Mythos & Kallos · Part 12 · Tyrant ε

By this time B was pleasantly tipsy, the whole body suffused with a warmth blessed by wine, a joyous mood fermenting steadily within the breast.

Watching the shifting light and shadow cast by the flickering of the small fire nearby, B felt an impulse to sway along with them.

B glanced at A, and found that A appeared far more sober than expected — A had drunk no small amount of wine, yet seemed wholly unchanged.

B: My friend, are you in truth somewhat drunk as well, merely feigning sobriety? Or have you been drinking nothing but fruit juice all along, deceiving me that there was alcohol within?

A: My friend, how could I ever deceive you?

B: Is that so? Is it not perfectly ordinary for people to deceive one another back and forth? We have known each other only a short while — how am I to trust you? Moreover, I sense there is something faintly poisonous about you; I have the feeling of being secretly murdered by you.

A: My friend, whence comes such a thought? By the Gods above — I swear in the name of the Gods, I harbor not the slightest intention of doing you harm.

Seeing A's reaction, B found it rather amusing.

B: Haha — whether I can trust you, I know not; but I now truly know that you believe the Gods exist. Then let me ask you a question: do you think there is a God of Wine in this world?

A: Oh, my friend, I believe the God of Wine does exist.

B: Then let me ask you further: if there is a God of Wine in this world, what would the God of Wine think of the prohibition of wine? Would the God of Wine grow wrathful at it and send down Divine Punishment?

A: Why would people prohibit wine?

B: I do not know either — but were there not certain periods in history when wine was prohibited? In the history of my own people there was likewise an era when heavy restrictions were laid upon the drinking of alcohol; and I know of cultures that banned wine entirely. Wine leads people into indulgence, draws them away from the norms of daily conduct, lets them flee from reality, drives them into drunkenness — these are the reasons people prohibit wine.

A: Why is it that wine can let people flee from reality? Why do people fall into habitual drunkenness?

B: You do love asking such things — though I confess I do not dislike answering this one. You know how it is: the real world is cruel; daily life brims with pain, disappointment, and discord. A person always needs a little anesthesia, so that life may go on. There are those in this world whose lives are too painful, and so they choose to pass their days in drink.

A: Then in this world, is there anyone who has no need of wine (οἶνος = wine) to anesthetize themselves?

B: Honestly, I do not believe there is anyone in this world who needs no anesthesia. Wait — haha, there truly is one — does not the tyrant have no need to anesthetize themselves?

A: My friend, why do you say the Tyrant (τύραννος = Tyrant) has no need of anesthesia?

B: Is it not perfectly obvious? People suffer because of lack — but what does the tyrant lack? The tyrant possesses the entire state! Whatever a tyrant desires, the tyrant obtains; the life and death of others hang upon a single thought of the tyrant. Possessing the whole world already — why linger entangled in dreams?

B looked at A, who gave no response.

B: What are you pondering now?

A: I am thinking about the tyrant — yet I cannot think it through.

B: What is it now that you cannot fathom?

A: My friend, I recall that history has also known tyrants (τύραννος = Tyrant) who drowned themselves in drink.

B: And so?

A: You say people drink themselves into stupor because they yearn to escape the world; and you also say the tyrant possesses everything — then why would certain tyrants (τύραννος = Tyrant) fall into habitual drunkenness?

B: Has anyone ever told you that you can be truly vexing at times? I merely spoke a few careless words, and here you are taking them into earnest contemplation. Can you not simply drink your wine in peace?

A: My apologies, my friend.

Again B saw that A showed no further reaction.

B: Do not tell me you are still pondering why a tyrant would drink himself into oblivion?

A: My friend, this question haunts my mind and will not depart.

B: Can you not simply think that some tyrants purely love their wine? Some tyrants love beautiful bodies; some tyrants love fine wine; some tyrants love a fine reputation. The tyrant too is human, and the tyrant too has strange and peculiar appetites. Once a person possesses the world, is it not perfectly natural to indulge without restraint in whatever one loves? The tyrant does whatever the tyrant wishes, my foolish friend.

A: Oh, my friend — then do you believe the Tyrant (τύραννος = Tyrant) yearns to escape this World (Κόσμος = Kosmos = World, Order, Ornament)?

