Bensalem Himmich - The Theocrat

“The desert, the desert!

“Tremulous hope and bitter words!

“I realize I’m making my way through a life where there is neither sweetness nor horizon.

“I know orphan exposure, whether on its own or with others. I know that it proceeds either alone or in mixed company, as it heads toward its pit or its own deviation before fragmenting.

“In the abode where there is neither movement nor strife, cogitation is good, planning effective. Then death arrives, fast-paced and on time, right on time….

“In vain do we grow old; we only learn about life when it is all over and we are close to the end.

“Death repeats itself, but without any originality! So what? I ask myself. The wombs of women bring forth humans, and the earth swallows them up. So what, I tell myself, if this process of bringing forth and swallowing up involves behavior that is prescient, pain that is reduced, and harm that inflicts less damage? But what matters is the blindness, the space that shudders, the felicitous opportunity in a crisis. Instead of national refreshment, open space, and a change of air, there was smoke, crowd, and constricted space.

“Before the earth swallows me up, I told myself, here I am relishing the ultimate happiness, progressing toward the highest degree of certainty, moving ever forward till my head is held high and my talents are fully applied.

“I waited for her body to arrive, confident that my bride would come to me:

“a radiant gift of destiny to crystallize me,

“breasts that sigh

“chemistry of felicity and beauty.

“But not long after she came to me as my bride the whole thing turned into a disaster; her body became a mistake, chaff for the wind.

‘“Patience, patience!’ I told myself. So I waited till the clouds scattered, the sky was clear once more, and life came. But instead, calamity fell on me from an unexpected direction. Dangerous notions arrived, and misfortunes too. Survival there was, but it was endowed with multiple opportunities for downfall. I was unable to control this slippery slope; without lamp or axe, I had to engage in a fierce struggle to keep my head from exploding and my very face from collapse.

“I awoke one day and told the women who used to share my bed, ‘By my life, it would be a wonderful idea to put you all in closed coffins and throw you into the Nile.’ With that, I left them and went out into the early dawn atmosphere, there to resume my interest in smelling the scent of roses and listening to the beat of birds’ wings.

“The biggest issue of all: changing this world. The very love of change, that headlong rush to sever the ties that bind self, oppression, and want to each other; the very love of change, to abolish the contradiction between life and the things that overwhelm and destroy it. However, my dear devotees, why am I destined forever to drink wine and collect varieties of grass in order to foster this headlong spirit within me?

“My ruses and medicaments will all come to naught; my drugs will lose their efficacy one-after the other. I shall spend the rest of my life making countless attempts to understand what has happened, to comprehend those things that were not foreseen, to assess this sense of depression with an analytical eye, this suppressed feeling deep down that dogs human beings whether alone or in company, like a clap of thunder sometimes, and at others like a prolonged, plaintive refrain.

“Beyond what has already happened what else is there? What’s happened has indeed happened! What else is there besides depression? It comes in two types: a normal type that justifies itself and is deeply enmeshed in its own essence, the rusted tedium of passing days, the travail of preserving health and peace, and the assaults of others. Then there’s a second type, an exceptional kind that inhabits times of joy and clings to them like some hidden sense of fear that such times may soon disappear. Both types of depression are controlled by the sigh, something that can only be bested by the mastery of perpetual absence.

“In such cases of decline, and following the thousand and first absence, the thousand and first retreat, however severe may be the pain and difficulty, it seems I will probe my own self in order to confirm with astonishment that I am still alive and in control of you. It also seems that I will gather whatever is left of my presence and power and proceed erect through the cities and valleys of the land. As I proceed, I will ponder the fact that no one in power can take away my aura of prestige or interfere with my steadfast intent to achieve a linkage and pact between my lungs and the air. My thoughts must inevitably be drawn toward its eastern pole. Inevitably my capital must consist in keeping my head held high.

“What is most probable is that, after everything that has happened (and how I suffer over what has happened!), I will pace back and forth through the streets and alleys chanting a rousing song, with dervishes dancing before me. I am the unique atom, I shall say, so why should I care about my problems or fear death as though I were the first or last person who is going to perish?

“I shall compose fierce lampoons aimed at absence. I will spell every-thing in plural form and go in quest of unity and unification

“I have been walking and still am. Walking on foot, so philosophers and doctors have it, is good exercise that provides maximum benefit to the body and bolsters its resistance to depression whether psychological or nervous (despondent psyche, tread the earth’s uplands and pursue the posture of quest!). Yes, I have been walking and still am, as I contemplate writing reports of prohibitions and checks, a model for my tombstone while I am still alive. How amazing! Here I am, still seriously trying to convert to my own interest all the fates and mute trials that so dog my life.

“A few days later I had a fresh idea: maybe release might come with the diversion of a new marriage and in a panegyric to the bed; or else in learning the sounds of wild beasts; in hunting songbirds and butterflies or eating cold almonds. Maybe it lay in collecting severed heads or composing a volume on the benefits of jest.

“All this occurs whenever the water returns to its courses, calamities lessen their intensity, routine and habit return to quell the thunder and enclose bodies.”

An awesome silence now descended on the place. The trembling of the devotees in their corners was enough to blow out the candles close by. By now al-Hakim was strongly affected by both the wine and violet oil; sweat was pouring off him, and blood was coursing through his veins. Suddenly he leapt up and started talking in strident tones, as though delivering a sermon or recording minutes. The young scribe fell out of the pool and stayed where he was on the ground. Even though he was utterly exhausted, he tried to record as many of his master’s words as he could.

“To eradicate the concerns that reside in my vision,” he said, “1 took on the River Nile, as it did me; and I took on the birds, as they did me. To revive connections and relationships, I rode in a boat heading for the light, guided by the chant of the sea bird as I made my way to you, my devotees:

“With its mythic half my body is in quest of its destiny,

I lay down the foundation stone of its birthplace,

“I place the head between two crescents of embers,

“And open the path for the devotees of conscience and secrecy.

“Then I walk the earth unsheathing my sword and power

“Against anyone who would deny me through mind or magic.

“The sun never shines on me because I am a cave,

“A grassy cave, a grassy cave in ruins,

“A prison, an ancient prison, a map of secrecy …

“No, the sun never shines on me, but in my heart I see a gleaming star in search of its mate, of a country and people.