Imago Bird (10 page)

I said ‘But analysts don't really ask questions about what goes on outside. They're not really interested. They ask questions about what goes on in your mind. And then, perhaps, they try to make connections with what's outside.'

He said ‘Then she does ask questions about what goes on in the house.'

I thought—What's coming from Andromeda is the madness of simplicity.

I said ‘Dr Anders isn't a Trotskyite.'

He said ‘Do you know that?'

I said ‘Yes.'

I thought—Well, do I?

Then—Isn't this just the sort of question that Dr Anders herself would have asked?

I said again ‘Yes.' Then —

— But it was too difficult, after all, to try to explain to Uncle Bill why I knew Dr Anders wasn't a Trotskyite.

He said ‘It's always been my conviction that things of a
personal nature should be kept away from public life.'

I thought I might say—But you see, Dr Anders would be interested in just this —

— How can a person keep things of a personal nature away from public life?

— By tearing himself in two?

Uncle Bill said ‘They don't ask you questions about what goes on in this house?'

I thought—He is tired

I said ‘There was a man doing some sort of job in the attic yesterday. Did you know?'

Uncle Bill looked at Mrs Washbourne.

Then he began banging his pipe against his knuckles so that burning ash fell over his clothes like meteorites.

I thought—He wants to immolate himself?

I said ‘He didn't say what he was doing: he seemed to want not to be found out.'

Mrs Washbourne called ‘Don't do that!' She left her machine and came over to Uncle Bill. She beat at his trousers as if he were on fire.

I thought—They pretend there is a fire when there is not; when they want to cover something up —

— But what will they do if there is a fire?

Uncle Bill said ‘Don't do that, Connie!'

I said ‘I thought I'd better tell you.'

I could say to Dr Anders—You see, I told you, they do not want to know; all this is too daft to keep one's mind on —

Uncle Bill said ‘There are some bad hats I suppose in any profession.'

I thought—Dr Anders? Myself? The man in the attic?

The machine on Mrs Washbourne's table began buzzing.

Mrs Washbourne went back to the table. She pressed a button and seemed to listen.

I thought—They are about to receive their instructions about what to do when the world is on fire?

Then—I must meet someone, sometime, with whom I can talk easily about how crazy all this is; without always having to remember how crazy I may be myself.

Mrs Washbourne said ‘Yes?' and then ‘Directly.'

She looked at Uncle Bill; then at me, then at the door.

Uncle Bill got up and went over to the machine on the table.

I thought—The bell has rung: orders are about to be given to the servants of Andromeda.

I got up and went to the door.

I thought—I am supposed to think that they can prevent what will happen to the world?

Uncle Bill was saying into the machine ‘Yes'. Then—Not very clearly.'

As I went into the hall I thought—Is it their unconscious they are talking to? That pursues them like wolves? That they think they can placate, from the back of their troika, by throwing out the world?

I said to Dr Anders —

‘Look, is it any wonder that people don't make sense? How does anyone know what's going on? People with all the information don't know what's going on. There are all these impressions coming in and of course we have to filter them; to make up stories, obsessions; or how would life be possible? To take in everything we'd be gods; or mad. But because people can't see this, can't see themselves making up stories, they have to imagine they make up the whole: and this makes them mad; or sad; because they're always disappointed Other bits of the whole, that is, are always coming in, to upset them. So even the stories they make up have to be mad or sad; to justify their disappointment.

‘Can you think of any work of European literature or of any other literature for that matter that's not to do with life being a disappointment? That's not trying to comfort people by saying how awful other people's lives are? Oh I know—there are stories about animals, and fairy stories and suchlike; but what story trying to describe what human life's really like makes it out to be a successfully going concern? Something you'd be pleased to be part of? And yet it is, isn't it? Don't people want, after all, more to live than to die? Or at least with parts of themselves? Well this doesn't mean that all writers are fools or liars. It means that they're doing with language what language lets them do: with the limitations it imposes. Language is to do with protection; it's part of the system that filters what's coming in; it's suited to saying what things are not rather than what they are; it deals with disappointments. Even if people do know about life being a successfully going concern they can't easily talk about this; it doesn't sound right; language is to do with parts, with stories that have a beginning and a middle and an end, and parts are properly sad, because they have limits.
What is successful is to do with the whole.