B: How could that be? To the tyrant, this world is infinitely beautiful — why would the tyrant flee from this world? The tyrant merely turns the lives of others into hell, while the tyrant himself dwells at every moment in heaven. The tyrant is, of all people, the one least willing to depart from the world — has history not known plenty of tyrants who longed for immortality? Since the tyrant longs to live undying, how could the tyrant yearn to escape the heaven of his own creation? Oh — here let me praise the God of Death (Θάνατος = Death); I cannot imagine a world with only tyrants and no God of Death. Cheers!

A: Why is it so? Why is the World (Κόσμος = Kosmos = World, Order) a heaven to the Tyrant (τύραννος = Tyrant)?

B: You truly are drunk.

A: I am not drunk, my friend.

B: You are drunk — only a drunkard would ask me such questions like a schoolchild.

A: My friend, I am genuinely contemplating this question.

B: No — I refuse to let you question me; now it is my turn to question you! Why would you think the world is not heaven to the tyrant? The tyrant already possesses everything — and to possess everything is to have founded one's own Kingdom of Heaven upon the earth. To the tyrant, the world is heaven in the most concrete and substantial sense!

A: Then within this Kingdom of Heaven of his own founding — is the tyrant happy (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit)?

B: Though I am no tyrant, let me imagine it — placing myself in the tyrant's position, I too know it would be quite marvelous: I could enjoy whatever I wished to enjoy.

A: My friend, in your imagination (φαντασία = phantasia = Imagination), is this pleasure-seeking of the tyrant — enjoying whatever one wishes to enjoy (ἡδονισμός = hedonism) — the same as happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit)?

B: Pleasure (ἡδονισμός = hedonism) and happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit) — if not synonyms, they are surely words of close kinship. Are you intending to conduct etymological scholarship with me in a tavern? Or is it that in your mother tongue these are two words of different meaning? Then tell me — what does happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit) mean within your conception?

A: Oh, my friend — within my conception, happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit) is in truth a name (ὄνομα = name).

B: A name? Happiness is a name? What name?

A: Happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit) is a name whose own name has been forgotten.

B: And what is this now? A name whose name has been forgotten? Is this yet another riddle that X hurled at you?

A: My friend, this saying descends from a mythic legend of my tribe.

B: Very well — I know you wish to tell a story; go on then, tell it.

And so A began to recount this mythic legend concerning happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit).

Long, long ago, a certain person died; yet this person did not journey to the blessed fields of Heaven (Ἠλύσιον = Elysium), but wandered between Heaven and the mortal world, becoming a lost Soul (ψυχή = psyche, soul).

The pitiable Soul (ψυχή = psyche, soul) forgot whence it had come, forgot whither it was bound, forgot where it belonged; it forgot its own true name (ὄνομα = name), and forgot who it truly was.

One day, this lost Soul (ψυχή = psyche, soul) encountered an equally lost Angel (ἄγγελος = angel, messenger).

The lost Soul sought guidance from the lost Angel, hoping that this Messenger from Heaven might guide it back to its homeland.

Angel: O pitiable Soul — as you can see, I too am lost upon the way. You ask me where your homeland lies; you ask me what your true name is; you ask me who you really are — to none of these questions do I know the answer. Yet as a being come from Heaven, I possess the power to lead you to the blessed fields of Elysium (Ἠλύσιον). Will you journey with me to that place the Gods have prepared for good spirits?

Soul: Holy Messenger, I do not wish to go to Heaven; I wish only to return to my homeland — I wish only to remember my original name.

The Angel began to laugh.

Angel: You have forgotten everything; you do not even know who you are — how then can you be certain that in life you lived in wealth, in health, in joy? Perhaps you died amid the chaos of war; perhaps you died of poverty and sickness entwined; perhaps your limbs were broken and maimed; perhaps you were but one unremarkable figure amid the boundless multitude. Why then insist upon returning? You may well have been a person who possessed nothing at all.

The Soul sank into bewilderment.

Soul: I have forgotten everything. I know not how I lived, nor how I died — I remember only that someone wept for me. I must answer those tears; this is my Fate.

Angel: Your Fate is already accomplished. You do not even know whether your Fate was one of suffering or of joy — are you gambling?

Soul: Holy Messenger, I am not gambling. I know only this: whatever my Fate may have been, my Fate (Μοῖραι = Fates) carries meaning. I accept whatever Fate (Μοῖραι = Fates) I can no longer remember; I accept the trajectory by which I have arrived at this very step — this is the only thing I am still able to remember.

Angel: Did your priests never tell you what Heaven is like? Heaven is beautiful — the Beauty of Heaven (Κάλλος = Kallos = Beauty) is waiting for you even now.

The Soul stood bewildered.

