365 Ways With Words

Heroes

                                        
                                        Harold fights on three fronts

                                        In timid scare, to battle descend

                                        Cast hearts as limbs out beyond limits

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Scipio treats with deserters harshly

                                        Beheading Latins, crucifying Romans

                                        Exemplars all of turncoat creeds

                                                Down, down, down

                                        Richard faced the walls but once

                                        To see, and not to take

                                        A prudence that disappointed so

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Windgate takes the bull by the horns

                                        In mud and rain, deep penetration through

                                        To strike the mind if not the heel

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Full courage run on each for each

                                        The bitter gall, bladed grasp of blood

                                        Consumed and left in legend

                                                Down, down, down

The Barker

Above the noisy cicadas and comfy crickets, a lone rasping voice punctuated the stillness of the hot night. Every now and then it spouted unusual words.

“Step inside! Step inside!”

Above the tent’s curving lines sailed two flags, each upon the large uprights from which the canvas was suspended. Upwardly illuminated from the glowing lights inside the ring where the action would later take place, these flags had on them the words ‘Circus’ and ‘Vita’, something that could only be observed when a lazy wind took them one way or another.

“This way, ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin.”

From villages and farms all around, the people drove, cycled and even walked to this show—the only one some had ever seen. The carnival had only yesterday passed through the biggest town in the region, an event of great wonder in itself. This had guaranteed the interest of all but the most intransigent of religious belligerents, of which it must be said there was a sizeable minority. Their response was a dour all-night prayer meeting followed by a daily vigil outside the town hall at noon to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that the good Lord wouldn’t countenance such evil.

“What’s your pleasure? What’s your delight?”

It was, for many, a first time of seeing an elephant beyond the pages of a children’s textbook. No one could ever remember bears and fearsome lions on Main Street. Such exotica confirmed in the hearts of many that the town was rapidly growing and becoming a source of increased revenue for locals and an attractor for visitors such as these. The outside world, with all its influences, was walking through the heart of the town. For most, the slow trickle of hard-working immigrants from back East were welcomed fairly, but strangers such as these carnies and circus types, as alien as the animals themselves, were watched with guarded eyes.

“See the spectacles! Take in the treats! All for your very own performance, ladies and gentlemen.”

The carnival procession that Friday took place after the big top had been set up and the nearby wagons and cages formed into a defensive tabor formation. The uniformed brass band played marches and waltzes as the lengthy parade twirled, sparkled and waved at the dazzled and dozy citizens wholly unused to such visions of razzle-dazzle. Leading them all, and holding tightly the hand of the trapeze artist’s young girl, herself bedecked in spangles and waving the stars and stripes, was the Barker, owner of the circus and commander of his troop and all that went on from day to day.

“Be amazed at the audacity of the magnificent Periculum family as they defy death swinging on the high trapeze. Be stunned at the strength of Robustus, the strongest man alive!”

From outside, the circus seemed to epitomize the very weirdness of human life that existed elsewhere: dwarf acrobats and giant strongmen, stupid clowns and mysterious magicians, beautiful girls baring their stockinged legs on horseback, and terrifying wild animals tamed by man. And it worked, for ticket numbers for each show for the following week were near capacity, the lamplit rows filled with the good and the bad, the quick and the slow, the young and the old.

“And now… for your pleasure and entertainment… the Sollievo Brothers!”

From behind the long red curtains emerged a little car driven at ridiculous speed and from which protruded feet, gloved hands, an outlandish head and loud shiny costumes. It came to a noisy stop and each clown tumbled from a window at once ready to perform. Their first routine encouraged warmth from the audience through the usual tumbling slapstick and interaction. At the peak of an approving roar of laughter, the curtain opened once again to reveal a cycling bear dressed in a little clown costume of his own and making his way towards them. Showing exaggerated panic, each clown leaped into the air, gathered their discarded props and made a run for it through the audience. The bear circled the ring, lightly sniffing the air, but after two circuits followed the clowns’ car being towed backstage.

