I
We walk a thin line. The boundaries are close and they are clear. Beyond the borders of what is, is everything that is not, and to this there is no end. Likewise, on either side of this thin line is a way without boundaries, neither temperate, restrained nor discerning. There is a gated city, limited and ruled, and the outside, unlimited and unruly. There is one gate to come in and to go out, and all those citizens of the city choose to enter by this gate, to limit themselves according to the rule and identity of the city. There is a gift afforded to all people, will, the will to do and the will not to. The day is long, but its end is final, and at nightfall when darkness claims its prey, the city will shut its gates to keep the creatures out. Posted at the city gates is a statement outlining the rule and identity of the city and its citizens, the open invitation to those who wish to submit and partake, and a clear warning of what is to come at day’s end.
There is a man, a wanderer, who stands at the city gates, he reads the statement and weighs these things in his mind. He looks into the city at the people, they seem different, though not special. He looks at the buildings and gardens, not particularly grand. He looks at the wall and frowns, ‘does not a wall confine those within, as well as protect?’, he says. As he considers the city, he is unimpressed and turns around. He looks out to the horizon, ‘no walls’, he muses. He looks at the people, the reverie and revelry. He looks at the buildings and the gardens, the grandeur and scale. The man is captivated by the vastness and plurality set before him, and thinks, ‘is this not true freedom, beyond the city walls?’. He turns around and considers the statement once more, he reads where it describes the man of the city: ‘The man practices restraint. Though all things are within a man's reach, they are not all profitable and he must be mastered by none of them.’ He skims down, ‘Good things are perverted by excess, and good men by lack of restraint’. Finally, the word at the forefront of his mind: ‘Freedom means having the ability to choose. The undisciplined man is unable to say yes to the good thing, that which is costly, because he is unable to say no to its costs.’
‘I stand here, a free man’, he says. ‘Free, because I must choose. And all the more free because I know what my choice entails. And so, to the extent of my will and my knowledge, I am free. But then, what happiness does this freedom offer when I must choose between the easy thing and the good thing; the thing I want and the thing I need; between the present and the future? It seems that I am on a mountainside: freedom is a ball chained to my ankle. There is a key at the peak of the mountain and a key in the pit of the valley. Every choice I make, is a step I take, dragging this weight up or down. At the end I am freed from this burden of freedom, forever consigned to the peak or to the pit. It is a hard thing to pull a weight up a mountain. Up or down, an easy choice if you don’t know the end. But then what kind of freedom is this choice, when the consequences are concealed? Perhaps someone will carry this weight for me, and I will go where they go, dragged by this chain and freed from this freedom. Is this optimism or pessimism?
‘Freedom grants me to choose what I gain but condemns me to know what I lose. I say, take my freedom and take my conscience. Only, don’t tell me where I’m going, I’ll be happier not knowing. Is this not also freedom – freedom from my conscience?
‘Perhaps the future doesn’t exist, for where is it? Perhaps now is all there is. If the future exists, then it is a mystery to me. And, if a mystery, then I cannot be responsible for what I do not know. But I do know. Freedom, like a specter, looms over me and I walk in its shadow, forever aware of the future. Freedom to choose feels like the weight of consequences – and how heavy is the weight of finality?’
There is another man, a stranger, standing at the gates, listening to the ramblings of the wanderer. ‘Are you coming in or going out?’, the stranger asks. The man looks at the stranger, just now noticing that he is not alone. ‘Just passing by’, he says and begins to walk away. He hesitates, considering all that is around him. ‘It’s not the same now’, he thinks, ‘the sun will set, the creatures will come out and I, like the rest of these, will fade into the darkness and remain there when the sun comes again and does not leave. Perhaps I know too much now; I would much rather forget the city, the light and the dark, and go on as I have before – free.’ He turns back to the stranger, ‘from where have you come – this city, or somewhere else?’ The stranger replies, ‘no, but I stand at the gates. I wonder, in all your questioning, answer me this: what is freedom to you, that is desirable?’
‘I suppose’, begins the wanderer, ‘there is this fundamental value according to which everything exists, and against which all things are measured. This value, it seems to me, is order – order and chaos. I see this duality expressed in the values that drive us: life and death, love and hate, and meaning and meaningless; the body, the heart and the mind. That is, the existence of these values is contingent upon the necessary order of existence, but are fundamental as values, for I can trace all values back to these. This order and chaos is manifest before me in the forms of the city and the outside. If the freedom that I have is that I may choose after a defined order, then the freedom I desire is that I may choose before this defined order; to consider all that this world has and to build my city. I suppose the freedom I desire is not to choose between right and wrong, but to define it.’ He, relieved by the sense of clarity in his thinking, looks at the stranger, probing for a response. ‘Will you have a brick wall, or a cement wall or some other material?’ asks the stranger. ‘Why is this important?’, replies the wanderer, visibly confused. ‘If you do not know what type of wall is desirable then you will not know what materials to use; you would not use cob to build a brick wall’, the stranger replies, candidly. ‘You speak of fundamental values, what then is the fulfilment of these values: the fullest life, most perfect love and ultimate meaning, to which these values are reaching and the standard against which they are measured?’
