Richard Seltzer's Blog: Richard Seltzer, page 12
May 26, 2020
Creation Story by Richard Seltzer
(from Saint Smith and Other Tales)
"What are you laughing at?" Adam smashed the stone, the meticulously polished stone, so carefully carved, reproducing every detail of the face and body of its proud fashioner.
He had been amazed at his own handiwork, and had for a day and a night sat before it, staring, touching himself and then the statue, then himself -- especially the lower lip, which he had finished last and of which, in his first surge of creative joy, he was most proud.
It had been the boulder to the sunset side of his fire. He had been just Adam-the-cave-dweller, just Adam-the-wielder-of-clubs. He had been alone and without purpose.
At first he had chipped away idly. He chipped to hear the sound of stone on stone, to hear any sound that was not of the forest, the fire, and the wind. He was tired of listening to the garbled, fading echo of his own shouts. Stone on stone was sharp, precise; and soon he could see that the boulder was not the same as it had been before he chose it: the pattern of even his random chippings was unlike the wear of wind and rain. He was changing the universe. This stone was his. This stone was him.
In his first excitement, as he began to see the possibility, the crude outlines of a possible man, a possible self-likeness in the stone, he rushed and hacked, and in a passion pounded.
On the third day from that first vision, the stone cracked -- from projected head to projected hip and across both thighs. Embryonic cracks -- flaws -- must have been in the rock before he began. He had not noticed. They must have been slowly aggravated by his persistent pounding. He had not noticed.
In despair and exhaustion, Adam collapsed by the broken stone.
He must have dreamt in that sleep of exhaustion. For when he awoke, he was calm. He knew now that the statue would be small, smaller than the smallest uncracked section of the boulder; that it would be an exact likeness of himself; that he would proceed very slowly and carefully, not from any fear that he was unequal to the task, that he could blunder, but rather because he knew that this was his project, the source of his hopes and joys, that, in the process of creation, the statue would absorb all his energy, all his thought, all that he would call "Adam."
He would proceed very slowly and savor the effort of creation.
And so he did. Until he stopped.
For a day, he sat and gobbled grapes and ripped the warm flesh from a freshly roasted antelope and laughed and patted his belly in the noonday sun, proud of his handiwork, proud that he, Adam, not just lived in the world, but shaped it with his hand. The world was his, for he would leave his image in it, in this stone that already had the oblong shape of a man, the outlines of arms and legs, a hint of fingers.
Adam even fancied that, on the left hand, the index fingernail was broken just as he had broken his, accidentally, while chipping away at that very hand the day before. He was so pleased with that touch that he was hesitant to tamper with it.
And the strokes that suggested his wild fuzzy hair: it was so difficult to create the illusion of hair in stone. He had done it by luck, not skill or plan, and yet it was so right, even in its present crude form. He doubted that he could make that stroke if he tried.
And the beginnings of feet. He could swear he even saw his protruding vein over the left ankle of the left foot. Incredible good fortune.
It was as if the statue were making itself, as if he, or rather his image, were already in the stone, and the chips were falling away of their own accord; or, rather, he was acting as the instrument of some unknown force.
He laughed uneasily. Who was he? What was he trying to do?
Adam looked at the stone, and it was as if he looked at it for he first time. He didn't know what to do with it. He didn't understand why he had expended so much energy on it, why he let it sit on that soft, cool spot where he himself used to sleep so comfortably.
He reached for the statue. It was strange to his touch. No longer was he an "artist." Once again, his hands were the clumsy hands of Adam-wielder-of-clubs.
He pushed the stone aside and went to sleep.
***
Weeks later, when at noon he was again gobbling grapes and warm antelope flesh, Adam noticed the stone by a pile of other stones he had kicked when frustrated by unsuccessful hunts. He lifted it, brushed off the dust, and smiled at his former folly.
This "statue" had raised him to such a passion. It was so crude.
His "work of art" was barely distinguishable from a stone worn to the shape of a faceless, featureless man by the chance workings of wind and weather.
But there were strong lines to it. It had been cut with the grain of the rock, and the long lines of that grain from head to toe now absorbed his attention.
It was indeed a fine stone he had chosen. And Adam could well imagine it being carved in the shape of a man, perhaps even a
self-image.
With the first stroke, the first microfine chip, the old fervor returned. He chipped again. This time he knew he must not stop except to sleep and eat, must not contemplate his handiwork until it was complete. And he must proceed slowly that it not be too soon finished.
But his persistent labor carried him onward despite himself, until he had given shape to the final lip.
It was done. It sat there and stared at Adam. It stared dumbly, blankly, lifelessly. And for a day and a night, Adam sat there in front of it -- proud.
He smiled when he realized that the stone not only had all his features, but was grinning, too, just as he was grinning: one a reflection of the other.
He pouted and stroked his limp lower lip, pulled it still further down, making grotesquely comic faces.
