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The
Rain
and the Rhinoceros
Let
me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for
money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a
festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price
has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to
make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when
they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in
it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness. The
rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense
and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and porch with insistent
and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again
that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize,
rhythms that are not those of the engineer. I
came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield,
said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled
over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log
fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its
enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of
rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging
nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling
the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where
men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in
the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly
innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain
makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses
everywhere in the hollows !
Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain.
As long as it talks I am going to listen.
But
I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to
sleep again. Here I am not alien. The trees I know, the night I know, the rain
I know. I close my eyes and instantly sink into the whole rainy world of which
I am a part, and the world goes on with me in it, for I am not alien to it I am
alien to the noises of cities, of people, to the greed of machinery that does
not sleep, the hum of power that eats up the night. Where rain, sunlight and
darkness are contemned, I cannot sleep. I do not trust anything that has been
fabricated to replace the climate of woods or prairies. I can have no
confidence in places where the air is first fouled and then cleansed, where the
water is first made deadly and then made safe with other poisons. There is
nothing in the world of buildings that is not fabricated, and if a tree gets in
among the apartment houses by mistake it is taught to grow chemically. It is
given a precise reason for existing. They put a sign on it saying it is for health,
beauty, perspective; that it is for peace, for prosperity; that it was planted
by the mayor’s daughter. All of this is mystification. The city itself lies on
its own myth. Instead of waking up and silently existing, the city people
prefer a stubborn and fabricated dream; they do not care to be a part of the
night, or to be merely of the world. They have constructed a world outside the
world, against the world, a world of mechanical fictions which contemn nature
and seek only to use it up, thus preventing it from renewing itself and man.
Of
course the festival of rain cannot be stopped, even in the city. The woman from
the delicatessen scampers along the sidewalk with a newspaper over her head.
The streets, suddenly washed, became transparent and alive, and the noise of
traffic becomes a splashing of fountains. One would think that urban man in a
rainstorm would have to take account of nature in its wetness and freshness,
its baptism and its renewal. But the rain brings no renewal to the city, only to
tomorrow’s weather, and the glint of windows in tall buildings will then have
nothing to do with the new sky. All “reality” will remain somewhere inside
those walls, counting itself and selling itself with fantastically complex
determination. Meanwhile the obsessed citizens plunge through the rain bearing
the load of their obsessions, slightly more vulnerable than before, but still
only barely aware of external realities. They do not see that the streets shine
beautifully, that they themselves are walking on stars and water, that they are
running in skies to catch a bus or a taxi, to shelter somewhere in the press of
irritated humans, the faces of advertisements and the dim, cretinous sound of
unidentified music. But they must know that there is wetness abroad. Perhaps
they even feel it. I cannot say. Their complaints are mechanical and without
spirit.
Naturally
no one can believe the things they say about the rain. It all implies one basic
lie: only the city is real. That weather, not being planned, not being
fabricated, is an impertinence, a wen on the visage of progress. (Just a simple
little operation, and the whole mess may become relatively tolerable. Let
business make the rain. This will give it meaning).
Thoreau
sat in his cabin and criticized the railways. I sit in mine and wonder about a
world that has, well, progressed. I must read Walden again, and see if Thoreau
already guessed that he was part of what he thought he could escape. But it is
not a matter of “escaping.” It is not even a matter of protesting very audibly.
Technology is here, even in the cabin. True, the utility line is not here yet,
and so G.E. is not here yet either. When the utilities and G.E. enter my cabin
arm in arm it will be nobody’s fault but my own. I admit it. I am not kidding
anybody, even myself. I will suffer their bluff and patronizing complacencies
in silence. I will let them think they know what I am doing here. They
are convinced that I am having fun.
This
has already been brought home to me with a wallop by my Coleman lantern.
Beautiful lamp: It burns gas and sings viciously but gives out a splendid green
light in which I read Philoxenos, a sixth-century Syrian hermit. Philoxenous
fits in with the rain and the festival of night. Of this, more later.
Meanwhile: what does my Coleman lantern tell me? (Coleman’s philosophy is
printed on the cardboard box which I have (guiltily) not shellacked as I was
supposed to, and which I have tossed in the woodshed behind the hickory
chunks.) Coleman says that the light is good, and has a reason: it “Stretches
days to give more hours of fun.”
Can’t
I just be in the woods without any special reason? Just being in the woods, at
night, in the cabin, is something too excellent to be justified or explained.