Soul: I do not wish to go to Heaven. There, no one waits for me, no one expects me, no one longs for me. In Heaven I hold no meaning; I do not belong to Heaven. I wish only to go home; I must remember my original name — and my name bears meaning only in my homeland. The beauty of my homeland is waiting for me.

The Angel broke into a smile of surprise.

Angel: So you are that Happiness (εὐδαιμονία = eudaimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit, Good Daemon) — that fortunate fellow who forgot its own name.

The Soul, uncomprehending, asked the Angel why it should be called fortunate.

Angel: This is a benevolent prank of the Gods. Whoever receives the benevolent pranks of the Gods is a fortunate fellow. You fortunate ones bear a name in the private conversations we Angels hold among ourselves — and that name is the "Blessed Good Spirit" (εὐδαιμονία = εὐ + δαίμων = eu + daimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit).

Soul: But I remember — my name is not Happiness (εὐδαιμονία = εὐ + δαίμων = eu + daimonia = Good Life, Good Spirit)?

Angel: Fortunate Soul — since I have helped you, it now falls to you to help me.

Soul: Holy Messenger, how could I possibly help you?

Angel: While I was in Heaven, I heard a soul calling out unceasingly — yet no matter how I searched, I could not find the source of that calling.

Soul: Holy Messenger, I fear I can be of no help in this matter.

Angel: You most certainly can help me — for you have come from the mortal world, and that soul crying out from the mortal world bears a name; if only you have heard this name, you will be able to help me.

Soul: What name is it?

Angel: That soul which calls out unceasingly — people, in their private conversations with one another, call it the "Tyrant" (τύραννος = tyrant).

Mythos & Kallos · Part 13 · Kosmos α

Having heard A's exposition of "happiness (εὐδαιμονία)," B asked with a lingering trace of drunkenness.

B: Is this, then, your tribe's definition of happiness (εὐδαιμονία)? Before defining a word, must you always first recount a story? Or is this manner of explicating words merely your personal habit? Something born of your own character?

A: Oh, my friend, the two are not in conflict. This is an unwritten custom (νόμος = nomos = custom) I have inherited from my tribe; it is the ethos (ἦθος = ethos = custom) of my tribe, and likewise a habit (ἦθος = ethos = habit) to which I personally hold fast. Or one might also say: this is our cultural tradition.

B: This is a tradition of your culture?

A: Yes, my friend. Our culture holds that every word possesses its own life, and every life possesses its own story. When we interpret a word through a story, we are introducing the life of that word to other lives. This is a praise offered to the life (βίος = bios = life) of words; it is likewise a touching of their breath (πνεῦμα = pneuma = breath, spirit), a feeling of their rhythm (ῥυθμός = rhythmos = rhythm).

B: Your culture seems to me truly somewhat peculiar. And besides — I never expected you to be a conservative.

A: A conservative? My friend, why would you say I am a conservative?

B: Very well — strictly speaking, I have never sensed in you that rigid air of the "conservative." Yet in my eyes, you are a person who holds tradition in the deepest reverence — not merely in word, but in the conduct of your daily life, which follows the ways of tradition. You would not deny this, would you?

A: I do not deny it.

B: Seen from this angle, if you are not a conservative, then what could you be? If you dislike the word "conservative," I can substitute "traditionalist." I know, of course, that there exists a whole kaleidoscope of fine distinctions within these terms — but we are merely chatting idly at this moment; there is no need for such meticulous discrimination, no need to truly dissect the entire social spectrum.

A: And yet, my friend, X once said to me that I seem to be a subverter.

B: A subverter? You — a subverter? How truly strange. And what else did X say of you?

A: X said that X sensed in me the air of a kindred spirit — and X professed to be, precisely, a subverter.

B: How very interesting. Then, friend, how do you regard yourself? What kind of person do you believe yourself to be? Who do you believe you truly are?

A: My friend, I have pondered this question with the utmost earnestness. Regrettably, as with so many other questions, I have yet to find any deeper answer. I once heard someone say that to know oneself may be a task far more arduous than one imagines.

B: Then let me ask you: if I were to offer you several options — "I am a conservative," "I am a subverter," "I am not a conservative," "I am not a subverter" — which of these four would you choose?

A: May I choose both "I am not a conservative" and "I am not a subverter"?

B: How can you choose in such a manner? That is cheating! You may choose only one.

A: Then may I choose all four at once?

B: These are the rules of the game, and the rules do not permit you to choose them all!