His own lip felt so strange, so foreign, so inert -- just another form of matter. It was more pliable than stone; but like stone, it was just raw material for a fashioning hand to work with. Then whose hand was it?
He had no more made himself than the statue had made itself. But he was alone -- alone with his creation and without a creator.
He had freed this stone from the grip of chance, had enabled it to shed these useless chips and become what it could become -- this willed and created shape.
But what of he himself? Who or what could he become if he were so freed?
"What are you laughing at?" Adam shouted at the stone.
And he smashed the stone, the meticulously polished stone, so carefully carved -- smashed it on the broken remains of the boulder of which it was once a part.
Legs, torso, the head, and one arm fell on the soft ground where Adam often slept. And in the evening shadows, they seemed to be parts of several Adam-statues, sprouting from the ground.
"What are you laughing at?" Adam smashed the stone, the meticulously polished stone, so carefully carved, reproducing every detail of the face and body of its proud fashioner.
He had been amazed at his own handiwork, and had for a day and a night sat before it, staring, touching himself and then the statue, then himself -- especially the lower lip, which he had finished last and of which, in his first surge of creative joy, he was most proud.
It had been the boulder to the sunset side of his fire. He had been just Adam-the-cave-dweller, just Adam-the-wielder-of-clubs. He had been alone and without purpose.
At first he had chipped away idly. He chipped to hear the sound of stone on stone, to hear any sound that was not of the forest, the fire, and the wind. He was tired of listening to the garbled, fading echo of his own shouts. Stone on stone was sharp, precise; and soon he could see that the boulder was not the same as it had been before he chose it: the pattern of even his random chippings was unlike the wear of wind and rain. He was changing the universe. This stone was his. This stone was him.
In his first excitement, as he began to see the possibility, the crude outlines of a possible man, a possible self-likeness in the stone, he rushed and hacked, and in a passion pounded.
On the third day from that first vision, the stone cracked -- from projected head to projected hip and across both thighs. Embryonic cracks -- flaws -- must have been in the rock before he began. He had not noticed. They must have been slowly aggravated by his persistent pounding. He had not noticed.
In despair and exhaustion, Adam collapsed by the broken stone.
He must have dreamt in that sleep of exhaustion. For when he awoke, he was calm. He knew now that the statue would be small, smaller than the smallest uncracked section of the boulder; that it would be an exact likeness of himself; that he would proceed very slowly and carefully, not from any fear that he was unequal to the task, that he could blunder, but rather because he knew that this was his project, the source of his hopes and joys, that, in the process of creation, the statue would absorb all his energy, all his thought, all that he would call "Adam."
He would proceed very slowly and savor the effort of creation.
And so he did. Until he stopped.
For a day, he sat and gobbled grapes and ripped the warm flesh from a freshly roasted antelope and laughed and patted his belly in the noonday sun, proud of his handiwork, proud that he, Adam, not just lived in the world, but shaped it with his hand. The world was his, for he would leave his image in it, in this stone that already had the oblong shape of a man, the outlines of arms and legs, a hint of fingers.
Adam even fancied that, on the left hand, the index fingernail was broken just as he had broken his, accidentally, while chipping away at that very hand the day before. He was so pleased with that touch that he was hesitant to tamper with it.
And the strokes that suggested his wild fuzzy hair: it was so difficult to create the illusion of hair in stone. He had done it by luck, not skill or plan, and yet it was so right, even in its present crude form. He doubted that he could make that stroke if he tried.
And the beginnings of feet. He could swear he even saw his protruding vein over the left ankle of the left foot. Incredible good fortune.
It was as if the statue were making itself, as if he, or rather his image, were already in the stone, and the chips were falling away of their own accord; or, rather, he was acting as the instrument of some unknown force.
He laughed uneasily. Who was he? What was he trying to do?
Adam looked at the stone, and it was as if he looked at it for he first time. He didn't know what to do with it. He didn't understand why he had expended so much energy on it, why he let it sit on that soft, cool spot where he himself used to sleep so comfortably.
He reached for the statue. It was strange to his touch. No longer was he an "artist." Once again, his hands were the clumsy hands of Adam-wielder-of-clubs.
He pushed the stone aside and went to sleep.
***
Weeks later, when at noon he was again gobbling grapes and warm antelope flesh, Adam noticed the stone by a pile of other stones he had kicked when frustrated by unsuccessful hunts. He lifted it, brushed off the dust, and smiled at his former folly.
This "statue" had raised him to such a passion. It was so crude.
His "work of art" was barely distinguishable from a stone worn to the shape of a faceless, featureless man by the chance workings of wind and weather.
But there were strong lines to it. It had been cut with the grain of the rock, and the long lines of that grain from head to toe now absorbed his attention.
It was indeed a fine stone he had chosen. And Adam could well imagine it being carved in the shape of a man, perhaps even a
self-image.
