"What are we going
to do?" said my friend, piercing
my conscience with his question. And I wept in reply. What are we going
to do?! What are we going to do??! Is there anything to be done at all?
And who are we?
I write poetry. But somehow it's not enough. Poetry
just entertains; it does not change people. What are we going to do??
We live in a world of dead forms and dead ideas. And we question if
anything has meaning. So what are we going to do???
My friend is drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a
cigarette. "We live in a world still dominated by Plato and the Bible.
But we must free ourselves from the old ideas that paralyze our
thinking and our lives," he says to me. "We must learn how to think
again. The 'technological man' was born out of the old ideas. But we
can no longer live our lives according to the outdated philosophy.
Technology cannot solve the problem of existence."
I agree with him that man cannot worship technology
but I'm not quite sure if we can create a "new" philosophy that can
liberate human beings and make them happy. My friend has read Marx,
Nietzsche, Kazantzakis, Bergson, and other writers, and he's burning
with the flames of these great minds, but as I look at him, I see
someone else's ideas and I'm not sure if he fully understands them.
"What are we going to do?" he asks the question with a sense of
authority, as if the plight of the planet rests solely on his
shoulders. In this bureaucratic society our only refuge from feeling
small and insignificant is to imagine ourselves as a great thinker, a
great artist, a movie star, a rock 'n' roll idol, or whatever, so as to
give us a sense of having some kind of personal impact on the
impersonal technological world.
What are we going to do??? I'm a graduate student,
who just graduated with a BA in psychology, yet feeling disillusioned
with the dehumanizing aspects of psychological theories, whether they
be behavioristic or "humanistic," and there I see my Greek friend,
striking a chord within my heart.
Is he a madman, a genius or a dreamer? Or is he a
bullshitter who likes to impress others with idle conversation? Somehow
it isn't really important. There seems to be a lot of enthusiasm,
pulsing through his veins, which I find to be a rare quality amidst the
cynicism and apathy of modern life. He is a lively conversationalist
and he inspires me to learn more about the people he refers to, even
though I suspect that his knowledge is superficial. But he demands
respect from me and gets offended when I don't take him seriously.
He told me that he is writing a Master's thesis on
the nihilism of Nikos Kazantzakis and that I could not possibly
understand what is meant by "nihilism" in literature without a thorough
study of Nietzsche and Kazantzakis. But he will talk to me about it
anyway. I have never seen anyone speak so enthusiastically about
"nothing." Yet, as I observe him, I see my own struggle to find
meaning. Maybe when I see someone openly declare a sense of emptiness,
I recognize a need to discover a genuine purpose to my existence.
He finishes his coffee and we part in one of our
quarrels over what he sees as my tendency to look down upon the
accomplishments of the great minds of the twentieth century, but
looking at my friend, I find him intolerant and hard to be with.
Perhaps there are great minds in this world, but they could probably
use some humility and patience in dealing with the little minds.
In his foreword to The Anti-Christ Nietzsche writes:
Perhaps my friend, whom I will call Andros (from the
Greek word, meaning "man" (male)), thinks that he, like Nietzsche, will
not be understood in his time and that "the day after tomorrow belongs
to him." Nietzsche was a great poet, but what an ego! Nonetheless, it
does not prevent us from getting together occasionally for a cup of
coffee or a pitcher of beer. Andros is 25 years old, which makes him
almost my age (I'm 24), and he still possesses a carefree frivolity and
joie de vivre of youth. And his enthusiasm for life and new experiences
inspires me to write poetry. What a shame that a man like him should
embrace "hopelessness," inspired by the writings of Kazantzakis. "What
are you hoping for?" he is asking me, as my mind wanders to the
prospect of seeing a girl, whom I fell in love with, one more time.
"What are you hoping for?! Free yourself from the slavery of hope!!!"
his words roll in my head with their sharp edges, while I think of the
times when he was dying to smoke a joint.
I'm still a virgin at 24, going on 25, and it has
been a source of frictions among me and my more sexually experienced
friends. A virgin! What could I possibly know about women and
relationships?! And why am I so afraid to "take a dive"?