“Circus Vita is the best circus in the world!”

The progression of acts –dangerous animals, fire-eaters and crack-shots, stylish acrobats and trapeze artists, clowns, perilous skilled horsemen and women– had their moment within the ring; that warmly-illuminated central arena. The country audience, enthusiastic and amazed, smiled, cheered, clapped, and held their breathing at appropriate moments. From the side, the Barker, the mature announcer who knew the show moment by moment, made keen eye movements on all activities. The routines had been endlessly practiced, the animals cautiously trained, the audience watched for undesirables and attention-seekers that might disturb the show. Once in every ten minutes or so, he would bend over to whisper something to one of the stagehands wearing black that were partially hidden behind the curtain. They would run around the back of the band and leave the show in order to carry a message or perform some task.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honour to introduce the entire cast. Give them all a big hand!”

The band struck up a triumphal march as each act returned in a procession around the ring; by now every man in the audience had his favourite and every woman eyed her attractor. The children’s tired late-evening attentions were engaged with a tiger cub carried by a beautiful girl who let some of the front row hands stroke the poor animal’s back and tail.

“That’s the end of the show, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been magnificent! Be sure to visit Circus Vita next time we pass this way!”

For days children would return to the field within which the circus had camped, tracing out the perimeter of the big top by the large tent peg holes, the circular patch of sawdust of the ring, and the indentations left by the lions’ and bear’s cages. Even the massive dried elephant dung was kicked over with delight. Eventually, even these pleasures were to fade, and other regular attractions were discovered in the usual environment, but the remnant of the circus was the spectacle that fed the imagination. That humans could do this, instead of farming, instead of going to work in the city, proved that life could be exciting. Some children wanted to be the horsemen, swift and daring, others the lion tamers and clowns and even those that risked life daily on the trapeze, but all agreed that to be the Barker, the owner and director of the whole show would be the grandest job of all.

The Hidden Pools

First one, then two, and then three: the secrecy deepens as the path rises.

There is no bus stop or car park. From the Hoi Ha Road at the bridge, the scene is unwelcoming. Before the eyes is the high wall of a concrete dam that captures the river’s constant flow, diverting it several miles to the bright and unnaturally blue High Island reservoir. The inquisitive will not—indeed should not—use this pool: access is treacherous where it is not protected by wire, and it is made from dangerous undercurrents.

The scruffy path weaves over a trickling riverbed and through a succession of cumbersome, clambering boulders and curtains of knife-like grasses until it is clear the sandy trail leads somewhere. Within minutes the outside world has gone, and the final few metres are more forgiving—the welcoming pool opens to the sky.

It is difficult, even in the coolest winters, to resist the urge to strip off and plunge beneath the little wavelets. Alone it is a place of silent contemplation, in company a natural noisy playground. From the edge, the shallow rocks fall away into deep green depths. From there the little fishes come and stare; they come to eat whatever is cast. They are naturally wary; bigger fish and herons await a momentary snack.

The clear river churns milky only in the powerful mid-summer deluges. At those times the white water brilliantly cascades over the rocks to create falls fit for a jigsaw puzzle photo. At other times, the summer heat promotes a coating of slippery algae over each rocky sluice—treachery at every footfall.

There has been death here, of the reckless and the foolish. It adds the piquancy of inevitable mortality to skyward heads afloat in the languid flow. By itself, nature thinks little of infinity. That is our job.

Pushing further up the path, more rocky pools will appear—shallow and irregular. From them the framed opening between the trees on either side allows for the monolith of Sharp Peak to arise. But above the second cataract can be found the next deep pools. Reached by fern-covered path, they are more secluded, more withdrawn; they lend themselves further to sun-kissed afternoon privacy, both of body and mind. Life, work and everything else seems a very long way away.