With the first stroke, the first microfine chip, the old fervor returned. He chipped again. This time he knew he must not stop except to sleep and eat, must not contemplate his handiwork until it was complete. And he must proceed slowly that it not be too soon finished.
But his persistent labor carried him onward despite himself, until he had given shape to the final lip.
It was done. It sat there and stared at Adam. It stared dumbly, blankly, lifelessly. And for a day and a night, Adam sat there in front of it -- proud.
He smiled when he realized that the stone not only had all his features, but was grinning, too, just as he was grinning: one a reflection of the other.
He pouted and stroked his limp lower lip, pulled it still further down, making grotesquely comic faces.
His own lip felt so strange, so foreign, so inert -- just another form of matter. It was more pliable than stone; but like stone, it was just raw material for a fashioning hand to work with. Then whose hand was it?
He had no more made himself than the statue had made itself. But he was alone -- alone with his creation and without a creator.
He had freed this stone from the grip of chance, had enabled it to shed these useless chips and become what it could become -- this willed and created shape.
But what of he himself? Who or what could he become if he were so freed?
"What are you laughing at?" Adam shouted at the stone.
And he smashed the stone, the meticulously polished stone, so carefully carved -- smashed it on the broken remains of the boulder of which it was once a part.
Legs, torso, the head, and one arm fell on the soft ground where Adam often slept. And in the evening shadows, they seemed to be parts of several Adam-statues, sprouting from the ground.
May 24, 2020
Blossom
(from Chiang Ti Stories by Richard Seltzer)
Blossom
Lotus came often to the mountains with Chiang. And Chiang often returned to the valley with her. Just being with her was a joy, and telling his thoughts to her alone brought greater satisfaction than telling the entire village. Often he treasured her responses, for she had a way of completing his thoughts and making them more tangible and immediate.
For her alone, he chose his words very carefully, "All things spontaneously being themselves: the sunrise, the nightingale, the gnarled acacia; each thing so separately itself, unfolding with its own particular subtlety, coyly curved upon its stalk a lotus blossoming..."
"There are many flowers in the garden in front of our house," Lotus replied. "Each morning mother carefully waters them. At evening their fragrance fills the house."
"... It is in its separateness that each thing reveals its own particular beauty," Chiang continued. "All things differing from each other, it is in their very difference, in being themselves completely, always unfolding, changing, but each in its own particular way that all things participate in the beauty of the sunrise, of the nightingale's song. The lotus rejoices in being a lotus, the way it bends with the wind and rises to meet the sun, and rejoices too in the way the wind rushes to bend it and the way the sun watches and waits, patiently..."
"Lotus, sunflower, morning-glory, snapdragon... Each morning mother waters the garden," explained Lotus. "Little Blossom follows her with a pitcher and at each plant as they pour, mother states its name, and Little Blossom repeats its name and sometimes I hear her telling each flower its name, teaching them as mother teachers her: lotus, sunflower, morning-glory, snapdragon..." So they came to live in happiness together in the valley. Chiang no longer needed the mountains. He saw the world through the eyes of Lotus; and Lotus, without seeming to try, found the world everywhere.
Blossom
Lotus came often to the mountains with Chiang. And Chiang often returned to the valley with her. Just being with her was a joy, and telling his thoughts to her alone brought greater satisfaction than telling the entire village. Often he treasured her responses, for she had a way of completing his thoughts and making them more tangible and immediate.
For her alone, he chose his words very carefully, "All things spontaneously being themselves: the sunrise, the nightingale, the gnarled acacia; each thing so separately itself, unfolding with its own particular subtlety, coyly curved upon its stalk a lotus blossoming..."
"There are many flowers in the garden in front of our house," Lotus replied. "Each morning mother carefully waters them. At evening their fragrance fills the house."
"... It is in its separateness that each thing reveals its own particular beauty," Chiang continued. "All things differing from each other, it is in their very difference, in being themselves completely, always unfolding, changing, but each in its own particular way that all things participate in the beauty of the sunrise, of the nightingale's song. The lotus rejoices in being a lotus, the way it bends with the wind and rises to meet the sun, and rejoices too in the way the wind rushes to bend it and the way the sun watches and waits, patiently..."
"Lotus, sunflower, morning-glory, snapdragon... Each morning mother waters the garden," explained Lotus. "Little Blossom follows her with a pitcher and at each plant as they pour, mother states its name, and Little Blossom repeats its name and sometimes I hear her telling each flower its name, teaching them as mother teachers her: lotus, sunflower, morning-glory, snapdragon..." So they came to live in happiness together in the valley. Chiang no longer needed the mountains. He saw the world through the eyes of Lotus; and Lotus, without seeming to try, found the world everywhere.
May 23, 2020
Lotus
(from Chiang Ti Stories by Richard Seltzer)
So once again Chiang Ti returned to the mountains. But this time Lotus followed him. While he sat staring at the horizon, she went up to him and asked, "What are you doing, Chiang?"
