Philosophy

The Book

Thomas was having problems with his wife. She had been blunt with him
on the few occasions that they had spoken recently and had pointedly
refused to give him any feedback on the first draft of the book. True,
this type of behaviour was not a completely novel feature of their
marriage, considering that their level of communication had
deteriorated over recent years. The more Thomas had become a minor
celebrity in philosophical and academic circles the less time he had
had to devote to his marriage. Her reaction to this state of affairs
had disappointed him greatly. A man must dedicate himself to many
things in his life, he believed, but of all these passions it is the
things he creates which must take precedence. If man ceases to create,
he ceases to be a man, that was his opinion, but it most certainly
wasn't hers.
Being twelve years her senior, it had been his mind that had been the
point of attraction for her. Consequently it seemed a little unfair to
Thomas for her to complain when the general public began to take an
interest in the same thing. But despite all the tension and upset Mary
had exhibited, nothing could compare with her behaviour of the past
weeks. Shouting and screaming at him when he attempted to talk with
her, letting the housework go to the dogs, even refusing to sleep in
the same bed as him.
He put these thoughts out of his mind and tried to settle in his seat.
The morning so far had been pleasant enough. He'd introduced himself
and the faculty to three hundred new undergraduates in the Gotha
lecture hall. As always it was a question of striking the balance
between formality and dry humour. It was crucial to give them a sense
of gravitace, just to let them know that they were entering an
institution which expected certain standards. On the other hand it was
a chance to show off in front of an expectant audience. They would have
expectations of course, formed from the news, the radio or the papers,
but he reveled in confounding them with a few wry witticisms.
The imposing surroundings and first day nerves ensured a receptive
audience and Tom exploited it subtly. As soon as he had stood the whole
lecture theatre fell silent. The department sat obediently behind and
the students cascaded upwards in front.
"Right, my name's Professor Thomas Barry, and I . . . am your
executioner. (ripple of laughter) No but seriously, I'm your course
convener for the next three years and can I just start by welcoming you
to Kings. This is a place where your every intellectual faculty will be
tested and your every academic need will be catered for. In return for
the stimulus and attention that we provide for you, all we ask in
return is that you think. Think !. . ." He thrust his huge index finger
into the air.
"As young intelligent people you have the world at you feet and time on
your side. If you take use that time to think about the whys and
wherefores of human existence you will do nothing but prosper at this
institution. I'm sure the attractions of love, life and laughter to be
found in the students union will take up some of your time over the
coming weeks (ripple of laughter) ahem . . . but I also hope that the
undeniable delights of Descartes malicious demon thesis or Hegel's
philosophy of Right will catch you attention and curiosity.
Its a funny old time for you I'm sure. This whole place, it must seem a
blur of new faces and old buildings, but I can assure you that things
will settle down and you will find
yourself again. Seeing you all here reminds me of my early days at this
college. Yes believe it or not we were all undergraduates once! We
haven't always been cynical old dons! (Slight murmur) Of course the
hair was a little longer back then and the trousers a little more
flared, but the spirit was just the same. Now, if I could grasp just
one piece of advice from my fading memory of those days then it would
have to concern your time. You will be learning the basic
pre-suppositions and cognitive fundamentals of a concept like "time" in
you introductory courses, but my advice is not of a bookish nature. All
I would say is that in between the loud music, the late nights and the
romances give yourself a moment to reflect. Take a walk around the
grounds of the college, past the lakes or through the woods on the East
side of the grounds. Allow your mind to breath the air of
contemplation. A few moments alone to re-group your thoughts and focus
the motivation, that I am sure all of you possess, will be
priceless.
Now I'm sure you have more important things to do than listen to a
dusty old professor rattle on about the student lifestyle . . . So if I
could now introduce my learned colleagues. These people will be your
philosophical guides over the next few years. They posses some of the
finest inquisitive minds in the world and I hope you take full
advantage of your exposure to these brilliant people. If you have any
problems then their doors are always open, except of course . . . when
their doors are closed. (ripple of laughter.) OK. This is Professor . .
." and so on.
Lesser men would undoubtedly have failed to strike the right balance
between seriousness and humour, reputation and self-deprecation. But
such things were not a problem for Thomas, they never had been
He thought about this, whilst sitting in the waiting area of a London
high-rise, his calm self-satisfaction unable to prevent beads of sweat
appearing on his forehead. He felt the heat of the plush office complex
wash over him. There was never any escape was there? It was either a
mid-winter chill or businesslike suffocation. Thomas took a monogrammed
handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his face.
He was a big man, almost a giant. His thick limbs and protruding jaw
gave no hint of a distinctly non-physical profession. For a man
approaching his 52nd birthday he was in pretty good shape, probably the
result of a long standing squash rivalry with a head of department from
All Souls. Yes, his belly hung a little over his belt and yes, he had
developed a loose skin around the gills but these were the traits of a
big guy who was getting on a bit, a powerhouse that was past his peak.
He only had to look at his colleagues at Kings to re-assure himself.
Surely it was better to carry an imposing bulk than to suffer their
almost apologetic, waif-like frames. His hair was greying the way
people of his age were supposed to grey. It was swept back and then
flopped to the left, a style he had sported since his school
days.
He was waiting to see his publisher and it was unlike David to be late
for a meeting, especially this meeting. His formerly contented mood
began to alter, a transformation accelerated by the stifling heat of
the building. He dabbed his face again.
David was probably just going through his publishers patter, trying to
steady himself. Thomas knew that most publishers had found him
difficult to deal with and he made no apologies for it. Nevertheless,
he liked David, he really did. He was a young man who knew when to say
the right things, a quality to be respected.
"Professor Barry." The receptionist called over to him. "I'm afraid Mr.
Greenleaf hasn't arrived at the building so far today." She
continued.
Thomas rose from his seat and approached the desk.
"I'm sure there must be some mistake, he's probably just sat on the bog
somewhere."
"There no mistake Professor, I've just spoken to his PA. She's been
trying to contact him all morning. She said it was most unlike him to
miss an appointment and asked me to apologise on her behalf. She also
said that she had your home and office number and that she would
contact you as soon as she knew Mr. Greenleaf's whereabouts."
He frowned. "This is extremely irritating. I'd cleared an entire day in
my diary for this meeting."
The receptionist just looked at him blankly and Thomas turned up the
volume on his frown. There was nothing more to be said. He picked up
his jacket and exited the building in a fowl mood.

