Perhaps you understand such things better than I. As for myself--really
I admit myself unable to fathom the why and the wherefore of such
simple natural phenomena as the transformation that takes place in
things when they experience chemical and electrical interference.
All I know is that they change, and I am satisfied. Like all natural
phenomena, it exists, and I do not know how to figure out the why.
The change which takes place can be sensed, it can be felt, smelled,
or seen. Why is it that a head of cabbage, fresh from stalk or stall,
is so different an entity after the simple process of boiling? We are
aware of the difference through several senses, but chiefly by assault
and battery on our sense of smell. Is the art of cooking some improved
or retrograded science of alchemy? None but an alchemist of high degree
could assume the audacity to convert a raw potato into _pommes de
terre au gratin_. Any kitchen scullion could tell both you and me a
great deal about salads and other such matters. Our chef accomplishes
miracles, but I venture to say that he has never yet essayed to account
for the marvel. The chemist can tell us all about the ingredients and
chemical properties of cabbage; but can he give me the reason for the
cabbage law? Can he tell me why a potato gets soft and an egg hard when
boiled?
An acorn falls; it takes root. Lo! an oak. The contact of the acorn
with earth, the sun’s rays, the gentle rain, the tempered wind, the
dew, and that indefinable essence of life--these combine to uprear
another oak-tree in the forest. I have heard no grumbling in the woods;
the forest is content. The other trees make neither comment, cavil, nor
complaint. Acorn was. Earth is. The young oak is.
And so, when a human entity is attracted here to the sun, the rain, the
wind, and the multifold unseen and impalpable forces and influences
that make for growth, and which we call life, we realize a like
phenomenon. There was one. Now there be twain.
My befuddled brain puzzles wearily with the mystery. Yet mystery on
mystery. Why is it that society persists in multiplying mystery? For is
it not a certainty, while the sapling in the forest meets a welcome,
the newcomer into society requires credentials? Neither the cook nor
the alchemist from whom the cook is descended can help us here. It’s
all well enough to understand that cabbage becomes acceptable by being
boiled. The like process will not operate kindly in the matter of
babies.
No, clearly the alchemist nor his cousin, the wizard, can help us in
this dilemma. The magician has but to say “Presto, change!” or some
equally potent phrase, and the thing’s done in a jiffy. If he omits
the formula the change refuses to occur. While in magic also the change
is visible (if the operator be apt), the distinction which society
imposes is quite beyond the discernment of the senses, even the most
common.
“You are a bastard.” This is said to me with a fine scorn that is
designed to convince me that in comparison with others there is
a vital defect in me. I am under standard. In commerce I should
be classed as “seconds.” My worth to society is below par. My own
observation convinces me that the classification of inferiority
imposed upon me lacks validity. I am well-knit. My carriage and
demeanor unexceptionable; my muscles are well developed and supple.
Stately, well proportioned; clean-cut features. I am accounted no
mean antagonist, and can “hold my own” in debate on most topics. My
mirror (one of the best makes) reflects, without reflecting upon, my
comeliness; and lays some emphasis upon even white teeth, virile hair,
and a complexion not too tawny to hide the crimson flood that flows
freely through my veins.
“Seconds!” Nay, nay! Not so. Without the whispered cue, even society
would rank me as an “A Number One” article.
I have heard a woman declare that she would give some of her thousands
for some of my hair. Another craved my complexion. A third envied me
a voice, which, in her ecstatic admiration she averred to be most
melodious.
There’s nothing of the “slouch” in me. You should see me at work. Ah!
I love my work, and because of the joy I have in it I easily excel
those who feel it a drudgery to perform one-half my stent. Yet I am a
bastard. “Presto, change!” was not said over the union of my parents;
and I am neither an accident nor a child of convenience. My father did
not seek my mother to supply the need of a housekeeper, nor did my
mother crave a home.
My mother is the woman of my own choice. While I was still in the
very blood of my father I felt her presence. I intoxicated him with a
passion he could not withstand. How I longed for her--my mother--to
receive me. In her blood was floating about that which would complete
me. How deftly I schemed and contrived my father’s introduction to
her. And his execution of my impulse was perfect. How I compelled him
to caress and fondle the sweet mother of my choice! When he kissed her
lips it was I that kissed her. His arms about her were the arms that
were to become my arms. It was I who made his heart palpitate with joy
when she was near, or even in his thoughts, and I brought her to his
thoughts when she was far away. I would not let him give place to any
other thought than thoughts of her--my mother.
People said that he was mad. Yes, with a divine madness. And it was I
who had made him so.
And how restless was that complement of me that my mother’s blood held
in suspense when it compelled her to realize that the comely youth who
was to father me held in his being the corresponding atom of me!
The blushes that suffused her beauteous face were responses all to
my allurements. I went to her brain, and she could think but of him.