"Building my world," he replied.
"What are you building it with?"
"The mountains and the sky. But I'm not yet sure whether the mountains are hanging suspended from the sky or if instead the sky is but a roof supported by the mountain peaks."
"What will you do when you know?"
"Then I'll build the foothills and the forests and the village in the valley."
"But the village is already there. I just came from the village. Houses still line the streets. The fountain still flows by the marketplace. Children still play. I'm sure the village is there."
"Yes, but I hope to firmly establish the village in knowledge. To see, to feel, to touch, to sense is not to know. Knowledge is like a house. Before you can build the rooms that people live in, first you must clear the ground and build the foundation."
Lotus smiled, for now Chiang seemed to be speaking a language she understood. "Wang Li-wu is building a new house on the far side of the winding river," she said. "He and my father go there every night to clear the ground and talk about how beautiful the new house will be. And Sung Fu-lan has said, too, he will help when construction begins. It's a lovely spot -- just at the base of the far mountain. Is this where you plan to build your new house? This too is a lovely spot; and if I were going to build here, I too would not return to the valley for many days, but would sleep here in the cave, as you do, and spend my days deciding where and how to build my house. When you are ready, I will come to help you; and father and Wang Li-wu will come also."
"Thank you, Lotus; but you do not understand. I am not building a house. I am building a world, and the house is just a symbol."
"My father, too, speaks of symbols. Each evening when he goes to help Wang, he says he is going to the new world. And sometimes when our house needs a new door or the roof leaks, he says it's time to repair our world. And sometimes when I or my brother has scraped a knee, he says, too, our world has hurt itself; and he washes the wound gently. And he says that someday soon I will have to build a world of my own together with my future husband, and hehopes the world will be at peace and be a good world to live in. Who then is the girl you are about to marry?"
"You do not understand. I am not about to marry any girl. I came here to the mountains to think in solitude; so I might build my world. The village in the valley is too distracting. There one never sees the sun climb over the mountains or the stars spread from horizon to horizon. In the evening here, a nightingale sings of the beauty of the mountains."
"Yes, Chiang, father says everything has its season, that one shouldn't sow grain in mid-winter. And he says that one day I will feel a restlessness in me, and the world of my father will no longer be my world, and I will have no world, but will want a world of my own; and I will wander with the wind looking for my world, and all thoughts will be brilliant, and all men handsome; and the sunrise will be my sunrise; and the nightingales will sing for me only; and even the grass will tell of the pains and joys of growing."
"Yes, Lotus. But still you do not understand."
"Let us sit by the old acacia, Chiang. There you can explain to me why the mountains must hang from the sky or the sky be supported by mountains. I love to hear you talk about the mountains and the sky and why things are the way they are. You think so deeply for one still young. I could never begin to know why things are the way they are. But please explain. It's so fun to hear you talk and to try to understand. And there by the old acacia, we can listen to the grass growing, and at evening hear the nightingale, and in the morning watch the sunrise together."
So once again Chiang Ti returned to the mountains. But this time Lotus followed him. While he sat staring at the horizon, she went up to him and asked, "What are you doing, Chiang?"
"Building my world," he replied.
"What are you building it with?"
"The mountains and the sky. But I'm not yet sure whether the mountains are hanging suspended from the sky or if instead the sky is but a roof supported by the mountain peaks."
"What will you do when you know?"
"Then I'll build the foothills and the forests and the village in the valley."
"But the village is already there. I just came from the village. Houses still line the streets. The fountain still flows by the marketplace. Children still play. I'm sure the village is there."
"Yes, but I hope to firmly establish the village in knowledge. To see, to feel, to touch, to sense is not to know. Knowledge is like a house. Before you can build the rooms that people live in, first you must clear the ground and build the foundation."
Lotus smiled, for now Chiang seemed to be speaking a language she understood. "Wang Li-wu is building a new house on the far side of the winding river," she said. "He and my father go there every night to clear the ground and talk about how beautiful the new house will be. And Sung Fu-lan has said, too, he will help when construction begins. It's a lovely spot -- just at the base of the far mountain. Is this where you plan to build your new house? This too is a lovely spot; and if I were going to build here, I too would not return to the valley for many days, but would sleep here in the cave, as you do, and spend my days deciding where and how to build my house. When you are ready, I will come to help you; and father and Wang Li-wu will come also."
"Thank you, Lotus; but you do not understand. I am not building a house. I am building a world, and the house is just a symbol."
"My father, too, speaks of symbols. Each evening when he goes to help Wang, he says he is going to the new world. And sometimes when our house needs a new door or the roof leaks, he says it's time to repair our world. And sometimes when I or my brother has scraped a knee, he says, too, our world has hurt itself; and he washes the wound gently. And he says that someday soon I will have to build a world of my own together with my future husband, and hehopes the world will be at peace and be a good world to live in. Who then is the girl you are about to marry?"
