I have been thinking of unearthing some of my old prose pieces that I wrote when Extrasimile was a mere babe in my arms. Though some of the material is dated, most is not. Or it is dated in a good way: it will help by providing a perspective on our current situation. Much of Extrasimile was written during the internet explosion. And when I was teaching at City College. I remember asking a teaching assistant I had had he ever heard of the Wikipedia. He shook his head. No, what is it?
I will start with a short story. It name when first published was A Thanksgiving Tale; that is still a good name, but I like The Little Ones better.
When he read it John Looker (then John Stevens) wrote:
I thought I’d save it for later but read as far as: “the enormous faux pas of inviting Friedrich Nietzsche for Thanksgiving dinner” and was immediately hooked. What a hilarious idea!
It’s several decades since I read a bit of Nietzsche in my efforts to manage a youthful transition from faith to unfaith. I remember thinking that he created such an appallingly bleak vision of a godless universe that it strapped crampons on my feet before I slipped all the way down into nihilism.
Then I reached your bit: “There is a kind of parallel between the idea, held in such contradiction to the facts, and the believer who thanks God for His blessing, even as this God (who must be responsible for the bad as well as the good) rains down adversity.” So by now I was hooked on the ideas in your story and not just the humour. Where would you take us?
Then at the end you gave us the phone call from Jocelyn, the gasp, and an explanation for that early reference to the hospital that had been left hanging in the air.
A clever tale and woven very tightly. Not very comforting, but then why should it be? We have to find a way to cope. Perhaps May in the story in right (along with many millions) but that way simply won’t work for many of us. It didn’t work for FN either but he didn’t offer much of an alternative unless you find comfort in the thought of eternal rebirth in an arbitrary existence.
Perhaps Voltaire had a point: keep digging the garden? Raise turkeys. Enjoy your turkey today Jim and happy Thanksgiving.
John is a good reader of my stuff; his comments are introduction enough,
“Look, he practically begged me to invite him. He’s alone, he’s lonely, but in truth, he’s a nice guy, we shoot the breeze now and then, he’s very smart. Once you get past the silly mustache…
“Yes, I did know he can be contentious…
“Yes, I did know he can be overbearing…”
“And he brought those horrid sausages.”
“And that beer….”
“…which incidentally had everybody so blitzed there was no one to drive me to the hospital.”
Yes, true, but…
A short segment of a very long conversation I had with my sister after I committed the enormous faux pas of inviting Friedrich Nietzsche for Thanksgiving dinner.
Yes, I should have told her I was inviting a stranger, but it was a last minute thing. The man’s a famous philosopher, after all. Okay, a philologist. I still think it was more about turkey gravy in his mustache, then about what probably is a stupid idea—that which does not destroy me, makes me stronger. Sure, everybody had a little too much to drink, but that whole ‘grace thing’ my cousin May does every Thanksgiving set him off. It doesn’t mean that much to me. May wants to pray; I’m cool. But Friedrich Nietzsche…it’s obviously… you know, he’s made a name for himself, Mr. Anti-Christian.
“Father Sprit, blessed Jesus, Lord of the land, sea and air—please bless this table and those who sit in common communion at its portals…”
“This ‘Father Spirit’, liebchen, what does it signify…?”
I suggest it is a metaphor, a personification…
“A metaphor for what?” asks my supposed friend. The one who’s supposed to be grateful for a little company for the holidays. The whole family is hanging over the cranberries. Cousin May does not think she’s metaphoring anything. She’s talking to the Father Spirit, and thanking him for our blessings.
“But what about the poor and starving, the homeless, the wretched of the earth…why has god not blessed these as well?
The old ‘problem of evil’ argument. I try to change the subject by asking my friend if he’d been reading Franz Fanon—the wretched of the earth, you know. Everybody at the table knows that ‘god’ he’d just referred to was not capitalized.
May thinks she’s talking to God. Is there harm in this? She says, “Well, what do you believe in, Professor Nietzsche?”
He could have said something like: Look, I’m a nineteenth century man; I’m reacting to forces, to intellectual currents of the time. It’s becoming increasingly clear to us that traditional faiths need to be re-examined. I am searching for the truth.
What he does say is: that which does not destroy me makes me stronger.
He also sneezes at this point, spraying particles of the hors d’œuvres he’d been pigging out on across the table. That enormous mustache again. My theory about cold and flu season is that it starts with Thanksgiving. You bring your cold from Chicago; May brings her virus from southern Jersey; and Nietzsche…who knows where he’s been?
I say, “I once knew this guy, Joey O’Hearn, he went one Thanksgiving Day to visit his sister. Took the Long Island Rail Road out to Levittown, took a cab to his sister’s house. His sister sees him pulling up in the cab, she runs out to the curb, says, ‘Joey, here’s 20 bucks, get back in the cab and go home. Okay?”’
It’s not a great story. But it’s supposed to remind everyone you don’t talk about religion and politics at family gatherings; someone’s supposed to say, ‘that’s horrible. Why would a sister do such a thing?’ And I explain about the Atlantic and Pacific Rail Road and how we should all be on the Pacific tracks…
May says, “Don’t you believe in God, Professor Nietzsche?