Thomas squashed his back deep into a ragged armchair. Three walls of
his study were covered with books, a lifetime of enquiry squashed into
one small room. Despite being on his own he made an elaborate display
of lighting his pipe and sucking it in. He knew it was a clich? for an
old don to smoke one of those things, but there's nothing wrong with
staying true to character every now and then.
Now he was able to relax a little, he wasn't that irritated by David's
absence. He now had the entire day to lounge around the house without
Mary getting under his feet. These days he felt more like a businessman
than a philosopher, moving frantically from one place to the next
without a moment to consider things. What free time he did have, was
penciled into his diary as if he had to schedule a meeting with
himself. No, he would gladly take a few hours of solitude and his
clich?d pipe.
He thought about his book.
Strangely it hadn't really crossed his mind over the past few days as
he waited for David to finish reading the first draft. It had been an
odd piece of work from the very start, the process of construction
unique when compared to anything else he had done. The first four
chapters had been written ten years ago, before he had even got the
vice-chancellorship, before his career had really taken off. He had put
the work to one side, not because he had lost interest in it, but
because he simply had no time for such a project when other, more
commercially viable work, was being demanded by his publishers. He had
always thought of this one as purely his own baby, his magnum opus,
which would wipe the conceited smiles off the faces of those who
doubted the seriousness of his work.
It was radically different to Philosophy: An introduction, the book
that had netted him a small fortune and made him a household name
amongst the broadsheet middle-classes.
His motivation this time was obviously different. The opportunity to
return to a pet project after all those years arose when Thomas had
altered his publisher. Those original four chapters had held up well
with the passing of time (sound enquiry is always timeless) and there'd
been no need to make any fundamental changes.
Reading those four chapters stimulated his thinking enormously, it was
as if he was reading a passionate letter from his younger self,
imploring him to dig deeper into some of the great questions.
There was a childhood memory which, as he returned to his book,
continuously leaped into his mind. He was laying on his bed in the
middle of the day looking up at the ceiling. Even at that age, (he
couldn't have been more than seven or eight) he had felt a curiosity
about the existence of things. The adult world that surrounded him had
always seemed a little unreal, like an elaborate hoax which he would
eventually uncover. Lying there that day, with the sun streaming
through his window, Thomas had tried to force his mind to retreat from
all that was external to him, in an attempt to see if there was
anything different with which he might be able to compare the world,
something more real.
He had imagined falling inwards and disappearing into himself. There
was a sensation of weightlessness in his body yet at the same time
something heavy was bearing down on him. Nothing physical or tangible
revealed itself to his minds eye, but instead there was an awareness
that he was close to something immense and all encompassing.
Of course there is something distinctive about how each of us views the
world, something unique to every insight, and yet Thomas had always
guessed that there was some uniting force behind all human
consciousness. It was this suspicion, this inclination towards an
answer, not just to single questions, but to all questions which had
fascinated him as man and boy. That closeness, that potentially
intimate relationship with knowledge had stayed with him and,
consciously or unconsciously, had guided into his profession.
He had been lucky, he knew that. Had he continued with the book further
than the four chapters he would have burnt himself out and ruined
it.
As it was though, an older, wiser man was able to meet the challenge
thrown down by that initial burst of energy. By facing his own thoughts
with objectivity Thomas was able to identify an inner logic to his
thinking. There was no doubt about it, he had begun to construct a
philosophical system of his own and for the first time in his
professional life he began to feel that closeness again, that affinity
with some all-embracing perception.
Twelve months had elapsed since his return to the book, and thinking
about the process of construction gave him great pleasure. He puffed
out a congratulatory lung full of smoke and watched it twist in on
itself before disappearing. He smiled. Descartes, Spinoza, Locke and
Hume had never got this close. The phone rang and he reluctantly rose
to answer it. Luckily it was a brief conversation.
"Thomas Barry."
"Hello Professor, Sally Fisher here, David Greenleaf's
assistant."
"Ah, Yes"
"Has David been in contact at all?"
"No, No. I thought you were supposed to be telling me where he
is."
"I'd like to Professor but, you see, we're having a lot of difficulty
finding him. His Wife tells us he left for work as usual this morning.
We're getting a little worried"
"Have you looked in his office, he may have left a note or
something."
"Well I'd have expected him to have informed me directly, but yes we
did have a look around and there was nothing."
"What made you think he would have contacted me?"
"He's been pouring over your manuscript for the past week, he really
has been concentrating on you and so I thought maybe he might have paid
you a visit at home."
"I'm afraid not."
"Oh dear. Thanks for your help anyway. Rest assured we'll let you know
when we find out what the devil he's up to. Bye for now"
"Yes, Goodbye."
Click.
As he stood over his desk Thomas absent mindedly reached over to the
computer. The screen-saver depicting constantly con-joining and
separating spheres mesmerized his eyes for a few seconds. Mary must
have been messing with the computer again, doing her "online French
lessons". Her laughable attempts at self-improvement were a source of
constant amusement to him. He minimized her work and opened his own
files. He decided to browse through some of the more significant areas
of the book, more out of self-indulgence than with any real intention
of making alterations. He sat down at the desk and opened his master
copy on the word-processor. The language in the first chapter gave
little notice to academic reticence. He had given himself full license
to describe the ambitious aims of the book, resisting the temptation to
package his formative questions in philosophese. There was no point in
holding back with a project like this, to have produced a plodding,
incremental argument would have pleased only the "dusty dons" whom
Thomas had left behind so many years ago. If you are attempting to make
a bold statement about the human condition then you must be prepared to
use bold language.
The initial flamboyance then, inevitably, gave way to a more sober
consideration of the philosophical landscape. He had always suspected
that the route back to "truth" was somewhere in the unresolved debates
of the 18th century. Thomas considered Hegel and Marx to have been
unforgivably rude for interrupting an intellectual battle between
empirical and foundational theorists which may have eventually produced
a decisive victor. By the fourth chapter he had achieved a head of
steam, but perhaps appeared to be closing off some alternative
avenues.
The ten year gap in the writing at this point would not be discernable
to the reader and yet to Thomas it was a juncture of immeasurable
importance. Suddenly he became his own devils advocate, pounding his
own theory with searing criticism. The dangers of a cellebral cul de
sac were averted and yet again he was able to move ahead, becoming
closer to something beautifully intangible with every chapter.
Thomas sat and read every single word of his final section,
experiencing a sense of wonder at his own creation. If before he had
only had some sense that this book was extremely "important", then on
this fresh appraisal he was beginning to realise that perhaps the book
represented something more than that. As his eyes passed over the
screen a light shudder moved down his spine and into the base of his
back. The familiarity of this experience only increased as he read.
Yes, the words which he had written continued to be comprehended by his
mind, but at the same time a darkness surrounded his eyes. He felt
himself to be at the centre of some duality. He experienced his mind
moving in on itself, and for a moment he felt himself not just to be
like that boy staring at the ceiling all those years ago, but that he
was him and that all this was part of his vision. The moment
sustained.
There was more than just a closeness involved with his relationship to
the truth on this occasion. This was a more intense experience and
Thomas felt it throughout his whole being. As he read the final
sentences of the book the boy who had once glimpsed that fundamental
claim was now able to feast his eyes on it. 12 point Times New Roman
text representing the key to human existence.

