience. There are ideas almost like orders. We are willing.
And yet, when we do this, when we attempt this, the same thing is always happening. Pretty soon we find ourselves looking away, averting our gaze, halfway seeing something in the shadows but unable to look at it, to approach it, unwilling to call it forward, — until we finally give up hiding. This world is not-yet: the new, the unknown arrives and brings about the breakdown of the order, our order.
That’s why images of breakdown are so interesting to us: they give us a picture of experience. As, for instance, in chess, when in the middle of a game a player moves a rook diagonally: a move not allowed by the rules of the game. Then it is as if a ball had bounced onto the board and moved the piece. The piece has been moved, but it is not a move in the game, and it has to be moved back for the game to continue.
When a move that is not a move happens, things double, and the game is at once suspended and made visible. In normal game play, we are sunk into the game, taking the rules for granted. When interruption comes, the spell is broken and consciousness expands. Light comes in. We become aware of our surroundings and of the game in its own right. We get our heads up. The scene becomes one of orientation, of teaching or negotiation, preparation for or reflection on the game. Anything with a normal structure admits of these two dimensions: something can be good or bad in the world, or it can come from outside and breaks it.
So also our interest the image of a whim. But there is no richer image of this kind of breakdown than that of the stagestranger and the questions it raises. For instance, who? Who is this man? What is the nature and significance of his being on this stage, his intrusion into this scene, his break in? He has made an entrance, — but who? Entered what? What is the meaning of the stagestranger?
To begin with, he could be a madman. He could be a world to himself, far gone but innocent, lost but minding his own business, harmless, an idiot, a child stumbling onto stage. But he could also be something worse. He could be a nuisance, a troublemaker, a sick man, someone destroying and corrupting things, people, institutions, a lawbreaker, a criminal. Or he could be something better, something good: a guide, a benefactor, a redeemer. He could be hope and salvation. So there are three possibilities: teacher, criminal, madman. There is more truth in the three than in any one of them.
But we must go around again, because who the stagestranger is, whether he is even a stranger depends on who is doing the looking and naming. And there are three parts in the theater: director, actors and audience, each with its own role.
To the director, the stranger has no role in the production. He is an outsider, out of place on stage. If the director were to speak his thought, he would rage: “Intruder! What are you doing? You were not at rehearsals, you have no lines in the script. Get out!” If the director’s will were to be realized, the stranger would be erased.
And yet what the director in fact does is odd. He says that the stranger has no role, is out of place, but there he is, in place, playing a role, — that’s why he’s angry. His words are betrayed by his speaking them, by his anger. The director denies reality and contradicts himself. More, he is powerless: once done, the intrusion cannot be undone. And who knows? Maybe it has been done before, and will be done again; maybe it is done for a reason.
But the actor can — react. He can listen, respond, attempt, experiment, create. He can play by ear. He can say to the stranger, “yes, and…” He’s the only one who can: the director is no more. And the audience? When the stranger comes onto stage, the audience sits up. They lean forward in their chairs. “Who is he really? What are we seeing here? How will this end? How interesting!”
Did a part of this essay resonate with you? Did it make you think of something you have seen, heard or read? Do you have another angle on the topic? Please leave a comment. I would love to hear from you.
You are reading Footnotes, by Garrett Allen, a philosophical novel in serial form. You just read ⩩ 8, which concludes the first chapter. Next week we will begin chapter two. Here are some highlights from the first chapter, The Stagestranger.
⩩ 1 Headsup
⩩ 3 Speechless
⩩ 6 Whim
⩩ 7 Mistake
If you enjoyed one of them or the series as a whole, please consider passing it along to a friend. And if a friend passed it along to you, welcome. By subscribing you can have these notes delivered to your inbox, too. If you would like, stay abreast.
A big shoutout as usual to Danny at breakfastswerved for his ink. See his other drawings for the series here.
If you’ve come this far: thank you for reading my work and spending time with me. Again, I would love to hear from you. A quick note or an association and link or a whole thought. And, if you like what I am doing, hit the heart ↓