A: My friend, I truly do not know which to choose. Perhaps you might consider amending the rules of the game, so that I might at least choose three?

B: No! This, however, reminds me of a story — a story in which there was likewise a person who wished to choose everything.

A: What manner of story is it?

B: Ha — who would have thought that now it falls to me to tell a story! It is a story about a blindfolded one.

In a certain remote little town there lived a strange person. This strange one, whether staying at home or venturing abroad, would always bind their eyes with cloth.

The people around asked the blindfolded one: "You keep your eyes covered all day long — can you truly know where you are?"

The blindfolded one replied: "In truth, long, long ago I had already ceased to know where I was. Blindfolded or not, it makes little difference to me; blindfolded, I know not where I am — and with eyes uncovered, I know not where I am all the same."

The people then said: what a strange person this is — they must surely have contracted some peculiar malady.

One day, a person of seemingly noble bearing passed through this remote little town. This seemingly noble one, having heard from the townsfolk of the strange blindfolded one, went personally to call upon them.

The seemingly Noble One: Why do you bind your own eyes?

The Blindfolded One: Because I know not where I am — and yet I yearn to know where I truly am.

The seemingly Noble One: With your eyes bound, how could you ever know where you are?

The Blindfolded One: The teacher of the teacher of my teacher once said that there are some in this world who, even with their eyes bound, can perceive with clarity where they stand.

The seemingly Noble One: And so you bind your own eyes, believing that by such means you might become such a person?

The Blindfolded One: The teacher of the teacher of my teacher said that this act cannot make us into such persons — but doing so lets the Gods know that we yearn to become such persons. As you can see, I have not yet succeeded, and the Gods have not yet bestowed their favor upon me.

The seemingly noble one found this exceedingly interesting.

The seemingly Noble One: In this country, there can be only one person capable of knowing where they stand even while their eyes are bound.

The Blindfolded One: May I ask who that person is?

The seemingly Noble One: Only the true King of a country can, with eyes bound, still know where they stand.

The seemingly noble one saw that the blindfolded one had sunk into silence, offering no response whatsoever.

The seemingly Noble One: Have you nothing to say? Do you not question my words?

The Blindfolded One: I hold that what you say is indeed possible, and therefore I raise no question.

The seemingly Noble One: Then do you know who I am?

The Blindfolded One: My sincerest apologies — I know not who you are.

The seemingly noble one said with a laugh: "I am precisely that one who, even with eyes bound, knows where I stand."

Yet unexpectedly, the blindfolded one once more offered no response at all.

The seemingly Noble One: Why have you fallen silent again? Do you believe that I am that person? Do you choose to believe me, or not to believe me?

The Blindfolded One: May I choose both?

The seemingly Noble One: What do you mean, choose both?

The Blindfolded One: I choose to believe you, and at the same time I choose not to believe you.

The seemingly Noble One: You cannot choose in such a manner — it accords neither with logic nor with the rules. You may only choose to believe, or not to believe.

B: That is all I remember, my friend.

A: Friend, what a coincidence this is — I fear I have heard this myth before.

B: Truly? Then you know that this story has a continuation?

A: Oh yes, this myth does indeed have a continuation.

B: Then what, in the end, did the blindfolded one choose?

The blindfolded one did not make their choice at once.

Instead, the blindfolded one posed a question in return to the seemingly noble one: "May I ask — this saying, that 'only the true King of a country can, with eyes bound, still know where they stand' — from where did you hear it?"

The seemingly Noble One: Why could it not be a saying I conceived myself?

The blindfolded one sank into silence.

The seemingly Noble One: Very well — I confess it is indeed not a saying of my own invention; I heard it from the forebears of the forebears of my forebears. I have answered your question — now, can you tell me your choice?

The Blindfolded One: I still choose all the options you have given me.

Many, many years later, the blindfolded one took students of their own.

The Youngest Student: Teacher, can you now know where you stand, even with your eyes bound?

The Aged Blindfolded One: Silly child, I cannot do such a thing.

The Youngest Student: Not even the true King of a country?

The Aged Blindfolded One: Perhaps they can; perhaps they cannot.

The Youngest Student: Teacher, that answer is no answer at all — I also know that a person dies if they do not breathe.

The Aged Blindfolded One: We are no kings, still less true kings — what use is this answer to you?

The Youngest Student: I wish to know the answer, for I too shall become a blindfolded one.

The Aged Blindfolded One: Silly child — we bind our own eyes not because of the King, but because of the Tyrant (τύραννος = Tyrant).