The course beyond is progressively rougher and must be actively sought. Splitting from the track that leads away to the hilltops, it suddenly descends into mysterious undergrowth only to appear again beneath a creeper’s awkward growth.

At this juncture, the final secretive glades appear, although almost totally obscured. The exclusive domain of endangered turtles, and of the desperate criminals who catch them, surrounded on all sides by deep mud and slipsure rocks, rotting overhead branches and listless yellowing leaves, these are the primitive holdouts of punishing mosquitoes and subtle leeches. The place is at once hostile and intriguing: none come here for pleasure alone. Pandanas thorns scour unguarded skin and giant orbweb spiders aspire to leave their strong sticky yellow threads upon the hair. Yet there is a purity and a delight in ultimate seclusion.

There is no path ahead. Where pig or cow may have once lazily made their way all night above the boulders and through the canopy, the track for human feet, if there ever was one, has forever vanished within the thick subtropical vegetation, the primordial, the emotionless and the moral-free. Beyond this terminal place it would be easy to set down forever, and leave no trace for the world further down that lifeline track. Once free of vitality, the body would become the food of a boar, of rodents, flocks of pecking birds, thousands of ants and a billion microbes.

But back the seeker must go, reminded with each step about what it means to be a solitary soul within society. Such isolation is to be treasured because of the necessary intensity of social interaction. Quiet places, even secret places, are treasuries of autonomous experience. We bring ourselves there to find peace and hope to take a little of it home.

Rocks and Hard Places

So, the argument ends, and there is little left to do but face the music. What are you going to do then?

If we had to choose between what was good for us and what was desirable, how many of us would be sensible? Of course, it all depends upon what is ‘good’ and what is ‘desirable’. The lucky man or woman who has both does not have to make a choice. But such rarities seldom make themselves available. The rest of us must muddle through until a happy medium, or death, is reached – the unlucky amongst us may unhappily reach both at the same time.

Tough choices require more than a modicum of sweat. How can anything important that is not instinctual be decided upon by the toss of a coin? There are some that perform these tricks as a show of bravura, but such histrionics deserve their place in the outlandish dialogues of Russian fiction writers such as Dostoyevsky, whose protagonists try to out-do each other in order to prove a point. The rest of us mere mortals merely shrug a bit, and then opt one way or another based on how we may be feeling at the time. And that’s the problem.

Our feelings, like the weather, can change with the hour. And our forecasts can depend upon which window we look through at the time. What makes us unhappy one day will fill our hearts with comfort the next. Many have therefore considered rules of conduct to be essential in the governance of society. After all, we can’t really adopt relative moralism –whereby he does his thing and I do mine– or there’d be pandemonium as muggers and rapists apply for licence to plead their cases based on 'human nature'.

But perhaps, in effect, we are all relative moralists at heart. I may want things I cannot have, but for me taking them without payment goes beyond my moral make-up. Just me! But I cannot reason for others, even with the endorsement of laws, because I cannot recognise every situation under heaven. In this way, even if I am feeling benevolent or vindictive, and as long as the case before me is pleaded well, then the law will dictate the proper sentence for un-sociable behaviour.

Should we circumvent our emotions, then, and apply for the law in all cases? Certainly, if that was the sort of life considered necessary for harmony. One rule could therefore apply to all, and we would be thoroughly justified in our responses because of the necessity for compliance. And in so doing, respect for personal freedoms would be withdrawn and we would have entered an emotional and legal totalitarianism.

So what’s to do? We are caught between the need for what we should do (and what is required of us), and the need for individual determination. Can we be in both places?

Unfortunately, the answer is really, “It all depends”.  It depends upon what it is: for some religious and bigoted types, the idea of homosexuality is abhorrent and would therefore cross the boundaries of what is acceptable in society. For others, the adding of spoonfuls of sugar to a child’s morning cereal would constitute a gut-wrenching dilemma. Both very much depend upon the moral compasses of the moralist, never mind the protagonists. Can anyone ‘feel’ his or her way out of it? Of course, but that depends upon what is considered truly right. And for that, we take advice from experts in such matters, such as university professors of ethics, judges, members of the clergy and so on.