‘But what if people knew something about all this—I mean they do, but what if they tried to form some language about it—wouldn't the language they formed to try to describe how life might be a successfully going concern and thus about the whole, be a language not just of stories and obsessions but about our need to make up stories and obsessions and so a language to enable us to talk about this too; not just a filter but a way of looking at filters; to clean them even—I don't know about this—but at least some effort at the whole? Wouldn't it even be like psychoanalysis? We sit and lie here, and listen, and talk; and we talk about what we talk about, and about the way we talk; and what gets understood happens mysteriously. But it is this that is the going concern: that is to do with the whole. And this we know, even if we can't talk about it directly. But I mean—insofar as we could get a language in which to talk about stories and filters as well as to tell stories in the manner of filters, then we would be getting a glimpse of the whole—and it would be this that would make us happy—there would be no disappointments—because when other bits came in, of the whole, this is what we would be interested in. From other people's filters. For you'd know they had these. They might even be interested in yours. Even make it easier for you to unblock them. I don't know about this. But what you would have glimpsed would have been something working. Even if it sometimes upset you. What might you learn from its upsetting you! Oh I know all this is difficult. This sort of language. I haven't got hold of it yet. But I shouldn't, should I? Isn't this what I'm saying?—Let it go.'

Then—‘That girl I told you about, do you think she'll be any good for me?'

Dr Anders had for some time appeared to be asleep.

I thought—What I am trying to say is, that the whole is known not by definition, but by a process of endeavour.

I said ‘You know that bit in Plato where a person is always looking for his other half or twin. And those recognition scenes in Shakespeare where what has been lost is found, or what is dead comes alive—'

Dr Anders made a faint noise like a dog having a dream about hunting.

I said ‘Well, all this depends on some sort of miracle. Which is the sense of the whole. Do you think, in fact, in the outside world, after one has made one's efforts, after one has tried to see one's stories, the fact that one feels better—and this is a fact—means that the whatever it is that flows through you, or happens to you, in the outside world, is something that provides miracles?'

Dr Anders looked up sharply and gazed out of the window.

She said ‘Meaningful coincidences—'

I said ‘Ah.'

Then—‘Or do you think it is just to do with the twenty-one lost chromosomes?'

She said ‘What twenty-one lost chromosomes?'

I said ‘You know that thing about everyone having forty-two chromosomes only half of which go on to the children—'

Dr Anders said ‘Forty-six.'

I thought I might shout—All right, forty-six!

I said ‘—So they have to spend their lives trying to find the other twenty-three again, or whatever it is, like Plato's lost half of a cell.'

Dr Anders said nothing.

I thought—Oh all right, my mother and my father then.

But—It is true this language is difficult!