Breathless. Time needed to recover.
Thomas could only sit back in his chair. Time passed but he was barely
aware of it. He slowly came back to his physical self with the sense of
hunger which began to nag his belly. Still dazed he walked down into
the converted cellar which had become a spacious kitchen. A sparsely
stocked fridge offered only ham and slightly moulded cheese as a
realistic sandwich combination. He would eat properly when Mary
returned. Thomas sat at the long oak table, chomping down the food and
attempted to think about his work again.
Who else had read the book?
There were only three people. Himself, his wife and his publisher. The
fact that he had created something powerful was undeniable, and yet,
Thomas needed an external reaction now. The pleasurable activity of
self-criticism needed to be confirmed by something more concrete. He
craved recognition like the alcoholic craves his whisky.
Glancing up at the clock he was re-assured to see that his wife was due
home any moment. He switched on the portable television with the remote
and began to enjoy a talk show. His pleasure came less from the quality
of the show itself - that being a debate over a man who had
simultaneously kept six mistresses - but more from the contrast that it
provided.
Like piglets wallowing around in their own muck, the participants had
no interest or insight outside of their own lives. Thomas couldn't help
but think that all this was about to change. Once the word was out,
once the layman's version had been communicated, who would watch or
even make trash like "Talk with Tina". The notion that people would do
such a thing once they had been presented with his ideas was absurd He
smiled.
Several other shows, all in the same vein, proceeded to parade across
the television and Thomas lapped it up. So much so that he scarcely
noticed the passage of time. Whilst watching Denise from Hull inform
her husband that she had been having an affair with his best friend,
Thomas failed to noticed that his wife had not returned home on time.
As Terry from Fulham was challenging his girlfriend to lose weight or
lose him, Thomas eventually glanced up at the clock, but didn't really
register. It took Allan from Derby's physical attack on his cheating
partner to finally knock Thomas out of his day-dream.
Two hours late. Yes, two hours and seven minutes. Nothing completely
unusual about that, she might have gone for a drink with a friend, she
did that sometimes. It set him thinking, nevertheless. It was in his
nature to worry for no apparent reason. A memory began to form, but
each time he began to make out what it was, it disintegrated.
He tried hard to hold it . . . something about Plato . . . yes that was
it, something he'd read in Plato was coming back to him. Epistophenes,
Plato's famous description of Socrates and the young upstart. Why had
this little tale sprung itself upon him many years since he had last
considered it? He turned off the T.V as the narrative began to knock
around his sizeable cranium.