So, to re-cap, we each have dilemmas about what is ‘desirable’ and what is ‘good’ for us. Some of us brass it out, but many of us test our feelings about what to do. But those feelings flop about with the seasons, and very much depend upon our perspectives. And if we leave it all to our perspectives, then we become relativists (or tyrants). For some this is intolerable and law then becomes the arbiter of behaviour and the end of that road is rather unpleasant, as any inhabitant of a totalitarian regime will gladly elucidate. Can we therefore split our morality between the Kantian ideals of moral obligation and conformity and absolute individual freedom? Perhaps that depends upon quite what it is that is being decided, whether anyone has expert opinion on the matter – and whether anyone wants to listen!

Making hard decisions very much depends upon what is being decided. Deciding on a pair of jeans may be relatively inconsequential, but those decisions that rest in the heart can be overwhelming. Nevertheless, resolution is essential. To leave such matters open is asking for trouble; decisions must be decided! And neither is it vital to make reactionary decisions; we all have PhDs in hindsight. Eventually, these decisions must be made and the music faced.

So, if you’re looking for sagacity, then you’re reading the wrong blog. We share the same human nature. I’m afraid you just have to get on with it! Any more advice would only cloud the matter, and only help in making the wrong decision.

Americano Coffee

                                        Fetters abound
                                        Strictly bound
                                        Within the head
                                        On tabletop dependency
                                        Gnash-gnash

                                            A fearsome deadline
                                            The call to nature daily, hourly
                                            Suffering in others
                                            The curative ensemble
                                            A deep sighing heart
                                            Abating the weapon of tears
                                            Conventional males,
                                            The prigs,
                                            Unconventional females,
                                            The prudes,
                                            Mr Bankbalancebastard
                                            Keeping harmony, for its own sake
                                            And the self—that awfulness behind the lids

                                        There is comfort in gnashing chains
                                        The prisoner's willing reincarceration
                                        Tap-tap on the waistline's revelation
                                        So, too many beers! Too bad

                                        Freedom's deceit
                                        Once again
                                        Is that the promise resounds
                                        In empty rooms
                                        And Americano coffee
                                        Grrrr...

Squally Assurances

                                        Raindrops compete for proximity

                                        Within the dewy confines of the shirt

                                        Altogether drip-trip double, the neck runs

                                        Pounded from above the lime tree-lined pathway

                                        The park’s sodden grassland gives way to quickmarsh

                                        Each milk coffee puddle churns to a bubble-popped sea

 

                                        In deeply thunderous rolls, away on the field-tops

                                        Jumping tears sound upon the river’s smoothness raised

                                        Down from heaven the tiller’s shift drops your storm

                                        This way now; be wet, and in the wetter shivers realise

                                        That Olympus hears all, but answers few, less so with favour

 

                                        They all pass, they move on, and they dry

                                        Grasses in green, thick oak velvet,

                                        As needful for it from drop-tipped fronds

                                        To the clutched grip-sure roots,

                                        These squally assurances allow the nameless and the named

                                        The power of a tomorrow, in rains today

Down Through the Ages

                                        Down through the ages –visible to all–

                                        What concrescence turns the timid into tough

                                        Drives disruptive chaos into solid steadiness

                                        Leads anomaly to form, form to anomaly?

