reach for my
Selected Philosophical Essays
and thumb through it. I’ve always bridled at the notion that “help” is available for every human predicament. I won’t say “problem” because the word belongs to a vocabulary I prefer to steer clear of. There is no arithmetic of human emotions—problem + help = solution. And I’m suspicious of the “happy consciousness” that is the desired outcome of so much help. My instincts tell me something is wrong. If life is guided by the reality principle, it seems to me that serenity is a more appropriate goal than mere happiness. Happiness is fleeting and too easily confused with pleasure—which elevated to a principle creates the seesaw of discontent that Freud had all of civilization teetering on. Why make life so complicated? Serenity is a state achievable only when all contingencies have been dissolved. A completely autonomous life is free of contingency and requires nothing to sustain it.
So I’m a morbid asshole. So what?
I put the book away.
The sun is shining directly onto the porch. My headache seems to be getting worse despite my efforts to rock it gently away. I go inside for some aspirin. The bathroom mirror reflects a gaunt-faced stranger, blank and bloodshot.
I strip and climb into the bathtub. There is no shower nozzle, just a handheld rubber attachment. A blast of cold water, a quick, shivering lather. I rinse quickly, washing the soap from my tightened skin like a thin film of white paint. I climb out, toss my clothes into the tub, and begin to wash them. A sudden mania for laundry sends me through the house gathering more clothes and sheets and towels to wash. Kneeling over the tub, I try to pretend I am by the side of a clear, rock-strewn stream on Horace’s farm outside Rome two thousand years ago—sun shining, world twittering over my head and all around.
Out in the backyard I try to fit all the wash onto the clothesline. I am bare chested, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts. The ground is cool against my feet, the sun directly overhead and shining strongly from a deep blue, cloudless sky. I hang the sheets up first. They shiver on the line and bring to mind backyard images of domestic life that are soothing in a folksy sort of way. The picture is framed by the woods at the bottom of the yard; the little yellow clapboard house; the chain-link fence that encircles the neighbor’s property, dividing the citadel of discarded appliances and toys from who knows what; a rusty red-and-white reclining lawn chair set like found sculpture in the middle of the yard—three tattered, procumbent planes ratcheted into odd but supple angles. And the laundry going up on the line.
My hands swollen white with detergent and water, I wring each item before hanging it up, trying to get the last drop of water out, straining my pectorals with each squeeze. There are no clothespins, so I have to balance everything carefully.
“Heard you had a visitor last night.” The voice startles me. I turn to see Detective Ross standing almost directly behind me. He breaks into a sweaty grin. “Sorry if I made you jump.”
I step back from the line, wipe my detergent-swollen hands on theback of my shorts, and glance at the detective. He is wearing the same blue seersucker I saw him in last time, the same inquiring grin, and a panama hat. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a question or two I’d like to ask.” He takes out a handkerchief, removes his hat, wipes his forehead and the interior band of the hat. “You reported a break-in last night.”
I nod. A jackhammer pounds away in the distance, a road crew at the top of the street. A dog barks. These distant sounds are amplified by the detective’s hard breathing. He looks scorched and uncomfortable beneath his suit and jowly grin. He replaces the hat on his head. “What was stolen?” he asks.
“My journal.”
“And have you noticed anything else missing?”
“No.”
“Just the
Selected Philosophical Essays
and thumb through it. I’ve always bridled at the notion that “help” is available for every human predicament. I won’t say “problem” because the word belongs to a vocabulary I prefer to steer clear of. There is no arithmetic of human emotions—problem + help = solution. And I’m suspicious of the “happy consciousness” that is the desired outcome of so much help. My instincts tell me something is wrong. If life is guided by the reality principle, it seems to me that serenity is a more appropriate goal than mere happiness. Happiness is fleeting and too easily confused with pleasure—which elevated to a principle creates the seesaw of discontent that Freud had all of civilization teetering on. Why make life so complicated? Serenity is a state achievable only when all contingencies have been dissolved. A completely autonomous life is free of contingency and requires nothing to sustain it.
So I’m a morbid asshole. So what?
I put the book away.
The sun is shining directly onto the porch. My headache seems to be getting worse despite my efforts to rock it gently away. I go inside for some aspirin. The bathroom mirror reflects a gaunt-faced stranger, blank and bloodshot.
I strip and climb into the bathtub. There is no shower nozzle, just a handheld rubber attachment. A blast of cold water, a quick, shivering lather. I rinse quickly, washing the soap from my tightened skin like a thin film of white paint. I climb out, toss my clothes into the tub, and begin to wash them. A sudden mania for laundry sends me through the house gathering more clothes and sheets and towels to wash. Kneeling over the tub, I try to pretend I am by the side of a clear, rock-strewn stream on Horace’s farm outside Rome two thousand years ago—sun shining, world twittering over my head and all around.
Out in the backyard I try to fit all the wash onto the clothesline. I am bare chested, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts. The ground is cool against my feet, the sun directly overhead and shining strongly from a deep blue, cloudless sky. I hang the sheets up first. They shiver on the line and bring to mind backyard images of domestic life that are soothing in a folksy sort of way. The picture is framed by the woods at the bottom of the yard; the little yellow clapboard house; the chain-link fence that encircles the neighbor’s property, dividing the citadel of discarded appliances and toys from who knows what; a rusty red-and-white reclining lawn chair set like found sculpture in the middle of the yard—three tattered, procumbent planes ratcheted into odd but supple angles. And the laundry going up on the line.
My hands swollen white with detergent and water, I wring each item before hanging it up, trying to get the last drop of water out, straining my pectorals with each squeeze. There are no clothespins, so I have to balance everything carefully.
“Heard you had a visitor last night.” The voice startles me. I turn to see Detective Ross standing almost directly behind me. He breaks into a sweaty grin. “Sorry if I made you jump.”
I step back from the line, wipe my detergent-swollen hands on theback of my shorts, and glance at the detective. He is wearing the same blue seersucker I saw him in last time, the same inquiring grin, and a panama hat. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a question or two I’d like to ask.” He takes out a handkerchief, removes his hat, wipes his forehead and the interior band of the hat. “You reported a break-in last night.”
I nod. A jackhammer pounds away in the distance, a road crew at the top of the street. A dog barks. These distant sounds are amplified by the detective’s hard breathing. He looks scorched and uncomfortable beneath his suit and jowly grin. He replaces the hat on his head. “What was stolen?” he asks.
“My journal.”
“And have you noticed anything else missing?”
“No.”
“Just the
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