"You do not understand. I am not about to marry any girl. I came here to the mountains to think in solitude; so I might build my world. The village in the valley is too distracting. There one never sees the sun climb over the mountains or the stars spread from horizon to horizon. In the evening here, a nightingale sings of the beauty of the mountains."
"Yes, Chiang, father says everything has its season, that one shouldn't sow grain in mid-winter. And he says that one day I will feel a restlessness in me, and the world of my father will no longer be my world, and I will have no world, but will want a world of my own; and I will wander with the wind looking for my world, and all thoughts will be brilliant, and all men handsome; and the sunrise will be my sunrise; and the nightingales will sing for me only; and even the grass will tell of the pains and joys of growing."
"Yes, Lotus. But still you do not understand."
"Let us sit by the old acacia, Chiang. There you can explain to me why the mountains must hang from the sky or the sky be supported by mountains. I love to hear you talk about the mountains and the sky and why things are the way they are. You think so deeply for one still young. I could never begin to know why things are the way they are. But please explain. It's so fun to hear you talk and to try to understand. And there by the old acacia, we can listen to the grass growing, and at evening hear the nightingale, and in the morning watch the sunrise together."
May 22, 2020
Creation/Destruction
(from Chiang Ti Stories by Richard Seltzre)
Night followed day, time and again. Rocks tossed high in the sky fell low in the valley. Chiang Ti watched and pondered long, then rose and returned to the village in the valley, followed by Lotus, Little Blossom and dozens of children who loved to hear his stories.
"Whatever rises must fall," he told the village folk. "Whatever lives must die. Every creation contains the seeds of its destruction. But don't despair that so it is and must be. Rather, accept and rejoice in the rhythm of the world.
"See a child at play with his blocks, carefully, cheerfully building. See the delight of creation. Then see the same child, with a sweep of his hand, topple the tower, laugh, and build again.
"To create, one must destroy; and to destroy, one must create. The whole pattern has its pleasure -- both rise and fall. Accept it cheerfully, like a child, and continually rejoice."
But a carpenter, accustomed only to building, spoke up, "Chiang Ti, your very idea is a creation. So if every creation contains the seeds of its destruction, then your idea too must be destroyed."
Chiang Ti smiled, turned, and took the path back to the mountains. Slowly he climbed, pausing now and then to toss pebbles.
Night followed day, time and again. Rocks tossed high in the sky fell low in the valley. Chiang Ti watched and pondered long, then rose and returned to the village in the valley, followed by Lotus, Little Blossom and dozens of children who loved to hear his stories.
"Whatever rises must fall," he told the village folk. "Whatever lives must die. Every creation contains the seeds of its destruction. But don't despair that so it is and must be. Rather, accept and rejoice in the rhythm of the world.
"See a child at play with his blocks, carefully, cheerfully building. See the delight of creation. Then see the same child, with a sweep of his hand, topple the tower, laugh, and build again.
"To create, one must destroy; and to destroy, one must create. The whole pattern has its pleasure -- both rise and fall. Accept it cheerfully, like a child, and continually rejoice."
But a carpenter, accustomed only to building, spoke up, "Chiang Ti, your very idea is a creation. So if every creation contains the seeds of its destruction, then your idea too must be destroyed."
Chiang Ti smiled, turned, and took the path back to the mountains. Slowly he climbed, pausing now and then to toss pebbles.
May 21, 2020
Review of Poil de Carotte by Jules Renard
Poil de Carotte by Jules RenardMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Charming childlike story. Not a story for children, rather told from a child's point of view to show his simplicity and innocence and to give the author opportunities for irony and humor and insight into human nature. The tone reminds me of Letrtres de Mon Moulin by Daudet.
If ordering online, be careful to make sure you get it in the language you want. Poil de Carotte (redhead) is the title in both the French and the English editions. The English translation by Ralph Manheim is excellent.
View all my reviews
Peace
(from Chiang Ti Stories by Richard Seltzer)
Chiang Ti watched in horror as each spring a large band of strong young men crossed the mountains to the neighboring valley and as each fall a few came limping back. He had heard the gossip and speeches of how the war began and why it continued. But he knew that the whys of s war are like the whys of a thunderstorm or an earthquake: they help to predict, but do nothing to prevent or to stop. Long did he meditate in his mountain hermitage on the problem of making a lasting peace. The in his moment of greatest despair, when he feared there was no answer, that very fear gave him the answer.
That night he descended to the village in the valley; secretly, for this was not an answer for the ears of the many. He went first to the home of Chow Wong the politician, for he was a man of action.