 

                                        The end of all worlds appears

                                        At the foot of each bed

 

                                        Theory towels that wrap magnificent bodies

                                        Are sieved through touch and taste

                                        And leave a residue of meaning

                                        Or are worthless

     

                                        Singularities redirect all, awake or asleep,

                                        To an awkward finality of infinite body

 

                                        Delusions of history –of smidgens and epochs–

                                        Unravel within a guitar’s strings and a voice—

                                        Dragging rugs from under troubled feet

                                        Leading to unfolded paths

 

                                        To seek love in the ever-normal

                                        Is to find no love at all

 

                                        Honest prayers, if said well,

                                        Through the long night

                                        –If torn from the chest–

                                        Constructs authentic

                                        Gives the heart-needed

                                        A new improved structure

Streetlamps and Wave-tips

                                In the header a bastard burning streetlamp, a toxygene

                                Splendidly caparisoned and in splendid isolation—how fond are we in our isolation—

                                Accommodating insulting siren blasts, wakeful or taking forty winks

 

                                Footnoted on the foamy bow’s wave-tipped tactic, a shuffle

                                Resuming a vocation on a godawful prospect—how fond are we of prospecting—

                                In quotidian dedication off we trot or drag, it doesn’t matter

 

                                So scream, rampage and burn the streets

                                Tomorrow does not come around every day

The Shadow

There was a definite shadow. No mistake. Quite large, really. He stared in disbelief, but there it was. And although the pleasant young doctor was talking in mindful and calming words about just how much medicine had advanced over the past few years, he could not quite listen. A habit of politeness made him nod and say “uh-huh” every now and again, but if he had been quizzed about any of it he would not have been able to repeat a single word.

The bus journey home was equally vapid  – he would have stayed on for the entire journey had another passenger not brushed past him when exiting at the bus stop after his own. He trudged back, completely unaware of the passing half kilometre distance. It was only at his door that he had to snap out of his reverie – he couldn’t find his key. Actually, that was not strictly true; he just could not remember which pocket he had put it in.

The phone rang. It was his brother checking about the next weekend’s upcoming party. Amidst the usual chitchat about work at the office, the nieces and nephews, the car in repair, their mum’s house repairs and plans for a summer holiday, there arose a distinct and almost violent necessity to vomit. So with a, “Gotta go. Sorry” he rushed to the kitchen sink and filled it with the retched contents of his stomach, which didn’t amount to much because of the hours that had elapsed between his breakfast tea and now. Sweating with effort, he grabbed the kitchen stool and sat himself down, hands over either side of the sink, and hung his head down until it touched his knees.

So this was it. The end. The Shadow of Death was approaching and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned over the sink again for two more fruitless heaves, then resumed the position. This was not how he wanted it to end.

Throughout his life he had occasionally considered death, as do all living and thinking things. Was it final, or would there be some sort of heaven? Would the method of his departure involve memorable heroics and posthumous glory, or some miserable descent into a world of pain and ultimate oblivion? Well, at least the latter of those scenarios was now abundantly clear. He would certainly die in a cloud of opiate-mitigated agony. It would be a final moment of the deepest and darkest profound inconsequence. And prematurely, as far as he was concerned, for he still had so very much to do – what a soul-crushing pity…

His mind brought up his parents’ deaths, in hospital beds surrounded by the nearest and dearest, although with his father there had been fewer present partly because of the timing of his departure – 5:16 am. Well, he cheerlessly reasoned, at least that wouldn’t happen to him because of his single status and having no darling progeny to hold the expected bedside vigil. No, his last moments would most likely be seen out alone.

He went to bed, full to overflowing with self-pity and pain. Within the forgiving embrace of familiar mattress and duvet, the remnant of his time on planet earth appeared to be evaporating – as so much empty breath. Like the kettle that was whistling downstairs. That was strange: he did not recall putting it on. Yes, there was the high-pitched steamy whistle. And it descended quickly, as if the gas was turned off.

He went down the stairs with as much stealth as he could and hesitantly peered around the corner. Beside the kitchen window, putting the kettle back onto the stove top, was the shadow of a man. Only it suddenly occurred to him that this man was dressed exactly like him – down to the socks! He abruptly stopped stirring his mug of tea, teaspoon in hand, and turned around: he not only dressed like him, but also looked exactly like him; a mirror image – a doppelganger!