I think FN has gotten my gist. “Madam May, I apologize. That which does not destroy me makes me stronger is…”
“…is a kind of substitute for God,” I say, looking daggers around the table. “I for one would like to try some creamed onion.”
Okay, the ‘substitute for God’ thing isn’t going to fly.
Ted, my brother-in-law picks up the cudgels. “A guy from work, he’s had three strokes in six months. He’s on oxygen 24/7. He can only move his left arm, and that flaps around.”
“There was that movie,” I say. ‘The Squid and something’, about that French journalist, locked in his body.”
Ted: “My point is that three strokes do not make you stronger. Life is a wearing down process. You get old, you get sick, you die.” Ted mimes a kicking process with his foot. “I refute it thus.”
“Ah, Samuel Johnson.”
I told you this Nietzsche was smart. Ted’s been doing the stone kicking routine for years. I’m pretty sure he’s never even heard of Dr. Johnson. “There is something to what you say. The real, you know.”
“Tell them how you spent the last years of your life,” I say. We’re into to it now; might as well bring out the heavy cannons.
Friedrich Nietzsche looks at me for several moments. Maybe I’m going too far.
“Very well, if I’m to be the entertainment…” Pause. “As a young man I foolishly contracted syphilis. At the age of 45 I collapsed in utter mental confusion, the syphilis eating my brain. I spent the last years of my life, eleven years, in the care of others. The syphilis left me an idiot, vacant, unknowing…yet I still knew. I too had several strokes before I died.”
This is sobering, to say the least. No one in my family has read any Nietzsche, so this rather dismal end comes as a surprise. That which does not destroy me… Why this as a summary of a long complex life? One of the great thinkers, reduced to ashes, reduced to braggadocio? There is a kind of parallel between the idea, held in such contradiction to the facts, and the believer who thanks God for His blessing, even as this God (who must be responsible for the bad as well as the good) rains down adversity:
I burn down your cities-how blind you must be
I take from you your children and you say how blessed are we
You all must be crazy to put your faith in me
That’s why I love mankind
You really need me
That’s why I love mankind
…sings God in the old Randy Newman song, and it seems as if we want to sing along, or at least tap our feet, despite the fact that God’s made them a little arthritic in our old age. In the lull I pass around the mashed potatoes.
Consider: there is the normal and abnormal suffering that flesh is heir to. May makes her appeal to mitigate this suffering to God. If God exists, and he’s an all-powerful being, or at least a pretty powerful one, he should be able to give us a break. The issue is simply: does this being exist? ‘God, I’m hurting down here, you hear me?’ But my philosophical friend, what has he got exactly? An aphorism. The consolations of philosophy.
The telephone rings. This must by Jocelyn, who’s late—who’s always late—but not usually this late. My sister listens into the phone. “I can’t believe it’s a telemarketer on Thanksgiving. The warranty on my car is running out. On Thanksgiving.”
Professor Nietzsche has been talking quietly to May: “…music,” he is saying. “As a young man I knew Wagner. He was a great man—though ultimately wrong about so many things. I listen sometimes to prevent thinking.” It seems they have made friends.
So, I’m thinking about the role of words in our life. I’m lost in thought for a while. They should be bracing, life-enhancing. They should give us courage. This must be Nietzsche’s message. Sure, he understands life wears you down, but you play the cards you’re dealt. You make the best of a bad situation. You embrace life. Makes sense, right? I sit listening for a while.
“…to prevent thinking?” That one would like to stop thinking, this is news to May
“It’s like the game,” FN explains “called ‘The Little Ones’. I used to play it…you know…when I could.”
“Who are The Little Ones?” May is confused here.” How do you play?”
“That’s the thing,” he tells her. “You never know. Not until they get big.”
“Given,” I interrupt, “that the idea qua concept is inadequate, that Ted is right at base, that one is not at liberty to, as it were, legislate this reality into existence, how does the idea function? ‘That which does not destroy me makes me stronger’ isn’t true, right? So what is it?”
The telephone rings again. Jocelyn, for sure. My sister hangs up immediately.
“They always call in pairs,” May says. “I’ve noticed that. Car warranty and then long term health insurance. ”
FN: “You’ve heard the news today, liebchen. Terrorists. Men willing to die for something they believe in. Killing people. We think innocent people. Now the dialog here is with their god…”
May starts, but Frederick holds up a hand. “You think this is naïve. Virgins waiting at heaven’s gate. Sexual naiveté. But their beliefs are as real to them as yours are to you. Ultimately it is against life.”
Yes, religious people sometimes do bad things. Religious pilgrims storming the temple of the newest, fastest growing religion, Professor? Or just people without a god?
The phone is ringing again. This time it must be Jocelyn. My sister holds the receiver, listening, takes a deep gasping breath.
“You see,” FN says to May and me too, I guess. To all of us. “The Little Ones. They’re coming.”