"Rejoice, Chow Wong, the answer has come. War will soon leave our village and the village in the neighboring valley. Fear in part drove us to war. Fear will also save us. For fear is the one great unifying force. If a common enemy were to challenge both villages, our petty differences would soon be forgotten for fear that we'd lose the more pressing struggle. And likewise, fear could unite three, four, a dozen, any number of villages if it were great enough and pressing enough. Of course, with a real enemy, nothing is gained: more blood is shed; and as soon as the great struggle is over, the petty differences are remembered, and the old war flares up again. But if the enemy should be an imaginary one from beyond the stars or beyond the Great Sea, surely then the fear could last, with all men cooperating to prepare for the imminent invasion.
"Others have tried this before, shouting with foaming mouths that the end of the world is at hand; so that all men should act like brothers. Such men failed because they had no authority beyond their own frenzy, no credentials other than their own claims of divine inspiration. We shall succeed because we shall speak through the mouths of those they already trust. We shall win to our side the handful of daring mean who have crossed the Great Sea or the handful of learned men who know the ways of the stars; and with all the weight of their indisputable authority, we shall spread the alarm through all the land. Lend me your hand, and together we shall chase war beyond the farthest sea."
Chow Wong replied, "I fear that fear that you would use so lightly. If all went well, if most, nearly all believed the story and the panic took constructive form, all might pull together to work for their common safety. Villages might cooperate, at first. But bit by bit, the pace would naturally quicken; for the danger must seem to grow or people will get used to it and no longer fear it. AT first all would need to be prodded to be convinced that the danger was getting greater. Then events would start to flow of their own accord.
"The hundreds of separate village governments would be too inefficient to direct this life-or-death struggle with the unknown. A single government would take the place of the many, and a single man would soon take charge of that. Meanwhile, a few would not believe and would loudly voice their views on street corners. In such an emergency, no mercy would be shown. Dissenters contribute nothing to the cause and hamper the efficiency of others: hence destroy them. The greater the fear, the greater the unity necessary to combat the enemy. Hence, bit by bit, the useless fringes are eliminated: the old, the sick, the weak. Everyone is expected to produce to the maximum. The lazy are destroyed. And as the enemy is expected at any moment, the pace becomes greater; more and more won't be able to keep up, will be destroyed. Fewer and fewer will remain to work harder and harder until the ultimate unity: one man alone, facing the universe.
"And if you should see the rock of humanity careening down the mountainside and place yourself in its path to stop it, you, too, would be destroyed. No one would believe you when you told them it was all a hoax. You'd be destroyed with the rest of those too weak or too lazy to continue.
"No, Chiang Ti, fear is not the answer for peace."
Chiang Ti took his leave and returned to his hermitage in the mountains. And in his fear of war and its consequences, in his fear that there is no formula for eternal peace, Chiang Ti felt very much alone: one man facing the universe.
Chiang Ti watched in horror as each spring a large band of strong young men crossed the mountains to the neighboring valley and as each fall a few came limping back. He had heard the gossip and speeches of how the war began and why it continued. But he knew that the whys of s war are like the whys of a thunderstorm or an earthquake: they help to predict, but do nothing to prevent or to stop. Long did he meditate in his mountain hermitage on the problem of making a lasting peace. The in his moment of greatest despair, when he feared there was no answer, that very fear gave him the answer.
That night he descended to the village in the valley; secretly, for this was not an answer for the ears of the many. He went first to the home of Chow Wong the politician, for he was a man of action.
"Rejoice, Chow Wong, the answer has come. War will soon leave our village and the village in the neighboring valley. Fear in part drove us to war. Fear will also save us. For fear is the one great unifying force. If a common enemy were to challenge both villages, our petty differences would soon be forgotten for fear that we'd lose the more pressing struggle. And likewise, fear could unite three, four, a dozen, any number of villages if it were great enough and pressing enough. Of course, with a real enemy, nothing is gained: more blood is shed; and as soon as the great struggle is over, the petty differences are remembered, and the old war flares up again. But if the enemy should be an imaginary one from beyond the stars or beyond the Great Sea, surely then the fear could last, with all men cooperating to prepare for the imminent invasion.
"Others have tried this before, shouting with foaming mouths that the end of the world is at hand; so that all men should act like brothers. Such men failed because they had no authority beyond their own frenzy, no credentials other than their own claims of divine inspiration. We shall succeed because we shall speak through the mouths of those they already trust. We shall win to our side the handful of daring mean who have crossed the Great Sea or the handful of learned men who know the ways of the stars; and with all the weight of their indisputable authority, we shall spread the alarm through all the land. Lend me your hand, and together we shall chase war beyond the farthest sea."
Chow Wong replied, "I fear that fear that you would use so lightly. If all went well, if most, nearly all believed the story and the panic took constructive form, all might pull together to work for their common safety. Villages might cooperate, at first. But bit by bit, the pace would naturally quicken; for the danger must seem to grow or people will get used to it and no longer fear it. AT first all would need to be prodded to be convinced that the danger was getting greater. Then events would start to flow of their own accord.