I said There was a day when I was about seven or eight, I suppose, and we were living in London at the time, and I had had a quarrel with my sister. And I thought I was in the right, but my mother was disapproving of both of us equally. So I went and locked myself in a bathroom. To teach people how to treat me properly, I suppose. Like Napoleon. And I swore that I would not come out until justice had been done and seen to have been done to each of us equally. I mean Napoleon, I suppose, just wanted a lot of dignity. Our house in London was a tall house with three or four storeys. The bathroom I had locked myself into was on the third floor. I was quite good at locking myself in, I had done this before; I settled down with a bathmat and a towel on the floor and made a sort of bed with my head down
by the lavatory. There was a good lock on the door: they would have to break it to get in. And I would rather starve than go out. You see how politics grows from family life, don't you. Children have such power over parents: parents feel guilty: though why they should I don't know, since children have such power. Well there I was, on the bathroom floor; and getting a bit hungry every now and then, with my head down by the lavatory. I thought it would be better if I starved, of course, because then my parents would feel guilty: but I wished I could either starve or not starve rather quickly, because otherwise things might get uncomfortable. Well my mother and sister came and banged on the door every now and then: they asked me to come out: they even offered me food. But I didn't come out, for what would then have been the point of locking myself in a lavatory? I had to be a sacrifice, like Napoleon. Well after a time my mother and sister left me alone: they weren't fools: perhaps they knew after all that armies don't have much power if they're left alone in an empty landscape. Well that was the hard time, with nothing happening. And I was hoping the air would hurry up and give out: so I could the and be carried out and comforted. And see the beneficial effects on my parents of my suicide. If I was alive, that is: if you believe in Shakespeare's miracles. You see, this language is not easy. After a time I began to wonder whether something more important might be happening outside: such as chocolate cake for tea, or other people coming to supper. In fact it was Aunt Mavis coming to supper: but that didn't seem to matter much either way. Oh I know it's all a bit more serious—or is it?—a child locked in a lavatory and thinking about dying: I was only seven or eight. What was my mother doing? Why didn't she break the door down, scream, yell? Was that what I was asking? How much did I know. Enough to know that if she had, I suppose, I would have thought of killing myself. Which was why she didn't? I wonder if I knew this. I was quite a clever little boy: for eight or seven. But what on earth, short of death, was to get me out of the lavatory? Death of one sort or another, of dignity and pride, or a real death, getting attention. Do you think my mother knew this? Well, what am I saying. You don't have to lose all
pride: how does life go on? What are the ways of tapping that miracle? But that is the end of the story. Anyway, I had been there several hours—my mother and my sister had come back once or twice and had even pushed food under the door—some sort of half sandwich I think—and I had pushed it back again—it's not difficult to go on a hunger-strike when life is boring. Then pain becomes more interesting. But in this case, how could I ever come out of the lavatory? Then I heard my father come home. He had been out—where?—after one of his girls, I shouldn't wonder. But that's another story. And they were telling him this story—about my being locked in the lavatory. And with Aunt Mavis coming to dinner! Or how terrible if they were not even telling him! That would be worse than Napoleon alone in Moscow. Then I would surely have to die. Then I heard my father say “Get an axe.” And I thought I would undoubtedly kill myself. But had I not blamed my mother earlier for not getting an axe? I was, wasn't I, not only a clever little boy, but also half-witted. But I'm not saying for parents it is easy. No. I thought I could climb out of the window and then appear to be about to fall—what would it be—some twenty feet onto some railings. And then they would feel guilty. In full view of the neighbours. But still, would I be there to see it? Then I heard my father say “No don't get an axe, let's take this chance to have a little peace and quiet.” And I thought I should now undoubtedly have to die: for this was the final insult! That they should want peace and quiet! When I was in the lavatory! But then again, if they did not care, what was the point of killing myself? Ah, don't these knots make patterns! like figures of eight! like an hour-glass! It began to seem as if I might never get out of the lavatory. What I am saying is, of course, that children can't win: but can't parents? The house had become strangely quiet They were all I suppose having dinner. I thought I should climb out of the window. And then disappear. And begin a new life I suppose in Australia. Well there was a ledge, and then a gap, and then the ledge of another window. And beyond this a drainpipe. And if I got to the second ledge, I thought I could reach this drainpipe. And then I could climb down and both the and not die, because I might come alive again like one of Shakespeare's
heroines in Australia. Or one of the twenty-three lost chromosomes. Having been found by a shepherd in a basket on a mountain. Or been seen walking in the garden. You see, there are things you can't say. Can you? Do you think the Holy Ghost was perching all the time on the shoulder of that good scarecrow? Well, where was I. Getting out on to the ledge of that window. I can't remember this part of it very well. I suppose I was very frightened. Perhaps it really was about twenty feet onto the spikes of some railings. I got as far as one knee and one hand on the ledge of the second window and then I got stuck. Oh why didn't you sweep me up into your arms my mother! And the sash of the window was stuck too. I was quite a brave little boy. I didn't panic. This was the position that I had put myself in—had put my parents in—wasn't it what I had wanted? So we get what we want. Don't we. But I had wanted something more complex. Then I heard my father in the courtyard below. He was saying something like—“Now hold on with your left hand till you've got a better hold with your right”—or—“Try to get that knee an inch or two closer than that to the drainpipe.” That old know-all. Walking in the garden. Treating it as if it were a purely mechanical predicament. Which it was, partly. A way of getting out of it. To put it in a different context How did he know? When he got out of that garden? My mother and sister and Aunt Mavis had come out into the courtyard and were saying things like—“Call the fire brigade!”—and my father was saying—“No, he's doing all right.” And me stuck up on my tightrope and just about dying. And he was telling the others to go back into the house. Then I got one hand and one foot on to the drainpipe. It was not all that difficult. With someone else below me, and watching and talking. With language doing what it is good at: exorcising: and then something magical takes over. One's being able to fly, suddenly, like an arrow. Straight to the target. After one has done all the talking. Then I was climbing down the drainpipe. Or perhaps it was not anything like twenty feet to the railings below. My father was saying—“It's good to know that one can get down from the top floor if there's a fire.” You see, this is the point of the story: to have got the whole thing out onto something
different; where we could see ourselves; from another framework. And so not be trapped. And I was looking down at my knee that was slightly bleeding. You see, this was how I knew what to do about Sheila when she was behind her bathroom door. One does pass on, in some way, acquired learning. And then we were going into the house, my father and I. And my father was saying—“The problem now of course is how ever again to get back into the lavatory.” I said “You can push a piece of paper under the door and then work the key through so that it falls on the paper.” My father said “That's brilliant” We were going up the stairs to the first floor. My father said “Do you think there's a big enough gap beneath the door?” I said “Yes, they tried to push through a sandwich.” My father said “A large sandwich?” I said “No, a small sandwich.” We were by this time outside the sitting room on the first floor. My mother and my sister and Aunt Mavis were watching. They were like actors on the edge of a stage trying to look like the Eumenides. My father said “One of the odd things is, that people are absolutely brilliant at doing things like climbing down drainpipes and getting keys from the wrong sides of doors, but are absolutely hopeless at things like knowing what to do about their feelings.” I said “Why is this?” My father said “There's some theory about the human brain being superimposed on a much older brain, of some mammal or even reptile or something, but I don't think that's very well authenticated.” We were going on up the stairs to the bathroom. I said “Do you think things will get better?” He said “Oh I think so, don't you?” Then—“But I think it will depend on two things, one, the way the wind changes; and two, on a person's being in some sort of readiness to move in any of several ways when it does.”'