“Who the hell are you?” he called out, still peering around the door frame.

“Oh, hi! There you are.” came the response in the same voice as his own, only calmer.

“What do you mean by, Oh, hi? I asked you who you are. And what are you doing in my house?”

“Hey, just chill out, will you?” said the doppelganger, who returned to stirring his tea, then tapped the rim before placing the spoon onto the draining board, just as was his custom. “And it’s more who the hell were you, not are you, by the way. 'Cos I’m you! Or was. It's a little confusing.”

“I’m calling the police!” he shouted, turning to find the remote charging in the hallway.

“Sorry, mate, but you haven’t got time. Not if you want to find out who I am.”

He stopped and returned a glance at his twin standing in the kitchen doorway taking his first sip. He smiled, “Ooh, lovely! You were right.”

“What?” He stood hands on hips. What on God’s good earth was happening to him? This was truly the day from Hell. First the diagnosis with six-months to one-year at best, if the doctor’s words could be remembered at all, and then this… interloper!

“You, that is I said, and correct me if I’m wrong, that shagging Phyllis Cornwallis was a waste of time and that you’d have rather had a nice cup of tea.”

Stupefied, he could only respond with the same, “What?”

“Well, here I am. I’m having that cup of tea!” He took another slurp. “And, despite the rather dubious reasons for saying it in the first place, I think you might be right. This really is a nice cup of tea.”

“And how do you know about Phyllis Cornwallis?”

“I’m you, remember?”

He stood confused and not a little angry. There was this stranger taking tea and passing the time of day about a bad date with an old girlfriend – how did he know about that?

The strange him smiled his rather patronising grin, the sort he used when disclosing vital information that only he knew, yet was vital for the other person to hear. He saw it and found it excruciating – as excruciating as everyone else who’d had to suffer it over the years. “Look, it’s quite straightforward really. The following day you, that is I, said to Eric that you’d –I’d– rather have had a nice cup of tea than shag Phyllis: that it had been a complete waste of time. So, you’ve, I mean I’ve, now got the opportunity. Cheers!”

So saying, he tilted his mug, his favourite mug, in his direction and took a slurp.

“Mmm… smashing! Can’t quite beat a nice cup of tea. I wonder whatever happened to Phyllis.”

“Phyllis? I don’t know. Wait…” He sat down at the bottom of the stairs. “You mean, you are me?”

“Got it!” He gave that same self-satisfied smirk. “And I must say, really, I’m so sorry about the news – you know, about this morning. Must be a bummer. But without it, I’m not here and your wasted time was… well, wasted!”

At that, he stood up smart. Frowning, he was going to demand answers, but was pre-empted.

“Calm down. It’s quite simple. You see, for every moment you/I said it was wasted, the time has been given again. Or rather, whatever you said you’d prefer to do has been enabled. Don’t ask me how; it just is – that’s all I know. And from memory, there are quite a lot of regrets that will be putting in an appearance. I’ll certainly be popping by from time to time: you wasted a lot of time by saying the ‘Rather have a cup of tea’ one regularly.”

“I did?”

“And remember that dalliance in New York with what’s-her-name?”

“Carmel?”

“Yes, that was it – and she left on the first night? Well, that regret is being chased up quite soon. I think ‘I’d have rather had a rusty harpoon inserted up my anus!’ was perhaps over-exaggerating the whole impact thing of that admittedly disastrous weekend, don’t you think? I mean; you hardly knew the girl.”

He stared blankly back at his cocky mirror image. “So, you mean I can have those times, those regrets again?”

He took a good gulp and stood there nursing the remnants of the tea.

“Well, yes. Kind-of. Only, of course, it won’t exactly be you enjoying all those wasted moments – I suppose that would be unfair. So, from time to time a You, or more exactly an I, will appear and all those things you regretted will be accounted for. You do understand this, don’t you – you are, after all, a chartered accountant.”

