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% Being
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% Reuben Thomas   3-21/5/92; 17/7/95; 3/2/02; 12/10/17
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\title{Being}
\author{Reuben Thomas}
\date{3rd--21st May 1992\\revised 3rd February 2002, 12th October 2017}
\begin{document}
\maketitle

A child fell asleep and had a dream. A spirit appeared and said:

`Come with me, and I will show you the folly of philosophy.'

The child was puzzled, and asked: `What do you mean?'

`The wise have debated the same questions for thousands of years, but
they have found no answers,' replied the spirit. `Is this not
strange?'

The child was silent, so the spirit continued:

`What is being? You are immersed in it, but can you say what it is?
Come with me, and I will show you what being is.'

So the child arose, and went with the spirit, and they flew
into the air, and as they rose the earth shrank beneath them, until it
was no bigger than a melon, and the spirit said:

`What do you see?'

`The sun, brighter than I have ever seen it before,' answered the child.
`It's so beautiful, so round; it's amazing!'

`Now watch,' said the spirit, and as the child looked the sun dimmed
from white-gold to orange, and from orange to red, and as it dimmed it
grew, until they were enveloped in a dull glow.

`What's wrong?' the child asked, worried. Then, eyes widening in
horror, `The earth,' shouted the child, `it's burning up!'

`The sun cannot shine for ever,' the spirit said. `Even while it
shone, it was decaying, and now it shines no more. Nothing is
permanent.'

The sun dwindled again as the spirit spoke, turning a dull blackish
red. The child turned away from the terrible sight, but the spirit said:

`Wait a little longer.'

The sun disappeared as the last traces of red faded, and it was dark,
except for the stars. Then suddenly an explosion split the sky,
hurling light at the heavens. As the wave of brightness passed over
them, the spirit said:

`See: a new star is born.'

The child looked, then gasped: `The earth's alright again.'

`No,' answered the spirit. `The earth too has been reborn. Out of
corruption comes renewal. Come, let us return.'

They began to descend, and, as the earth grew larger, the child said:

`I'm glad the earth was born again. It looked so bare and ugly, like a
tree in winter.'

`Is a tree in winter ugly?' asked the spirit.

`Yes: it looks all shrivelled up without its leaves.'

Now they hovered over a forest. `Down there it is autumn,' said the
spirit. `One by one, the leaves are falling. Look at that oak; is it
ugly?'

`You can see it is. It looks all old and withered.'

Like a film being rewound, a few leaves gathered themselves back onto
the tree.

`If one more leaf fell, would the tree be ugly then?' asked the spirit.

The child hesitated. `I don't know'.

`Then how do you know what makes the tree ugly?'

`I suppose I don't.'

`You know what ugliness is, and yet you cannot say what makes a thing
ugly. But look again.'

The child looked, and the bare tree now stood on its own, in a blasted
wilderness of bare earth and rock, strewn with boulders.

`Now which is uglier, the tree or the land?'

`How do I know? They're completely different things.'

`You cannot say what ugliness is; you cannot even tell me if one thing
is uglier than another. What is the point of calling things ugly, or
beautiful, or good, or bad, when you cannot say what the words mean?'

`But I know what they mean. Anyway, what's the point of saying
anything, if I can't say things are good or bad?'

`Yes; what can you say without values? And yet they are so fragile.'

The sun grew hotter and brighter, and the landscape changed, the
angular rocks sinking into gentle undulations, altering from grey to
yellow. A vast desert stretched away before them. To the left, a small
oasis was just visible, with cacti dotted around it.

`Can we go to the oasis?' asked the child.

`Yes,' said the spirit, and they flew towards it. As they approached,
the child saw that a man and a woman were sitting in the shade of some
trees at the water's edge, talking to one another.

`It's so hot,' said the woman, who seemed ill at ease. `I wish there
were a breeze.'

`But the sun is happy today,' replied the man, `and does not sigh any
more for his love the moon, for she returned in splendour last night
from the shadow of the devourer.'

`There you go again, with your mystical nonsense,' said the woman
angrily. `I wish you'd see sense. Winds are just pressure differences,
not the sun sighing. Anyway, there was a gale blowing at the last new
moon. How do account for that?'

`The sun singing to his love at her return.'

The woman was furious. `Your explanations are far too malleable.
Whatever evidence I give you, you make up some stupid story to agree
with it. And you cannot tell me whether the wind will blow tomorrow,
let alone next month!'

`Who can tell what the sun will do tomorrow?' asked the man,
unperturbed.

`Why will you not admit that I might be right?' demanded the woman. `I
said last week that it would rain, and it did. I said there wouldn't
be a sandstorm today, and there hasn't been. You can't predict
anything.'

`But I am a good man. Evil spirits come to you and tell you these
secrets. I know that you are sent to try me with your art of divining
mysteries, which you call science. Well, I will not succumb to your
tricks. Leave me alone.'