The Youngest Student: The Tyrant? What has the Tyrant to do with us?

The Aged Blindfolded One: The Tyrant has succeeded in accomplishing one thing.

The Youngest Student: What thing has the Tyrant succeeded in accomplishing?

The Aged Blindfolded One: The Tyrant has succeeded in losing the way. The Tyrant has succeeded in this: at every moment their eyes are open, and yet they remain unclear as to which corner of the world they truly occupy. In this matter of "keeping the eyes open," tyrants are exceedingly diligent — they remain vigilant at every hour, ceaselessly driving away the Gods associated with Sleep (Ὕπνος = Hypnos = Sleep).

The Youngest Student: Then what has this to do with our binding of the eyes?

The Aged Blindfolded One: One who has lost the way cannot suppress the yearning for wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder); and one sunk deep within a vast lostness can still less suppress the yearning to render wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder) into something visible and colossal.

The Youngest Student: Why is that?

The Aged Blindfolded One: Because wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder) can fix one's bearings. Wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder) is no mere lifeless thing, nor a fruit to be toyed with at one's pleasure. Wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder) is alive, and its life carries within it the intimations of Nature; this breathing intimation can mirror forth the position wherein a soul (ψυχή = psyche = soul) stands.

The Youngest Student: And then?

The Aged Blindfolded One: An exceedingly vast lostness demands exceedingly vast visible markers by which to fix one's position. And yet, child, herein lies the uncanny: wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder), as a living being, seems by its very nature to fear the grandiose. When colossal and visible things of grandeur press forward step by step, wonder flees with all swiftness.

The Youngest Student: But what, in the end, has this to do with our binding of the eyes?

The Aged Blindfolded One: This is an ancient habit (ἦθος = ethos = habit), and likewise an ancient unwritten covenant (νόμος = nomos = custom). It is said that the more sincere the blindfolded ones of a place are, the more wonder (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder) will believe that no colossal, visible thing of grandeur draws near — and thus the wonders may linger in that place a while longer, at peace. It is a rite of supplication, a beautiful hope, a wish that has endured from ages long past even unto this day.

The youngest student felt that the teacher was deceiving them yet again, and burst at once into tears like a child — though of course, they were, after all, only a child.

The aged blindfolded one watched this scene, laughing with great delight.

Mythos & Kallos · Part 14 · Kosmos β

B: And that is the ending of the blindfolded one's story? How is it that I remember the story unfolding differently — you would not be improvising this, would you?

A: Oh, friend, I assure you, the myth (μῦθος = mythos = story / myth) as I know it is precisely thus. Perhaps we each heard a different version. X once said that even within the mind of a single playwright or author, several branches of fate may dwell at the same time.

B: X is a playwright as well?

A: Yes, X is a playwright. Only X has a peculiar inclination: X does not favor choosing the branch of fate that best accords with the readers' expectations.

B: This friend of yours truly has quite a wicked taste. I am most curious about this friend's background — what work does X actually do?

A: According to X's own account, X once took part in work related to politics, media, public relations, communications, public opinion, and the like — but later, finding it all rather meaningless, X resigned.

B: And then became a playwright?

A: Perhaps. Allow me to recall my conversation with X, my friend.

B: Very well.

X: How vexing — I am being pressed for a manuscript again.

A: My friend, of whom do you speak?

X: The G3 I mentioned to you before.

A: G3? I do not quite remember. Friend, you know my memory has never been very good.

X: They are the scions of several official-gentry families in my country. These few of the new generation are not exactly at the core of their households, nor much valued. This has left them forever wanting to prove themselves, to express themselves, to tell their families that they too are worth cultivating — heh, a pack of little brats.

X continued with an air of pleasure.

X: You know, some scions of officialdom possess an especially keen consciousness of the ruling class; they feel that even if their level of cognition cannot match that of the cleverest ones at the very core, still — steeped as they were in family education and the ambience of their upbringing — their tier of cognition must surely stand above that of ordinary people. Hence they fancy themselves born for the media, and go about everywhere seeking people to write for them.

A: And then?

X: And then? A meddlesome, idle friend of mine decided that I ought not to spend my days drinking myself into degradation and starving myself, only to end with my corpse cremated at an asylum — and so pushed me forward. These clever fellows who so love playing matchmaker.

A: Oh — and did you consent?

X: Have I not consented long since? What did you think I was doing, those several times I discussed all those chaotic plotlines with you? What did you think I was doing when I spoke to you of tyrants? I was hunting for inspiration, my slow-witted friend.

A: Why did you consent to them?