Andros says that "he has gotten sex out of his
system." He explains that he lived on the Greek islands, where there
was plenty of sex and no inhibitions. People would get drunk, smoke a
joint and do it on a sandy beach by the sea. He used to tell me a lot
about the islands and the European girls who visited
them. But now, he says, the islands are crowded with tourists and there
are less deserted places where one can experience a paradise
of the senses. I listen to him with amazement as he tells me of his
long hair days and the discothèques. He is in
New Haven now -- a conservative Connecticut town -- living with an
old-fashioned but ambitious American girlfriend, whom I will call
Theresa. He is now preoccupied with financial and educational worries
and plans to marry Theresa in the near future. He is no longer a
playboy that he used to be, or so he says, and is committed to his work
and the responsibilities of living with another person. He says that he
needs Theresa to remind him to go to work and be serious and
responsible.
Andros has been living with Theresa for the last
couple of years. They are planning to move to Greece together after
they get married and Andros completes his Master's thesis in history on
Nikos Kazantzakis. They have been sharing an apartment together and
Theresa has been taking care of most of the rent. Andros feels guilty
about it and has frequent arguments with his girlfriend about money.
His father sends him money from Greece, but not enough to cover his
tuition and room and board. Andros doesn't have a green card (given to
permanent residents) and cannot get a decent job in the U.S. without
it. Moreover he wants to retain his Greek citizenship because he
doesn't want to lose his right to his parents' property. That means
that he will have to serve two years in the Greek army -- a prospect that
doesn't exactly appeal to him. Once in a while Andros would work for
the local Greeks under the table to make some money and not to feel so
guilty about his girlfriend's taking care of the rent, but he hates the
jobs that he gets and leaves them after a while.
So now he's trying to appear serious to his friends:
some day he will be a history professor and all his efforts and all the
efforts of his girlfriend will pay off. They will have a home in
Greece, Andros will get a chair of history at some university and will
write his great work that will shock the world. This couple -- Andros
and
Theresa -- reminds me a lot of my parents. My father is a professor of
linguistics at Yale and my mother is his devoted wife, who sacrificed
her own ambitions to serve my father. And they argue constantly over
trivial matters, just like Andros and Theresa.
I asked Andros once if he loves Theresa and he said
that he is sacrificing everything for his work, having abandoned his
passion for beautiful women to dedicate himself to more important
goals: the arrows of Eros no longer touch his soul. He now wants a
quiet and secure place where he can pursue his studies, and his
girlfriend's quiet and supportive nature suits his needs.
Unfortunately, his dreams of a peaceful life are shattered every time
his girlfriend blows up at him when he goes out with his friends and
leaves her by herself. Theresa constantly tests Andros' love for her by
throwing temper tantrums, which often occur in front of his friends and
make him very embarrassed socially. "Love is irrational," Andros tries
to explain his girlfriend's behavior. One time she called the police
when they had an argument in their apartment and they were both
arrested for the breach of peace. Andros had to see his professor the
following day, but Theresa refused to give him a ride (Andros often
relies on her in many practical aspects of living), so he missed his
appointment. He told his teacher that he spent a few hours in jail but
that he could rest assured that Andros is not a criminal.
I often wonder why they stay together. "Theresa is a
romantic," Andros explains, "and I have a weakness for romantic types
because they have a tendency to be suicidal." I don't really know if
Andros ever experienced love, but his swinging days are over now and he
no longer counts on his good looks to get him through life. He spends a
lot of time in the apartment, has a beer belly, smokes, drinks coffee,
has a constant craving for marijuana, and goes out occasionally with
his male friends or with his girlfriend. He attaches a particular
importance to his male friends because "only men can discuss serious
philosophical issues." When a woman enters the "company," she
immediately becomes the center of attention (that is, if she is
attractive) and all the men in the group want to have sex with her.
Andros doesn't regard women's lib too highly and I even heard him
declare in one of his drunken episodes: "To know woman you must smell
her pussy!" As much as he would like to deny it, he's definitely a male
chauvinist who regards women as sexy playthings. As I observe him
lately, he is a bit of a neurotic, plagued by various psychosomatic
problems and obsessive worries perhaps attributable to the stresses of
living with Theresa and his financial problems. He is also very much
preoccupied with making a good impression on his professors. His
happy-go-lucky nature has been colored by a somewhat somber and
meticulous air, embracing nihilistic ideas without the awareness of all
the negativity and pessimism that they imply.