"The hundreds of separate village governments would be too inefficient to direct this life-or-death struggle with the unknown. A single government would take the place of the many, and a single man would soon take charge of that. Meanwhile, a few would not believe and would loudly voice their views on street corners. In such an emergency, no mercy would be shown. Dissenters contribute nothing to the cause and hamper the efficiency of others: hence destroy them. The greater the fear, the greater the unity necessary to combat the enemy. Hence, bit by bit, the useless fringes are eliminated: the old, the sick, the weak. Everyone is expected to produce to the maximum. The lazy are destroyed. And as the enemy is expected at any moment, the pace becomes greater; more and more won't be able to keep up, will be destroyed. Fewer and fewer will remain to work harder and harder until the ultimate unity: one man alone, facing the universe.
"And if you should see the rock of humanity careening down the mountainside and place yourself in its path to stop it, you, too, would be destroyed. No one would believe you when you told them it was all a hoax. You'd be destroyed with the rest of those too weak or too lazy to continue.
"No, Chiang Ti, fear is not the answer for peace."
Chiang Ti took his leave and returned to his hermitage in the mountains. And in his fear of war and its consequences, in his fear that there is no formula for eternal peace, Chiang Ti felt very much alone: one man facing the universe.
May 20, 2020
Crazy but memorable ride
Shakespeare for Squirrels by Christopher MooreMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is one of the wackiest books I've ever read. The author undermines and mocks the reader's every assumption. Though he's not always funny and sometimes it's hard to follow the thread of the story, he dishes out one delightful surprise after another. It's a crazy but memorable ride.
View all my reviews
Neverending Now
(from Chiang Ti Stories by Richard Seltzer)
The following spring, Chiang Ti returned again to the village with a new answer. "A human life has no beginning and no end," he said. "The time of the sun and the stars is not the time of man. His mind is free, has a time of its own.
"An hour's sleep is but a moment. And the second before a race begins can seem to last for hours. Imagine a condemned man on the scaffold with the rope around his neck. To him, how long does that moment last? What thoughts run through his mind? One minute to live, half a minute, a quarter, an eighth... And what minute, half minute, quarter, eighth... did you begin to be? The promise of eternal life was in the endless moment of conception. It's fulfillment is in the endless moment of death.
"What need is there for laws, judges, prisons? The final judgment, hell, and paradise are within you. Just remind people of the horrors or pleasures that could await them in that last endless moment, and there will be no more crime. All will live in peace and love."
But the doctor said, "Many people die in their sleep, unaware that death is approaching. Does your theory apply in that case? Or do those people simply die -- with no heaven and no hell?"
Chiang Ti suffered a century of frustration. A moment later, he turned and walked back to the mountains to look within himself for other answers.
The following spring, Chiang Ti returned again to the village with a new answer. "A human life has no beginning and no end," he said. "The time of the sun and the stars is not the time of man. His mind is free, has a time of its own.
"An hour's sleep is but a moment. And the second before a race begins can seem to last for hours. Imagine a condemned man on the scaffold with the rope around his neck. To him, how long does that moment last? What thoughts run through his mind? One minute to live, half a minute, a quarter, an eighth... And what minute, half minute, quarter, eighth... did you begin to be? The promise of eternal life was in the endless moment of conception. It's fulfillment is in the endless moment of death.
"What need is there for laws, judges, prisons? The final judgment, hell, and paradise are within you. Just remind people of the horrors or pleasures that could await them in that last endless moment, and there will be no more crime. All will live in peace and love."
But the doctor said, "Many people die in their sleep, unaware that death is approaching. Does your theory apply in that case? Or do those people simply die -- with no heaven and no hell?"
Chiang Ti suffered a century of frustration. A moment later, he turned and walked back to the mountains to look within himself for other answers.
May 19, 2020
Metamorphosis
(from Chiang Ti Tales by Richard Seltzer)
Months later, Chiang Ti returned again to the village, with a smile of certainty on his face, his round bright head held high. Lotus saw him first and called together all the village folk.
He told them, "What is done is done. Man has no control over his past. He changes and learns. He is not the same person today he was yesterday, and tomorrow, too, he will be different. Life is a process of becoming. You cannot relive the past and alter it. But you can control what you are becoming. Judge men not on their past, but on their future.
"The keen observer can see what a man is becoming. A man can begin to look like a frog or act like a pig. Bit by bit he can become more and more like an animal or vegetable until when he dies, his reincarnation, his change of bodies makes but a small difference.
"From the beginnings of life, some animals have become better, others have stayed the same, and others have fallen. Be ruled and guided by those who are rising; and under their good influence all might rise together. Be not corrupted by tomorrow's zoo. A monkey who acts like a human is better than a man who acts like an ape. Judge all by what they are becoming and be ruled by the best."
"Who then will be judge?" asked someone in the crowd.