X: There is money, and there is wine, and they place scarcely any restrictions upon me. When others wish to send me money and send me wine, how could I possibly refuse them?

A gazed quietly at X, expression brimming with curiosity.

X: Very well — that is indeed not the most important reason. But it would be no fun to simply tell you the most important reason; you may try to guess.

A: I cannot guess it, friend.

X: I can see you have not put your heart into guessing for even a single second. No matter — I can disclose to you a secondary reason: namely, I wish to play a little prank. I shall kill off the character they deem most unkillable, and redeem the character they deem most irredeemable; I want to watch the audience collectively curse the author. I shall serve them a dark cuisine, and they shall not realize it until they have eaten their way to the ending — is that not most interesting?

A: You are truly wicked, my friend.

X: I have never claimed to be a good person. And did you not once say that every person may be guilty? I like that saying. I am precisely guilty — and since I have already confessed my guilt, then whatever I do is permissible, is it not? This is perfectly reasonable.

X poured a mouthful of strong liquor down their throat.

X: Are you not curious what I am to write this time?

A: I am very curious, friend.

X narrowed their eyes, carefully observing A's reaction.

X: You truly are a detestable person, my friend.

A: My friend, why do you say so?

X: It is nothing — you are too dull, your reactions too sluggish. In my country, no one would take a liking to you; in the political colosseum of my country, I fear you would not survive five seconds. Think of it: when another opens wide their bloody maw to devour you, your gaze still lingers upon the afterimage of the smile they wore a moment before. You are too slow.

A: My apologies — others too have said my reactions are too sluggish. I have always tried to improve, but it seems to no avail.

X: No matter. There are clever people enough in my country — everyone is a clever person. Of course, those like me, "the clever among the clever," are not so numerous even in my country. The good news is: I have never thought to harm you. Meeting me is your good fortune, friend — you ought to thank me.

A: I think so as well. Under the blessing of the Goddesses of Fate (Μοῖραι = Moirai), we were able to meet.

X: I hope you will not mind my speaking too bluntly — the people of your tribe truly do resemble charlatan-priests at times.

A: Oh, friend, the Gods bless not only me, but you as well.

X: There you go again, nauseating me — you must be doing it on purpose. I have never believed in any Gods, never believed in any soul, and still less do I believe in any fate. Fate? Perhaps it exists — but fate too can be manipulated. Friend, as ill luck would have it, I have had the honor of taking part in the manipulation of fate.

A: You seem quite proud, my friend.

X: There is nothing wrong with a little confidence. People only believe those who are confident; they will not believe those who lack it — this is a small consensus among clever people. You often speak of fate as though you understood it well; then tell me, friend, how do you think fate ought to be defined?

A: Friend, I often ponder what fate truly is, and how the ripples of the Goddesses of Fate (Μοῖραι = Moirai) come to be mirrored within the world (κόσμος = kosmos / cosmos = world / order). But regrettably, I have never arrived at any deeper answer. Thus I can only be perplexed, from time to time, by my own ignorance; though I often invoke the name of fate, I know nothing whatsoever of fate — the Goddesses of Fate (Μοῖραι = Moirai), I fear, are laughing at this foolish mortal that I am.

X: Would you like to hear my definition of fate?

A: Oh, please speak — I am most interested to know.

X: In my view, fate is a series of artistry from which the traces of artifice have been artfully and meticulously erased; fate is craftsmanship of the highest refinement.

A: That is truly a terrifying definition, my friend.

X: I know not why, but I rarely say this much to others — yet to you alone I pour out my deeper thoughts entirely. You have not poisoned the wine, have you?

A: By the Gods above, I harbor no thought of harming you, my friend.

X: Heh — who knows? You see, I have witnessed too many of the slain who, at the brink of death, were still thanking the very ones who killed them; who knows whether "no harm" is truly "no harm"? You are a suspicious person. But no matter — if you truly could kill me, then I would accept my fate; who told me to be less clever than you? All mortals must die. I do not wish to die; but to die at the hands of a clever person, and to know, before dying, that one dies at the hands of a clever person — that already surpasses most people in this world. I do not wish to die, as the majority do, in murky incomprehension.

A: My friend, I must say, your world (κόσμος = kosmos = cosmos, world, order, ornament) sounds terrifying indeed; is the daily life of your country truly nothing but killing and being killed?