And with that, the mug was drained, taken to the sink, rinsed under the hot tap and placed on the draining board next to the spoon.

“Cheerio, then.” He impishly smiled. Vanishing, like mist on the wind, he just had enough time to say, “Thanks for the tea. Oh, and by the way, after the news this morning, any more regrets are invalidated. So you can’t just go around regretting your whole life or some such.”

Authenticity and Doubt

Section 1 – Authenticity

He looked at his professor – he had his doubts; of that he was certain. Despite the softness of advanced age, the baldpate, the wispy hair, the thin arms and loose-fitting tweed jacket, Martin Jarvis appeared to be made of granite.

Nothing appeared little to faze him; a lifetime of student comings and goings, of departmental battles and managerial problems, made him a professor that truly professed something. And yet, this very professorial air seemed to be mere clouds that had gathered around a very ignoble peak, disguising the real character of a very false man. Beneath it all, the fluff and merry tutorial airs, once the hard-nosed investigative soul got close enough –was permitted to be close enough– those real underlying doubts would surface for sure: they’d be there, like cracks on the surface of a smooth high alpine glacier. And if he really worked his pick in, he could shatter the man to a thousand pieces.

They had worked through Kierkegaard’s existentialism; the understanding of existence preceding essence, that meaning is given to the essence of life, and of the absurdity implicit in this living at any one moment in time. Of course, none of this had been a problem, for it was easy to follow this good teacher’s instructions in philosophy. Not only had he undoubtedly kept to a familiar yearly teaching routine, probably for decades, but he also made the subject seem so very applicable. Twice each week his students went back to their digs with new ideas buzzing around in their heads, ideas with meaning could be important in the very living of their lives; how to be true to oneself, to find meaning, to travel a path through the thoughts of others, and to raise a whole host of important questions that would never stop troubling the mind until death’s release.

But one thing troubled him – Professor Jarvis’s ‘authenticity’.

Firstly, he took in the whole idea of authenticity that had been introduced in the natural discourse on the historical development of philosophy. The professor touched upon it when they had examined Kierkegaard’s reasoning that in order to be authentic one had to form one’s own ideas. It had been developed much further with regard to Nietzsche’s ideas of the shedding of the herd mentality. Later, in Heidegger, it had arisen with the identity of ‘mine-self’ as opposed to the ‘they-self’ in society, and had led to a great conclusions of Fromm and Sartre and then…

On the face of it, this seemed a preposterous question. What did he mean by authentic? Would he recognize it if he saw it? And who had given him the notion that he could sit in cold judgment on as steady and as fine-minded a soul as the professor's? But who else would do it?

It occurred to him that authenticity only appeared when all doubt had disappeared. If doubt persisted, then how could a teacher, a real life exponent of the very thing you were studying, be said to have reached what would be described as an authentic life. He had to be exactly what was in the philosophical prescription. When the clouds parted and the peak was finally visible, then the granite had better be solid, unshakeable, without fissure. If it was not, then decisive action was required – action derived from his own authentic, non-herd-like deliberations.

Section 2 – Decision

A)   He reasons that the professor must die and finds a way to justify taking violent action against his inauthenticity, but when challenged finds the motives for his very own actions to be equally inauthentic. He walks away forever dejected.

B)   He raises strong philosophical arguments concerning the role of authenticity in the lives and prognostications of philosophers and by comparison judges Prof Martin Jarvis to be unworthy of his title. He has killed his reputation and walks away triumphant.

C)   He violently argues with the professor regarding his authenticity, yet loses on account of his own shortcomings and goes on to see in the professor's life a philosophical path that can be followed. Nevertheless, he walks away vowing to return.

D)   He takes his time in choosing the right moment to ambush the professor in class, tearing away his misleading propositions and coming to the realisation that the professor should follow only one course of action – authenticity or death. He physically kills him with his bare hands...

Section 3 – Doubt