Lars Iyer - Wittgenstein Jr

He too fears chaos, Wittgenstein says. He too fears the wilderness of the soul .

But perhaps the miracle of repentance is close, he says. Perhaps there really can be such a thing as a change of heart .

Later, at his door. A kiss goodbye. And another. And another.

The echo of his footsteps, going upward.

15th December

Wittgenstein’s rooms.

Dictation. At least ten pages. I don’t understand a word.

He seems aggressive in his thought. Almost violent. He speaks in lunges. In stabs. But he is quickly exhausted.

Long silences, with occasional remarks about sin. About illness. About philosophy.

Behind the mystique of philosophy: nothing , I write. Behind the mystique of the philosopher: likewise, nothing. In the end, we can say no more than that which everyone knows , I write.

WITTGENSTEIN: You must go away from me. Or I must go away from you.

ME: No. Why?

WITTGENSTEIN: I am changing you. Corrupting you.

ME: You’re helping me!

WITTGENSTEIN: It only seems like that. (A pause.) What will you become, if you stay with me?

Silence. Snow falling in large flakes.

I place my hand on his. I stroke his hand with mine.

He will have to transform himself, if he is to be worthy of me, he says. God will have to change him.

But he fears he cannot transform himself. And he fears he cannot turn to God.

Repentance : that’s what is needed, if he is ever to be honest and decent in his philosophy …

• • •

Side by side on his sofa.

WITTGENSTEIN: My heart is empty.

ME: Then let me fill it.

WITTGENSTEIN: The door of my heart is shut.

ME: Then let me open it.

His arm around my shoulders. His hand on my thigh. His face turned to mine. The depths from which his eyes look out.

WITTGENSTEIN: Do you know how beautiful you are? Do you know what you mean to me? You are close to God, you know. For me, you are close to God. (A pause.) God is not for the innocent. The innocent are of God. The innocent are God. (Whispering:) God is very close to us. He is here, in this room.

We lie together (that’s what he calls it: lying together ).

The early hours. He speaks of his confession.

Sincerity — that’s what he dreams of. Honesty. But honesty so great that we speak of more than we know. A sincerity so great that we no longer know what we will say.

One day, we will live and breathe in truth, he says. And there will be no end to truth.

And God will live in our hearts, he says. And our love will be God’s love.

And our love will be of God, with God.

16th December

His rooms.

I read him one of my poems. He makes a face.

WITTGENSTEIN: Yes, yes, it is very pretty. Very pastoral. You know the names of all the animals. But ours is not the time for poems of that kind.

I read him another poem, about love.

WITTGENSTEIN (shaking his head): Why do you think you have the right to write of such things?

Love is unutterable, he says.

Coldham’s Common.

He speaks of the indecency of light. Of the white sky that sees nothing, but that sees nonetheless.

Blindness watches, he says. And there are no secrets left, nothing hidden.

It’s as though light had permeated his body, he says. As though his innards were filled with light.

He speaks of white light, like a fog drifting through him. He speaks of the whiteness and opacity of the sky flowing through him.

He wants to hide, he says. He wants to cower.

He speaks of madness seething inside him. Rocking inside him. He speaks of madness coming to his edges.

WITTGENSTEIN: Do you know what an effort it is simply to keep my balance?

(A long pause.) Do you see what you’ve done to me, Peters? What you’re doing to me?

(A long pause. Quoting:) We have rolled on the floor of the squares of Babylon. Lust grows up like brambles above our heads .

ME: We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.

WITTGENSTEIN: Oh, there’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. (Quoting:) For the good man, there is not evil possible, whether it be living or dead . (A long pause.) I do not deserve you.

ME: Of course you do!

WITTGENSTEIN: You mustn’t grow old like me … It is forbidden to grow old …

ME: You’re not so very old.

WITTGENSTEIN: But I am corrupt. I am ugly.

ME: You’re none of those things.

17th December

Morning. I lie on his sofa as he works at his desk. Open notebooks. An open ledger. Facedown: a copy of Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises .

A look of absolute concentration on his face. Absolute intensity. Is this what thinking looks like? Is this what a philosopher looks like?

Wittgenstein leans back in his chair. Sighs.

WITTGENSTEIN: I give in! I can’t work with you around!

I tell him that I’m being as quiet as I can. That I want nothing more than to watch him work.

He speaks of his hatred of self-consciousness. Of self- awareness . Absorption, that’s his ideal. The mind must be absorbed in its activities.

But when the mind’s problem is the mind? he wonders. When the mind’s problem is the very impossibility of absorption?

He sends me home so he can get on with things .

I text Ede: Am W.’s boyfriend . Ede texts back: About time .

I update my Facebook status: In a relationship . Mulberry writes on my wall: No fucking way . I write back: Way .

Five o’clock. No text from Wittgenstein. Six. Still no text. Seven. I text: I’ll bring you dinner . Eight: still no reply.

18th December

No Wittgenstein. He’s not in his rooms. He doesn’t reply to texts.

I flick through the Confessions in the library.

19th December

Evening. Wittgenstein texts, very curt. Back from London tomorrow. Meet me 11 AM — station .

He was in London?

20th December

Cambridge Station. Wittgenstein, unsmiling. His flat cap. His rucksack. He looks worn.

I’ve been reading Augustine, I tell him.

Silence.

I’ve missed you, I tell him. Cambridge has been very dull.

Silence. The tension in his face increases.

I ask him what’s the matter.

The train was full of dons, he says.

Dons in suits. Dons wired up, networked. Dons plugged in, keeping in touch. Dons tapping away on iPads, consulting spreadsheets and flow diagrams. Counting their citations on Google Scholar. Watching for ‘likes’ on their Facebook posts. Dons on the phone touching base … reaching out …

Dons looking out with approval at the low-rise homes being built at Clay Farm. At the new office complexes being built round Addenbrooke’s. At the new multistorey car parks. At the new biomedical campus.

Dons, with Silicon Fen on the brain. With the Cambridge Cluster on the brain. With the Northwest Development on the brain. With the knowledge economy on the brain.

How many days are left? he says. How many days can there be? Surely this is the end. Surely things are coming to an end.

But that’s just it: nothing is ending, he says. That’s it: the eternity of the end. The endlessness of the end.

Hell— this is Hell. Because there are no flames. Because it does not burn him.

He cannot stay here, he says. Cambridge is destroying him.

He does not want it to end here — in Cambridge.

Anywhere but here, he whispers. Anywhere but here.

WITTGENSTEIN: God protect me. God help me.