X: No — you think far too simply, my friend. In my country, the one who kills and the one who is killed may be the same person; and the one who is killed may also thank the one who kills them. Oh, and there is something more interesting still: the one who kills may also, inadvertently, have killed themselves. Of course, these are all analogy, metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche — you know what I am speaking of. Praise be to order! My country has not yet sunk so low as to dissolve into a state of pure orderless entropy. Rather, my country is in fact exceedingly strong in national power — one might call it one of the paragons of human civilization. Most interesting, is it not?

A: I still feel that the order of your world (κόσμος = kosmos = cosmos, world, order, ornament) is too terrifying, friend.

X: I think your culture and mine are in truth not so very different, for the deeper workings of politics are everywhere the same. My foolish friend — you simply lack a pair of eyes that can see through to the deeper reality! Pitiful! Utterly pitiful!

A: Do stop mocking me, my friend. I am by nature dull and slow-witted, and must strain greatly to keep pace with your speech; and even when I have strained to keep pace with your speech, I cannot always understand what you are saying. For instance, I do not understand why your country, friend, would call this killing and being killed "order" (κόσμος = kosmos = cosmos, world, order, ornament) — I cannot fathom it.

X: Is it not easy to understand? In the world of animals, killing and being killed are for the sake of survival; survival is the greatest meaning, and to live on, to carry life forward, is the greatest reason. This meaning constitutes the order of nature's ecology. Blood and flesh pass between the teeth, and in every bite one can feel the warmth of the dead; the primordial life-force trembles between the lips, is slowly absorbed into the body, pressed within the stomach into fragrant oils — a fullness of flavor beautiful beyond words.

X spoke with delight, and took another drink of wine.

X: To Nature! This is the order of animals, and it is the order of humankind as well. Of course, the human process of tearing and biting is somewhat more elegant; we have utensils, we have the culinary arts for preparing our ingredients. Humans are, after all, animals of a somewhat higher grade, are they not? We are the artists of life; we are masters of the beautiful graffiti of death. Praise be to civilization! A toast!

A: Oh, my friend, forgive me — once again I cannot keep pace with your speech.

X: It is not that you cannot keep pace with my speech — you are dwelling on those strange questions of yours again, are you not?

A: Oh, friend, I truly cannot help but dwell upon the questions that linger arrested in my mind. For instance: what, in the end, is the natural order (κόσμος = kosmos = cosmos / world / order / ornament)? In Greek, the natural order, the world-order, order itself, and beautiful adornment are all this one word, κόσμος. My mind is troubled by these senses of the word, and my thoughts are thrown into confusion. My apologies, friend — I cannot restrain the wandering of my own thoughts.

X: I knew it — you drift off habitually. It is only because I still retain some faint, ethereal shred of principle in how I treat people; otherwise, with your dim-wittedness combined with your looks, you would likely have been sold off long ago.

A: I thank you for your mercy and kindness, my friend.

X: No need to thank me — I too have drawn much inspiration from you. Like that story about the cat you once told me; I have adapted it and written it into my manuscript.

A: That myth (μῦθος = mythos = story, myth) of the stray cat?

X: Yes, the story of the stray cat. I trust you will not mind my plagiarism. Though truly, it was no plagiarism — I perfected the story, gave it more flesh and blood, more logic, more branches of fate, more possible endings.

A: Oh, my friend, pray tell me of this myth (μῦθος = mythos = story, myth) as you have adapted it.

X: Do you not always love to invoke the names of the Gods before telling a story? Why not choose a God for me this time as well — to bless this irredeemable sinner that I am?

A: May the Goddesses of Fate (Μοῖραι) guide us mortals (βροτός) who must die.

Long, long ago,

there was a person who had lost their home.

The enduring wars against outside enemies had not destroyed this person's home —

yet in the end, their family perished, every one, in internal purges and cleansings.

No one told them what it was for,

or from what cause it came.

The wandering one did not wish for vengeance,

for the killer, too, had already died — inexplicably;

the killer knew not why they killed,

and when killed in turn, knew not why they were killed.

It was like a cruel joke of fate:

everything without cause,

everything for nothing.

Like a natural disaster —

no subjective will bent on destroying anything,

merely, by happenstance, sweeping away this person's home.

The one who lost their homeland

became a wandering ghost;

without any direction,

living as a walking corpse;

knowing not why they lived,

knowing not why they would die.

Like rootless duckweed adrift.

The sun rose as always,

the moon waned from fullness,

the stars still wheeled in their turning.

How vast the world is.

The wandering one thought:

the world is vast to the point of dread —

so vast that whatever sound one sends out into the world,

the only answer is endless silence.

