Lars Iyer - Wittgenstein Jr

Discussion of Benwell. Is it just that Benwell is very, very bad at doing good, or is his evil something real, like Voldemort, or something? Was Benwell always evil? Was he an evil child? An evil five-year-old? At what point did Benwell become evil? When did Benwell go over to the dark side?

Or is it just that Benwell’s poor (Ede’s view)? A victim of the class system (Ede again)? Is it that Benwell’s had none of the advantages of the rest of us, even Peters (Ede)? Is it that Benwell will only come into his own after the revolution (Ede, for a final time)?

In Doyle’s rooms, before the Pembroke College toga party. We’ve each brought a bottle of white spirits, as instructed: vodka, gin, tequila, Bacardi. Doyle mixes them up with pastis and coke. The Black Zombie: Doyle’s favourite tipple.

A performance of the death of Socrates, inspired by David’s painting. Guthrie as Socrates, sitting upright on the bed, one hand gesturing wildly, the other reaching out for the cup that Ede passes him. The rest of us as Socrates’s followers, our eyes full of tears.

Guthrie looks so dignified , we all agree. Guthrie is fully believable, reaching out for the cup of hemlock/Black Zombie the jurists of Athens had condemned him to drink — his sentence for corrupting the young. The real Socrates drained the cup willingly, claiming that there was nothing for the philosopher to fear in death.

GUTHRIE/SOCRATES: Give me the hemlock, jailer! For I am unafraid of death, as all philosophers should be . (Turning to us.) And you lot, stop your weeping! Cease your lamentations! What a display you make of yourselves! Don’t you know dying is something to be done in silence!

Guthrie drains the cup without flinching. He falls to the ground. Ede (playing the part of Phaedo) closes Guthrie’s eyes.

EDE/PHAEDO: Truly we have lost the best of the men of Athens, the wisest! The most just!

Applause from everyone. Guthrie rises, grinning like a fool. Another round of Black Zombies. Toasts to Socrates! To Plato! To the eternal soul! To Beauty as such and in general! To the sun! To the Greeks! To philosophy!

MULBERRY: To homosexuality!

Have we ever wondered why all the Greek philosophers were gay? Mulberry asks. It was a hangover from the ancient warrior cult: the older man takes a younger one as both tutee and lover. You learned, you fucked, you fucked, you learned. And the ones who learned most (and fucked most) became philosophers.

Mulberry says he hasn’t learnt anything from fucking. And he hasn’t taught anything either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The Greeks spoke of ascending the erotic ladder, Mulberry says. Of moving from the love of beautiful boys to the love of beautiful forms in nature, to the love of mathematical laws, to the love of beauty itself …

For his part, Mulberry’s descending the erotic ladder, he says. Love has no lessons for him, he says. He’s going all the way down to the abyss. All the way to hell, to brimstone and black flames.

Mulberry riding bareback, and boasting of riding bareback … Mulberry, courting death. Asking for it … Mulberry toying with death, because he wants it to toy with him . He wants death to wrestle him down, to hold him down. He wants to take death itself as his lover, he says, to be loved by death, all the way to death. For death’s black lips to kiss his own.

Mulberry speaks of the desire for death to explore him with its tendrils. For death to reach into his mouth. His arse-hole. He speaks of his desire to take death into his body. For real death to free him from the desire for death. For death to stir him, wake him, return him to life … For death to grow inside him, a dark flower … For death to open its fist inside him … For death to flume up, black. For death to fill his sky.

Now death is all round him, black, roaring, and he is tiny. Now death is the black hole that swallowed the sky. Now death’s black pupils are looking into his. Now death’s dark mouth is laughing in his own …

General amusement. Black Zombies bring out the Mephistopheles in Mulberry.

The phases of Guthrie’s drunkenness. Amiability. A smiling be-toga-ed Guthrie, sitting with an arm round his be-toga-ed neighbour. Guthrie, nodding and laughing. Guthrie, all hail-fellow-well-met. Guthrie, buying round after round at the bar. Guthrie, flush-faced and cheery. Guthrie, full of smiles and bonhomie.

Then excitability, barely containable. Euphoric Guthrie, keen to stay out and never go home. Guthrie, still dancing as the house lights come on. Red-eyed Guthrie singing in the streets on the way home. Guthrie, juggling. Guthrie, walking on his hands. What life there is in Guthrie! Guthrie, inexhaustible! Guthrie, bubbling over!

Then, frenzied drinking. Guthrie, his face glowing. His eyes staring maniacally. Guthrie, trembling, laughing wildly. Guthrie, becoming mad. Becoming animal ! Guthrie, wanting more, even when the bar’s already closed. More! Guthrie, pointing accusatory fingers. Guthrie, declaring war on each of us. Guthrie, dealing out insults. Guthrie, promising revenge. Guthrie, telling us we’ll all come to dreadful ends. Guthrie, speaking of judgement and deserved punishment. Guthrie, taking himself for an avenging angel. Guthrie, swiping at us, missing, knocking pint glasses onto the floor …

Then Guthrie calming down, on the walk home. Guthrie, waxing philosophical. Quoting Heraclitus, reaching back into the origins of European thought: the way up is the way down! Shouting out the one word we have left from Anaximander: aperion! Quoting Thales in Greek and then in English: everything is water! Lying on the green grass of the quad, whispering of the great tragedies of antiquity. Of the story of the Persian defeat at Salamis. Of the horrors of the siege of Hadrianopolis. Guthrie, taking the part of Antigone addressing Creon; of Oedipus, addressing the gods. How poignant he is! How moving!

Guthrie, his head falling back. Guthrie, asleep amidst the flowers, snoring loudly. Guthrie, unconscious in the mud, his toga undone.

DOYLE (pointing): What the fuck is that?

EDE: Guthrie’s third nipple.

DOYLE: Why is it so hairy ?

Ede googles third nipple .

EDE: Supernumerary nipples . They can grow anywhere on the body, apparently.

MULBERRY: For example you, Doyle, are nothing but a supernumerary nipple.

Once upon a time, Guthrie would have been burnt as a witch, we agree. Then again, he might have been revered as a seer … Does a third nipple give you second sight? we wonder. It’s a sign , at any rate, we agree. Guthrie’s been chosen! But for what?

We should start a new religion, we agree, with Guthrie as our mock king, our Lord of Misrule, at the head of the feast. We should crown Guthrie as our Bacchus, our Pan …

A final toast to Guthrie and his third nipple, as the day begins around us. Doors slam and showers steam. Students’ footsteps on the stairs. Students pouring into the courtyard, heading to lectures.

Jesus Green, after class.

Wittgenstein is certain that he is in immediate physical danger in Cambridge, he says. That he will be stabbed by a poisoned umbrella tip, like a spy. That he will be bitten by a mad dog. A mad Labrador . He is certain that a gust of wind will blow him into the River Cam. He is certain that he will be driven to suicide by the dons.

His brother warned him that it was only a matter of time before the dons expelled him from Cambridge. The only question was how long he could work unnoticed. Because if they found out what he was working on— really working on — they’d get rid of him in an instant.