by Fraser Hibbitt for the Carl Kruse Blog
Up! Up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double
(from ‘The Tables Turned’, William Wordsworth)
But cast away the thirst after books, that thou mayest not die murmuring, but cheerfully, truly…
(From Meditations, Marcus Aurelius)
Reading the Meditations, you can almost see Marcus Aurelius there in his study, alone at night by candlelight, pouring over some manuscript with a horrible sense of ambivalence. He may have thought ‘oh, I am interested in that; now, if I read that, then… finally… So how could I go about understanding this?’ And then another thought rises up: ‘to hell with this, what am I doing, grovelling over these arcane things when I have a life to lead?’ and then again: ‘but without proper instruction…’ etc. etc.
Wordsworth flies into his room and says: ‘friend! Come with me onto a hill and breathe the air – what of the world and yourself can find in these dusty tomes (tombs)?’ “but, sir”, Marcus replies: “you yourself must have read plenty to get to this point; this point where you realised these books were nothing but a burden, burden and distraction from living properly.”
The poet smiles and says: “of course, but I only read what I already know, of what I found to be true when I was a child. Things that tell me of this life. And you may say: but you write books yourself. It is true, what else should a poet do?
“a thirst?”, the poet says, now himself sitting down, “a thirst for what? How could I be thirsty after one tremendous day that has utterly filled me? You may call me overly-sentimental. What about the lover? The worker? Do they come home to a thirst after their work? Lie in bed with a thirst after love? No, I think they find an easy rest. Perhaps you are looking for something or someone but dare not look?”
Marcus stands up from his table and looks under tired eyes at the poet. He says: “yes, there is a comfort in what you say. Many great things have been set down so we don’t forget. Tell me, poet, why is it that I feel this thirst, despite knowing better? You talk of going onto the hill and feeling as one with nature, or maybe you mean away of learnedness (which I agree, you do not need to be learned to live on this world, nor is it even desirable); do you not also retire after these long walks, to your candlelight with a thirst?”
“I do my duty”, Marcus replies, “I do my duty well and I listen to the pomp and vanity of the world… I try and understand…”
“pomp and vanity of which you are a part”, the poet says, quickly.
“yes, of which I am a part…”
“do you think”, the poet says, almost as if he is wondering aloud, “that if you set fire to all these books, you’d then live truly, without the incessant stress? Surely, it isn’t the books that are giving you this storm and stress; I for one am glad of your stress for I have enjoyed your inspired notes.”
“My notes? I write them so I don’t have to think them; or I write them so I can have some release. They are nothing to do with anyone. And no, of course, I don’t believe torching these pages would prove anything; it is the desire, the desire and need for them, that they attach themselves to me and try to own and distract me from myself; they call themselves my friends, but they are only voices from the past or present vying for my attention, as always: it wouldn’t matter if these books existed here or elsewhere, what it is is in me, and you seem to agree…”
The poet rocked his head back and forth: “you are thirsty because your desire and need for them is above your desire for yourself and everyone else, and nature. You make a grave error, a mistake, in thinking one will lead to the other; you knowingly hide in there and then feel guilty about it, there really is no…”
The emperor who had enough reasons to be stressed shooed away the poet. He would likely continue with his vague thirst. The poet flew out the window to find a little garden spot to rest and sing; he would undoubtedly have a spell of melancholy soon for he was much too alone sometimes. Meanwhile, out and about in the night, many lovers embraced and many ebbed away; tired people came home from work, whilst others carried on for fear of nothing to do. Good people realised by now that it was time to have a drink and let away what the day had been. There was a whole host of them who knew intuitively what living was about. Most of them were dancers, dancers who when you approached had a sincere smile and said hello, how are you? Somehow, they already knew that all that strangled talk was for those who had been, either justly or not, exiled, and were clawing to get back to a home that had long vanished.
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This Carl Kruse bog homepage is at https://www.carlkruse.com
Contact: carl AT carlkruse DOT com
For an article focusing on Victor Frankl check out this Carl Kruse Medium Post.
Other articles by Fraser include One After The Truth and Magical Thinking.