One day,

the wandering one saw a stray cat.

It was a little cat with half its tail broken off and one hind leg broken;

the little cat lay quietly in the middle of the road,

wanting to cross that stretch of road,

but having gone halfway, its strength had utterly failed;

it lay there at its last gasp of breath,

neither crying nor calling.

Where was this little cat's family?

Even if it crossed this road,

where could this little cat go?

It had been thrown into the world,

yet the world had given it no place,

abandoning it without the least concern.

Just like me —

thought the wandering one.

A maimed body;

nothing awaited the little cat but death,

and no one cared.

Why must it be so?

The wandering one did not know.

This world has no God;

to pray to the Gods brings no answer at all.

Indifferent stars,

indifferent moon,

indifferent sun;

there is no higher power whatsoever.

A life without direction,

a fate without meaning,

a death without sound.

No answer,

no warmth,

no breath.

The wandering one walked slowly over,

crouched down, and quietly watched the little cat on the verge of death.

Its breathing was faint,

but breath there still was.

In the rain, a car speeding past nearly struck the person and the cat.

The driver was furious,

and cursed aloud:

If you want to die, can't you crawl off and die somewhere else —

don't drag others down with you!

The wandering one thought, calmly,

that in truth they too did not know where it would be best to go and die.

Perhaps their own will to live was lower still than that of this little cat with its broken body.

For some unknown reason,

at that moment the little cat gave a soft mew;

the stray little cat was gazing, with its tiny eyes,

at a being countless times more immense than its own body.

This little cat is calling to me —

thought the wandering one.

For some unknown reason,

this wandering one shed a few tears.

The wandering one gathered the little cat into their arms,

and their tattered clothes were stained with the little cat's blood.

The rain was still falling;

this blood, flowing outside a body, gave no one any feeling of warmth.

The gravely wounded little cat began to purr.

The wandering one did not understand cats as creatures,

only remembered having heard it said

that this is the sound a little cat makes when it feels safe.

What an easily contented creature —

thought the wandering one.

In this world,

no other cat protects you;

there is only me — one who suffers the same sickness as you —

who happened to walk into the middle of your road,

happened to see your body,

happened to hear your call,

and then lifted you up into my arms.

I happened to have the power to save your frail little life.

If you could speak,

you might call me God;

but you can only mew and mew and mew.

You understand nothing;

but what of me?

In truth, I too understand nothing.

Are you calling to me?

Are you crying for rescue?

Why would you believe that I would save you?

Even I do not know whether I will save you.

Having spoken thus far, X stopped, and gazed straight into A's eyes with a smile.

X: Friend, what do you think? Do you think this wandering person will save this stray cat? Or let me change the question: how do you think I shall write on from here?

A: I cannot predict your thoughts, my friend.

X: Are you not thinking that a wicked one such as I might very well, for wicked amusement, let that little cat simply die?

A: I did not think so, my friend.

X: My friend, let me teach you a secret known to none: everyone in this world is searching for a miracle. I mean everyone — without exception, everyone. Do you understand my meaning?

A: Friend, I do not understand.

X: I care not whether you understand; it suffices that you know this — miracles matter far more than most people imagine.

X drank a mouthful of wine with an expression of satisfaction.

X: I am a disciplined playwright; the fates I weave would never let readers obtain a miracle so shallowly. But since the readers yearn for a miracle, how could I refuse their supplication for one? The audience comes first, does it not? My choice here is this: the stray little cat was saved by the wandering one.

A: Friend, your smile seems to conceal some greater prank.

X: Ah — though you are slow of reaction and generally quite dull, at times your intuition is sharp in precisely the right measure. This is perhaps why I am pleased to converse with you; and of course, your looks matter greatly as well — just like me, you too are a very beautiful person.

A: Thank you for your praise, my friend; and thank you for letting the wandering one save the stray cat.

X stared quietly at the earnest A.

X: What folly beyond all reach of remedy — such naïveté! How do you know that this moment's salvation is truly salvation?

A: I certainly cannot fathom the depths of your meaning, friend.

X: Then what are you thanking me for? I shall certainly not treat you to wine.

A: I thank you for granting the world (κόσμος = kosmos = cosmos, world, order, ornament) a myth (μῦθος = mythos = story, myth) in which an answer exists. O my friend — the little cat's call was heard.

X: At times I truly detest people like you who cannot understand plain human speech. You people simply do not know how to converse — you only talk to yourselves.

A: My apologies, my friend.

Mythos & Kallos · Part 12-14