* * * * *
O Andros! A foreigner with a Greek accent. I, too,
still feel like a foreigner, having come to America from the Soviet
Union at the age of 13. Perhaps we are all wanderers and strangers,
searching for a sense of belonging in this world. What are we going to
do, Andros?! What are we going to do?? Your voice pierces me like the
chill of the wind in November. I, too, write in the hope that I may get
published some day. I, too, worry about finances and suffer from
hemorrhoids, constipation, muscle spasms, and nervous tension. I have
trouble sleeping and my chest is itchy. I'm nearsighted, with dandruff,
and I'm beginning to lose my hair. I have spent forty days in a mental
institution, depressed by the monotony and the drudgery of living. The
doctors thought I was crazy -- "psychotic," as they put it -- but I'm just
overly sensitive with a powerful imagination. I, too, think of Death
and its dark faces.
O Andros! I have fallen in love with many women and
some have rejected me. I have wept through the sleepless nights and
have written a lot of poetry -- some good, some bad -- but I tried to show
them how I feel and I feel terrible. And the women! What could I offer
them but a few lines of poetry to express my affection and loneliness?
I don't have a car, Andros, and cars, for the most part, make me
uneasy. I've lived in Moscow since my childhood and never had to rely
on cars to get me places. And poetry! What do they care about poetry?
American university are packed with business and computer science
majors. The foreign language departments are weeping, and philosophy
and English majors are flipping burgers at McDonald's and Burger King.
What are we going to do, Andros??? How are we going
to put an end to this madness?! I'm out of work and I don't have money
for school, and romance has turned into a one-night stand. I'm a
virgin. But do I have to screw my brains out to appreciate the beauty
of a kiss, of a flower, of a sunset, of a woman?!! Where is love???
Where is beauty, my friend?! We live in a world of fear and suspicion.
People are afraid of each other as if they are out to infect one
another with the AIDS virus.
I don't read the papers and I don't watch the news
and I'm not crazy about being bombarded by another rape and murder,
another hostage crisis, another AIDS victim, another violation of human
rights in Central America, another nuclear disaster, and what not.
Human tragedy has become entertainment and big business for the condom
industry. And I'm sick of the New Age movement and all those phony
Hollywood stars with toothpaste smiles on their faces, boasting about
their past lives. What are we going to do?? What are we going to do???
* * * * *
My thoughts are interrupted as my friend Fred enters
the house. He is an ex-mental patient but he prefers not to advertise
it. He sits on a couch with a gloomy look on his. Fred is younger than
me but he's gone through hell and he also want to write.
"You look like shit," he says, "you've been talking
to Andros, haven't you?" I nod in agreement. My friend looks tired from
working all day at the bookstore. And I? I live un suburbia with my
parents, trying to make an appearance of doing something important with
my life. I look at Fred, who also lives at his parents' home, and
recognize a familiar melody. "Schicksal!"[2] I say, as my
fatalistic friend nods in agreement. "We are all just pawns of some
immutable fate and we cannot fight it."
Fate has been a favorite over the beer topic with
Fred. "So when are you going to get laid?" he asks.
I don't have to answer this question, for we both
realize that we just want to get drunk. His eyes light up when I
mention the latest poem by Dylan Thomas that I've read.
The night covers the suburbia with a phlegm-like
film and we leave my parents' house like two apparitions in the land of
the dead. "Let's go see your Korean buddy Kenny," Fred says. "He is
always good for a few laughs."
"Yep," I say with a sardonic smile on my face.
"Kenny is always full of life and vigor. I think he's going into
airborne training this summer. I guess Uncle Sam has been good to him."
Fred mentions a girl at the store, whom he would
like to make it with, as we head for Kenny's house. There is a full
moon out tonight and she is looking at me with her sad eyes, as if
asking: "What are we going to do? What are we going to do??"
Suburbia. Suburbia. Suburbia. This summer, this
place, this night I stand trembling at the horror of the question...
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?
My eyes are filled with tears as we approach
Kenny's house.
June 30, 1987
_____
[1] Nietzsche, F.
Twilight of the
Idols and The Anti-Christ. translated, with an
introduction and commentary, by R.J. Hollingdale. New York:
Penguin Books, 1982, p. 114
[2] German: "destiny."