"Me," said the Mayor.
"Me," said the Schoolmaster.
"Me! Me! Me!" arose from all sides.
As the villagers bickered, waving their arms and tongues, Little Blossom tossed breadcrumbs to pigeons that swarmed about, flapping their wings and pecking greedily. Chiang Ti watched the villagers and the birds for a while, then turned and slowly walked back toward the mountains.
Months later, Chiang Ti returned again to the village, with a smile of certainty on his face, his round bright head held high. Lotus saw him first and called together all the village folk.
He told them, "What is done is done. Man has no control over his past. He changes and learns. He is not the same person today he was yesterday, and tomorrow, too, he will be different. Life is a process of becoming. You cannot relive the past and alter it. But you can control what you are becoming. Judge men not on their past, but on their future.
"The keen observer can see what a man is becoming. A man can begin to look like a frog or act like a pig. Bit by bit he can become more and more like an animal or vegetable until when he dies, his reincarnation, his change of bodies makes but a small difference.
"From the beginnings of life, some animals have become better, others have stayed the same, and others have fallen. Be ruled and guided by those who are rising; and under their good influence all might rise together. Be not corrupted by tomorrow's zoo. A monkey who acts like a human is better than a man who acts like an ape. Judge all by what they are becoming and be ruled by the best."
"Who then will be judge?" asked someone in the crowd.
"Me," said the Mayor.
"Me," said the Schoolmaster.
"Me! Me! Me!" arose from all sides.
As the villagers bickered, waving their arms and tongues, Little Blossom tossed breadcrumbs to pigeons that swarmed about, flapping their wings and pecking greedily. Chiang Ti watched the villagers and the birds for a while, then turned and slowly walked back toward the mountains.
May 18, 2020
The Void
(from Chiang Ti Tales by Richard Seltzer)
Long, long ago, before man made books to talk across centuries, a young man, Chiang Ti, left his village in the valley and went up to the mountains. With all the comings and goings in the village in the valley, no one had time to think beyond the next harvest. But Chiang needed to know why the sun rose, and why the grass grew, and why men lived and grew and died. So he went up, close to the sky and the stars and the sun, up to the mountains.
After a few weeks in the mountains, Chiang Ti went running back to the village in the valley and gathered his parents and his neighbors, all the important people of the village and all the ordinary people too, like the young girl Lotus and her sister Little Blossom. He told them all, "Every child has this answer in his drawings. The sky is above; the earth is below; and man dwells in the empty space between. Life is just the journey of the soul from heaven to earth through this emptiness.
"A child knows of heaven for he has recently come from there. A dead man becomes a part of the earth. Therefore, let the knowledge of a man determine his tasks. Have babies for your priests and old weaklings for kings. The babies will teach you the language of the gods. And the old will teach you the value of life and the futility of greed and will pursue a policy of peace."
Many of the village folk were impressed with Chiang's words and were willing to do as he said. But the oldest man present asked, "If what you say is true, then you, Chiang, must be not yet halfway in your journey through the emptiness that separates heaven from earth. How then could you, far from both heaven and earth, have discovered the key to the universe?"
Chiang Ti paused a moment, then turned and slowly climbed back up to the mountains, to think once again about the problems of the universe.
(written December 1963)
Long, long ago, before man made books to talk across centuries, a young man, Chiang Ti, left his village in the valley and went up to the mountains. With all the comings and goings in the village in the valley, no one had time to think beyond the next harvest. But Chiang needed to know why the sun rose, and why the grass grew, and why men lived and grew and died. So he went up, close to the sky and the stars and the sun, up to the mountains.
After a few weeks in the mountains, Chiang Ti went running back to the village in the valley and gathered his parents and his neighbors, all the important people of the village and all the ordinary people too, like the young girl Lotus and her sister Little Blossom. He told them all, "Every child has this answer in his drawings. The sky is above; the earth is below; and man dwells in the empty space between. Life is just the journey of the soul from heaven to earth through this emptiness.
"A child knows of heaven for he has recently come from there. A dead man becomes a part of the earth. Therefore, let the knowledge of a man determine his tasks. Have babies for your priests and old weaklings for kings. The babies will teach you the language of the gods. And the old will teach you the value of life and the futility of greed and will pursue a policy of peace."
Many of the village folk were impressed with Chiang's words and were willing to do as he said. But the oldest man present asked, "If what you say is true, then you, Chiang, must be not yet halfway in your journey through the emptiness that separates heaven from earth. How then could you, far from both heaven and earth, have discovered the key to the universe?"
Chiang Ti paused a moment, then turned and slowly climbed back up to the mountains, to think once again about the problems of the universe.
(written December 1963)
Richard Seltzer
Here I post thoughts, memories, stories, essays, jokes -- anything that strikes my fancy. This meant to be idiosyncratic and fun. I welcome feedback and suggestions. seltzer@seltzerbooks.com
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