`How can I discuss things with you if you won't even admit the
possibility that I might be right? You're unbearable!' the woman
exclaimed, standing up, and walked round to the other side of the tree
and sat down again.

Just then, another appeared from among the trees, and came and sat
down by the woman.

`Hello,' said the woman grumpily.

`What's the problem?' asked the other.

`I've just been talking with that stupid religious fanatic. He won't
even accept the possibility that I may be able to predict the weather
by scientific methods. He says an evil spirit tells me what the
weather will be. It's ridiculous!'

`Well, maybe he's right.'

`What do you mean? All that rubbish about the sun ``sighing for his
love''?'. The woman mimicked the soft, calm tones.

`I don't know…you've got to keep an open mind, haven't you? I
mean, don't you ever think it might be you that's wrong?'

`Don't be ridiculous.'

`But you might be. I mean, how do you know for certain that you're not
just the butt of some cosmic joker trying to convince you that science
works?'

`Well, really. Anyway, if you're so clever, then why do you think the
wind blows?'

`I don't know. Like I said, I keep an open mind.'

`But if you won't say anything, then you're just as bad as him. I'm
off.' With that, the woman rose again, and stormed off among the
trees.

`That woman wasn't very nice,' said the child. `She was cross with
everyone.'

`But she is right,' said the spirit. `Without admitting the
possibility of things, there can be no discussion; yet if you believe
nothing, then too discussion is impossible.'

`But she wouldn't admit that she might be wrong either.'

`Yes; she was as inflexible as the first. You must be flexible,
ready to discuss your own position as well as that of others.'

The spirit fell silent and looked into the distance, an endless
progression of dunes rolling gently to the horizon.

`What are you thinking about?' asked the child.

`Do you believe in God?' the spirit responded.

`I'm not sure. I mean, I don't believe all those silly arguments that
say God must exist because otherwise how did the universe start, or
how did the eye happen, but\lips'

`What?'

`Well, if there's no God, then what's the point of everything? And
what's going to happen when I die? It's scary, thinking the universe
is just there, and that when I die, that's it.'

`I think you mistake yourself,' said the spirit, and immediately the
child was alone in a limitless black void, dotted with points of light.
The child blinked, startled by the sudden change, and vision returned
with wonderful clarity; the dots which had seemed stars were in fact
galaxies, each containing billions of suns which individually traced
their paths across the child's awareness as they revolved slowly in
their endless dance. The child gazed, terrified, at the awful vision.

`Behold the measure of your conceit!' boomed the spirit. The voice
seemed to come from everywhere at once, and yet speak inside the child's
head. `Would you compare yourself with the whole universe? Because you
feel unhappy without, must the universe have a God? Look at yourself!
Can you command the universe?'

`But…if all this is for nothing, then it's a shame!' cried the
child.

`Does the universe care what you think? Does it know what you mean by
``shame''? You assume too much. There may be races on other planets
which do not even have the idea of ``a shame''. The universe exists,
and that is all. To impose your notions of purpose and tragedy on it
is sheer arrogance.'

The child trembled, and said nothing.

The spirit's voice softened. `Besides, how can you say that the
universe would be a sad place without a purpose? Have you seen its
wonders?'

The galaxies vanished, and the child was washed by a sea of mysteries:
towering mountains, whirling particles, searing thoughts, slow, haunting
music, exuberant birds, gently wafting smells, sparkling clouds; wave
after wave crashed around, leaving an overwhelming feeling of
inexpressible joy. At last it was dark again, and the spirit was there
once more.

`Thank you,' whispered the child, and wept.

`It is well that you weep,' said the spirit. `Few people see what you
have seen. Such beauty does not need a purpose.'

The child looked up, and saw that they were back outside the bedroom
window.

`Is that the end?' asked the child.

`Yes; for you must understand that reason alone cannot teach you
anything: however much better you are for reasoning, you must always
discover the truth for yourself. Only then will you appreciate it.'

`But you've taught me so much.'

`If I have taught you anything, I hope it is that being is
inextricably bound in paradox. To live we must accept death; to prove
our beliefs we must suspend them; to judge we must accept that we
cannot. Never become cold and rigid: that is worse than death. Keep a
warm and open heart; remember that there are no complete and final
answers, only temporary and partial ones. The final lesson is this:
philosophy by itself is useless; you must live. Go now, and learn what
I have taught you.'

`Wait,' said the child, `there's something you haven't told me. Who are
you?'

`Surely you know now,' said the spirit, and at that the child awoke,
lips still moving.


\section*{Acknowledgements}

Thanks to everyone who read and commented on the essay: Honza
Lochmann, Paul Phillips, Christopher Insole, Mark Cheng, and, as
always, Jeremy Douglas. Lina Christopoulou and Eugenia Cheng made
comments which led to the revision. I do not know whom to acknowledge
for their influence on the writing and ideas; they are many, and I
thank them all.

This essay was entered in its original form for the 1992 Warden and
Fellows' Prize for English Essay at Winchester College.
\end{document}