Confronted with the freedom he asked for, defining ideals, the wanderer withdraws into himself and searches. He considers an arbitrary approach but decides to reach for something deeper. ‘Well,’ he begins, ‘I suppose life is filled with experience and so the full life is a life that has as much experience as is possible within that life, and perhaps, therefore, the fullest life experiences all and lacks none. The perfect standard is everything and the high ideal is as much as you can – or as close to that fullest as possible. Perfect love I imagine to be complete and consuming, without lack and apart from hate; perfect love is single-minded. The perfect standard is to love completely the self, all others and all things without falter, and the high ideal is to love as much and as many as you can – or as close to that perfect as possible. Ultimate meaning is, I think, meaning that unifies all people and things, so that none is waste or without purpose, but all has meaning beyond itself. The high ideal is, therefore, to live as much as possible unto that common, unifying ultimate meaning.’ The wanderer, evidently more confident, finishes with a satisfied grunt, a stamp of approval on all that he has spoken. The stranger having listened quietly to the monologue asks, ‘and how do you intend to build a city that maximizes all of these for all people? You could not possibly maximize for some and not others, for your ideal love does not allow this; and you could not maximize experience unless your city is without limits, including even those experiences that are not desirable; and not all people agree on all things, especially not those ultimate things. Who and what is included? Do you know the true ultimate, or are you the arbiter?'
The wanderer, having reached the end of himself, asks pointedly ‘you tell me then if you know of some true ultimate. Or why should another be the arbiter and not you or I? Perhaps there is no true ultimate and we are all arbiters defining and striving for ideals; perhaps the city is for those who share ideals or seek to outsource the responsibility of freedom. Tell me, what is truth – if there is such a thing?’ The stranger turns from the man and gazes intently somewhere, ‘what will a man be given whose hands are full? And what will a man see who will not look? But go back again, for what am I to you?’ The Wanderer is quiet for a moment. ‘No’, he says, ‘show me this city. I will come and see, that I may know.’
II
The gate into the city allows barely a man to pass through. ‘Come and see’, says the stranger-turned-guide. The Wanderer passes through, following the Guide’s lead. As the Wanderer treads, carefully inside the walls, he stifles his curiosity and dons skepticism – some part willfully and some part reflexively. His eyes, ever the sure shepherd, carefully tread the path in front of him, before reaching the city some distance ahead. This city he had seen from outside, but what he had not seen through that narrow gate was the field and the trees, and the garden that lay between. The Guide walks on, slowly. Then stops. The Wanderer stops too. ‘Listen. Do you hear that’, asks the Guide. ‘Hear what?’, replies the Wanderer. He tilts his head to search for some sound and then, following something faint, he turns his attention toward a mausoleum just near the gate. ‘How did I miss this’, he wonders. The mausoleum is not grand. All but its entrance are enclosed by trees. Before it lay a simple patch of flowers and a woman tending it, weeping. ‘What is this?’, he asks the Guide. ‘A resting place.’ The Wanderer frowns, ‘of course, but is this not the good place? Why then is there a place for the dead and why does this woman mourn?’ The Guide turns from the woman to the Wanderer and asks, ‘is it not good to mourn the loss of that which is good?’ Unimpressed by this non-answer, the Wanderer’s frown narrows, watching the woman. He is moved by her emotion and yet, considering the context, senses something comical about it all. He turns back to the guide, ‘explain to me this so-called freedom.’
