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 mans 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 are 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.’