Epistophenes had sat with many other young Athenian men listening to
Socrates' great dialogues. The constant question and answer, unceasing
appraisal of assumed ideas. He had attempted to grasp the central
themes of Socrates' teaching but had always failed to absorb it. The
young man slowly became frustrated and confused. He was unable to
engage with Socrates as the others did, always stumbling over ideas
which challenged his basic view of the world.
As a proud Athenian he could not ignore the challenge which Socrates'
thinking had laid before him and so he resolved to confront the great
man and demonstrate to him the correctness of his own position.
Epistophenes went to the square in Athens where Socrates spoke. He
found him talking with some interested Athenian as always, but
Epistophenes interrupted. He proceeded to verbally attack Socrates in a
most personal way. This was scandalous behaviour towards the most
respected member of the demos. Epistophenes forgot himself entirely in
his excitement and began to rant and rave at the old man.
For his part Socrates just stood and listened, waiting for his
assailant to run out of stream. A small crowd had gathered to watch the
shocking scene unfold When eventually he stopped talking Epistophenes
was breathless. A few moments passed in silence as the people waited
for Socrates' reaction. Then, he put his hand on Epistophenes shoulder
and leaning over towards him, began to whisper in his ear. He spoke for
no more than a couple of sentences before pulling back and removing his
hand from the young man's shoulder. Epistophenes exhibited only a blank
expression. In Plato's word's, it was as if Socrates had "stolen his
soul". As he walked away the disapproving and perplexed crowd parted to
let him by. The news of his suicide came only the following evening. He
had stabbed himself through the heart.