It just is. There are always a few people who are in the woods at night, in the
rain (because if there were not the world would have ended), and I am one of
them. We are not having fun, we are not “having” anything, we are not
“stretching our days,” and if we had fun it would not be measured by hours.
Though as a matter of fact that is what fun seems to be: a state of diffuse
excitation that can be measured by the clock and “stretched” but an appliance.
There
is no clock that can measure the speech of this rain that falls all night on
the drowned and lonely forest. Of
course at three-thirty A.M. the SAC plane goes over, red light winking low
under the clouds, skimming the wooded summits on the south side of the valley,
loaded with strong medicine. Very strong. Strong enough to burn up all these
woods and stretch our hours of fun into eternities.
And
that brings me to Philoxenos, a Syrian who had fun in the sixth century,
without benefit of appliances, still less of nuclear deterrents.
Philoxenos
in his ninth menra (on poverty) to dwellers in solitude, says that there is no
explanation and justification for the solitary life, since it is without a law.
To be a contemplative is therefore to be an outlaw. As was Christ. As was Paul.
One
who is not alone, says Philoxenos, has not discovered his identity. He seems to
be alone, perhaps, for he experiences himself as “individual.” But because he
is willingly enclosed and limited by the laws and illusions of collective
existence, he has no more identity than an unborn child in the womb. He is not
yet conscious. He is alien to his own truth. He has senses, but he cannot use
them. He has life, but no identity. To have an identity, he has to be awake.
But to be awake, he has to accept vulnerability and death. Not for their own
sake: not out of stoicism or despair – only for the sake of the invulnerable
inner reality which we cannot recognize (which we can only be) but to which we
awaken only when we see the unreality of our vulnerable shell. The discovery of
this inner self is an act and affirmation of solitude.
Now
if we take our vulnerable shell to be our true identity, if we think our mask
is our true face, we will protect it with fabrications even at the cost of
violating our own truth. This seems to be the collective endeavor of society:
the more busily men dedicate themselves to it, the more certainly it becomes a
collective illusion, until in the end we have the enormous, obsessive,
uncontrollable dynamic of fabrications designed to protect mere fictitious
identities – “selves,” that is to say, regarded as objects. Selves that can
stand back and themselves having fun (an illusion which reassures them that
they are real).
“In
all the cities of the world, it is the same,” says Ionesco (a playwright —
author of Rhinoceros). “The universal and modern man is the man in a rush (i.e.
rhinoceros), a man who has no time, who is a prisoner of necessity, who cannot
understand that a thing might perhaps be without usefulness; nor does he
understand that, at bottom, it is the useful that may be a useless and
back-breaking burden. If one does not understand the usefulness of the useless
and the uselessness of the useful, one cannot understand art. And a country
where art is not understood is a country of slaves and robots…” (Notes et
Contre Notes, p. 129) Rhinoceritis, he adds, is the sickness that lies in wait
“for those who have lost the sense and taste for solitude.”
.
. . There will always be a place, says Ionesco, “for those isolated consciences
who have stood up for the universal conscience” as against the mass mind. But
their place is solitude. They have no other. Hence it is the solitary person
(whether in the city or in the desert) who does mankind the inestimable favor
of reminding it of its true capacity for maturity, liberty and peace.
We
still carry this burden of illusion because we do not dare to lay it down. We
suffer all the needs that society demands we suffer, because if we do not have
these needs we lose our “usefulness” in society–-the usefulness of suckers. We
fear to be alone, and to be ourselves, and so to remind others of the truth
that is in them.
“I
will not make you such rich men as have need of many things,” said Philoxenos
(putting the words on the lips of Christ), “but I will make you true rich men
who have need of nothing. Since it is not he who has many possessions that is
rich, but he who has no needs.” Obviously, we shall always have some needs. But
only he who has the simplest and most natural needs can be considered to be
without needs, since the only needs he has are real ones, and the real ones are
not hard to fulfill if one is free!
The
rain has stopped. The afternoon sun slants through the pine trees: and how
those useless needles smell in the clean air!
A
dandelion, long out of season, has pushed itself into bloom between the smashed
leaves of last summer’s day lilies. The valley resounds with the totally
uninformative talk of creeks and wild water. Then
the quails begin their sweet whistling in the wet bushes. Their noise is
absolutely useless, and so is the delight I take in it. There is nothing I
would rather hear, not because it is a better noise than other noises, but
because it is the voice of the present moment, the present festival.
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