The guide begins to walk slowly on. ‘A man is free to enter and to leave, and willful participation in the city is one of servitude. The one who is in the city but not of the city is a guest or a thief. A guest because he borrows and a thief because he steals. Both lack ownership and have nothing with which to trade; neither will find rest here.’ At this the Wanderer pauses, ‘this is surely a harsh thing. You have just said this is a city of servitude; how can you also say this?’ The Guide looks on toward the city, ‘yes, of servitude and of order also. Two pillars, justice and mercy, support the whole structure. Inflow without outflow produces a flood, and outflow without inflow produces a drought.’ They walk on quietly as the Wanderer considers these things. He is not satisfied. ‘The guest is, presumably, of no ill intent. To withhold rest from him, is this just, or merciful? And why not, if the city offers something good, give it to all? You make the beggar a thief by withholding what he needs. This isn’t charity but a grasp for power, when you say, “we will give you all of this if you just submit to us”. If you are good, give it away.’ The Guide looks at the Wander and nods. ‘Are you hungry? Come, there is food for you’, he says and walks on. ‘If you invite a violent beggar into a family’s home, is this merciful act for the beggar a just act for the family? If the home is protection for the family and you introduce the same violence from outside, then what purpose does the home play now? Is it then merciless or is it unjust to expect the beggar to change his behaviour? And what of the greedy beggar – if you invite this man in, is this merciful act for the beggar a just act for the family? If the home is provision for the family, then to introduce greed is to create the same scarcity within that is found outside. What purpose does the home play now? Is it then merciless or is it unjust to expect the beggar to change his behaviour?’ The Wanderer listens intently. ‘The greedy beggar is welcomed in as guest’, continues the Guide, ‘and eats of the food from the home. He eats his portion, and then he eats of the children’s portions and the parents’ too – because he does not know if he will have food again tomorrow. Some days pass and he learns that there is always more food tomorrow. Perhaps the guest changes his ways and eats as one who knows that there will be more tomorrow. But, if the guest does not cast off his greed and continues to eat without restraint, then the mother will tell the father to remove this man. For surely this is no guest but a thief, who takes that which has been prepared for the children.’ The Wanderer weighs these things in his mind. ‘What am I in this man’s eyes’, he wonders. ‘Come’, says the Guide, gesturing toward a nearby cottage. ‘The sun will set soon. Let us not talk about this anymore for now - there will be plenty of time to discuss on our journey. Come eat and be my guest tonight, we can carry on tomorrow.’ At a table in the home, the Guide inquires about the Wanderer. ‘I am a woodworker by trade’, says the Wanderer, and, after speaking more about his work, asks the Guide about his profession. The Guide explains that he tends to the livestock on the land behind the cottage. Then, after tidying up, he shows the Wanderer to a guest room and bids him goodnight.
In the morning, at that same table, the Wanderer sits across from the Guide, ruminating on something. ‘I had a strange dream last night’, the Wanderer says, ‘something strange bewitched me. I was at a tavern: a warmly lit room; everything wooden from the walls, skirting and scotia to the furnishings. The patrons filled any space unclaimed by homely furniture of varying shades of brown. They laughed and jeered like long-time friends - their mocking revealed a sort of confidence in their relationship, that it could withstand such things. They spoke with many words and seemingly intimately, but they spoke of non-things so that the words they spoke, however many, declared a strangeness between them. “It’s all a show, this is a scene”, I thought, “and, it seems, everyone has a script but me.” Beyond the walls of that room of perpetuity, was the dark of the night. It had recently been light and would soon be light again, but it was, in that moment, the darkest hour. “They’re all wearing masks”, I mused, watching on, “what characters are they playing?” I observed the expressions carved on wooden faces and followed the plot as best I could, but soon resolved that a little dialogue does not make a story. Suddenly there was a woman sitting right there in front of me. “What are you doing here”, she asked me. She was not a very imposing woman, but those words gripped me - they reminded me of some impending doom, though I cannot recall what doom that was. “What are you doing here”, she asked again. Horror. I fled from that tavern, into the night. I ran along the path, to the grass and the trees, until the trees opened to the beach and I stopped where the water laps over the sand. I just stood there, at the edge of the water, and looked out. I had a strong urge to step out. So, I did. One foot in the water, one foot on the sand. Suddenly, the sea and the land pulled away from each other - not, as you would expect, the water drawing away revealing the land beneath it. But rather the sea, as a body, separating from the land, leaving in the divide an abyss. As they pulled further apart, I was confronted with a choice: to land or to sea? I can assure you, I am no swimmer, so I turned and leapt for the land. I was running again, through the trees and back the way I came. It was dawn. I slowed to a walk. The air was cool and quiet, a light breeze. I listened to my steps and the rustling leaves, my gaze drifting with nothing particularly interesting to see. That is, until I noticed a familiar warm glow, though now set against the blue-grey of the morning light. As I neared the tavern, I heard music and, looking in through the window, I saw that it was quite lively. There were the same patrons, in the same place doing the same things. But different. They appeared as wicked caricatures now; method actors playing their parts with precision. What became of the people I had seen the night before? These, though they carried on much the same, had the appearances of ghoulish creatures of the night now exposed by the morning light. We are exposed, through sense, to so much information, too much information to process. So, we measure value and vanity; we prioritize and filter - consider this, ignore that. That is, not everything is relevant. So, the world we see isn’t necessarily the world as it is, but rather the world we think we live in. The world is shaped by our perspective. As I looked on, I wondered, “has my perspective changed or has the world changed – have they gone mad, or have I?” Then, there was that woman again. This time I recognized her as the woman at the mausoleum. “Why have you come back”, she asked. I awoke with a jolt.’ The Wanderer chuckles now. ‘How profound and powerful are the things we don’t understand. That is, until we understand them. Then, they lose all their charm and power.’