Think about her sitting down to read the book. Imagine her with a hot
drink beside her reading every single word of Thomas' creation and
attempting to assimilate it into her na?ve view of the world. Mary was
not a particulary scholarly woman, she read, but not in any serious or
enquiring capacity. Her diet of thrillers and "lifestyle" novels made
no attempt to expand the horizons of her understanding. Sure, she had
read over Thomas' stuff before, but her reaction was usually of the
superficial kind.
But Thomas knew this new work would have a deep effect on anybody who
read it. He knew that even the untrained mind would be unable to avoid
the implications he had spelt out. With each chapter she must have
become increasingly upset. Her behaviour over the time she had been
reading it was testament to this. Thomas was aware his style of writing
was direct and to the point, a factor which could only increase the
dramatic effect that his treatise would have on the reader.
Was it impossible? Was it beyond the realms of reality that he had
produced words of such searing and original insight that his wife had
become unbalanced by them? That she had lost her will to continue in
the face of this barrage.
To the unsuspecting reader the whole thing would be a disturbing
revelation. Not necessarily something to be celebrated and analyzed (as
he had done) but something dark and unsettling. Like a tidal wave
Thomas' saw his book as both beautiful in its power but also terrifying
in its destructive force. The more his mind ticked over with the
possibilities the more certain Thomas became that his wife had not gone
for a drink, or to the shops or anywhere else, but that some terrible
harm had come to her
She had left the house without saying goodbye that morning.
. He rushed upstairs to his study and moved the roller-deck around to
find Mary's work number. He punched it into the telephone.
"Bramley Surgery, how can I help"
"Hello, its Thomas Barry here, Mary's husband. Is she there at
all?"
"Well, I'm afraid Mary didn't turn up for work today Thomas."
He hung up. 'Oh my god' he thought, 'What have I done?' He had seen
Mary leave for work this morning, had watched her drive away.
This was nothing conclusive, right? She hadn't turned up for work, this
was surprising but it hardly confirmed she had done herself some
mischief. All he could do was wait, he knew that imeadiaetly and so he
walked over to his chair in the corner of his study. He sat their
anxiously trying to find some comfort in the situation, yearning for an
explanation of her absence. Emotional exhaustion washed over his body,
his head drooped to one side as sleep penetrated him.

Waking, looking at watch and seeing it was eleven at night, he went to
the roller-deck and sought out his publishers home phone number.
A woman answered
"Hello could I speak to David please."
There was no response for at least ten seconds.
"Hello" Thomas said again.
A woman began to cry, softly, despairingly before hanging up.
Of course there is no experience or advice that can ever prepare a
person for a situation like this. Thomas stumbled over to his chair and
slumped into it, covering his face with his hands. He tried to clear
his mind so that he could review events properly. It must have been
David's wife right, he had to assume that. There was no point in
phoning back.
This was the situation as he saw it. His book was a masterpiece. Even
in the light of his sober appraisal, his book might have the potential
to induce suicidal depair in minds unable to absorb it. The only two
people to have read it had now gone missing.
Was it now selfishness or vanity which prompted the huge grin to spread
across his face? We sometimes forget how it feels to be potent and
alive, to effect the world in a way that cannot be erased. All material
things wither and crumble with the passage of time, but ideas are
eternal. David and Mary's apparent reaction to reading Thomas' thoughts
had confirmed his suspicion. For the rest of time his ideas would
endure through their power and his name would be whispered down the
ages.
Like a footballer celebrating a goal he gave the air a little punch
accompanied by a boyish exclamation. "Yes".
If forced to guess Thomas thought he would either shortly receive a
visit from the police informing him of his wife's suicide or that he
would just never see her again. As things turned out it was the
latter.
In this moment of celebration there was an irresistable temptation to
return to his book, to feast his eyes on it again. The screen-saver's
spheres moved slowly against the black background. As he touched the
mouse they dissapeared to reveal the desk-top arrangement. He noticed
his wife's minimised file at the base of the screen, especially the
truncated file name. It began "You fucking b . . ." This was not the
usual title for one of her on-line French lessons. Thomas opened it up
and began to read the very short note that she had left for him.

Thomas,

Any affection and admiration I once had for you has been destroyed by
your selfishness and idiocy. I no longer care about your affairs or
your god-forsaken work. I'm sure you know this already. I have grown to
despise your very presence and have for some years now been searching
for a route out of this loveless marriage. I suppose I owe you some
gratitude for being the person that brought me and David together. I
have fallen in love with him and we have decided to make a new life
together. Don't try and track us down, I have no desire to ever see or
speak to you ever again. In these situations it is customary to say
that my lawyers will be in touch, well, they will.

Mary

PS David says you latest attempt at "philosophy" is an embarresment to
even your lowly reputation.