Her eyes had vision for none but for him. Yes, I caused her pain,
much pain, but not more than was good for her. For her pain brought
compensating pleasure that put all pain and thought of pain to rout.
Waking and dreaming, she knew me, and all that I would be to her,
and she knew naught else but me--and the youth who carried me in his
rushing tide of life.
Not for myself alone was I enlisted in the choice of my parents, but
more because of all the future generations that were pent up within my
womb while I was floating inchoate in the blood that coursed through
the hearts of my mother and my father.
And of that conjunction of the me in my father, and of that in my
mother that longed for me, I became unified. Such love as interflowed
betwixt them twain was the soul struggling to be born, to be properly
born and beautifully expressed. My parents loved, and I am the fruit
of love. Their love was perfect, and my birth was perfect, and I am
perfect. I am the child of Love, and I am Love.
Yet I am a bastard, for no hocus-pocus incantation was chanted over the
nuptials from which I issue. No wizard, no priest, no magistrate, had
lot or parcel in my borning. Hence I am greater than Magic, greater
than the Church, greater than State. I am the incarnation of harmony,
the essence of happiness, the product of nature. And you, unhappy
children of chance, unwelcome and dreaded in your coming, how I pity
you! I look into your tired faces, racked bodies, clouded brains, and
loveless natures, and do not marvel to find you true to your father’s
superstitions. No, I do not despise you, nor will I deny you the
benefit of my love. I love you, for I am the child of Love. Such am I,
the bastard.
“IT IS FINISHED”
I confided to a wise man my intention to write a book, and requested
that he suggest a title. He advised me to call it “Thoughts of a Fool,”
and he explained that his counsel was not based alone on his estimate
of my inferiority to the wise, but that I was specifically foolish to
expect fame, appreciation, or money for my efforts.
Later, when I submitted the manuscript for his approval it was not
approval I got, but a lecture so animated in objurgation that its
import is worth recording. He commented with itemized disfavor upon
each chapter as he read it, and summed up his appraisal at the end of
the reading with the assurance that what I had written was “rot.”
“Tear it up!” he said. “It is ‘no good.’ It is, as I have said, the
veriest balderdash, rubbish, rot. Your stuff would raise questions in
the minds of your readers to which you afford no adequate answers. A
book should deal with the Ideal. To be worthy, it should build up,
while you tear down. It should educate, not derogate from the sum of
wisdom which the world has been ages in accumulating. Besides, you are
inconsistent throughout, for you do not believe in condemning, yet
from beginning to end you indulge in a succession of condemnations.”
So now that I have succeeded in enlisting a publisher, it is but fair
to you, my reader, that you be taken into my confidence; and I want
to leave no question in your mind concerning myself. The thoughts
and ideas in this book must stand for themselves. I claim only to
be the messenger of these ideas. I am only the cornet on which Life
sounded the notes, and the melody that has been evoked is true to the
manipulation of the Master Player. I was absolutely will-less in Life’s
hands. And so, when I came upon the trail of Truth I cared not whither
it would lead. I indulged no preconceived notions as to what I wanted
it to be, or to be like. Therefore I believe myself to be consistent
because Life is consistent.
Words, words, words! How can you express Life--how can you express
something that is greater than you? You have your place, but not the
whole place. It is you that make Life inconsistent when you represent
Life. You who hearken to false witnesses will give false verdicts.
Words themselves will tell you so, and when they do they are in harmony
with Life and are Life.
I saw words that were aflame with Life. I saw words that burned like
living fire. I saw words that aroused anger and resentment; and words
that calmed the storms of passion; words that refreshed and invigorated
like the friendly rain after a parching drought. I saw complex words
and I saw simple words, and there was Life in them all. I saw cruel
words that pierced like daggers, and words fraught to the full with
balm of happiness. When words take their rightful place, and are
satisfied to be what they are--merely words--how illimitable their
sphere enlarges--how grand and potent they become!
The words in this book are the words of Life. It remains for you to
decide what relationship exists between you and the words in this
volume. Without effort to be consistent it is consistent; and by
tearing down it builds up. Its education of you progresses as it
succeeds in tearing away the mask you wear.
Consistent! I am consistent when I do not condemn, for neither does
Life condemn. Life gives itself alike to the just and to the unjust.
And I am consistent when I condemn, for Life, too, condemns.
I am consistent in my condemnation of you when you condemn yourself by
concealing yourself behind a mask. You condemn your acts, and for that
reason you cover them. I do not condemn you for what you do, but for
wearing the mask--the mark of your self-condemnation.
You are inconsistent in your self-condemnation, nor is there sincerity
in it. For when you condemn a thing you cover it over, in order to
protect and conserve the very thing you condemn.
What Life condemns it extirpates. It has served its time and its
occasion, and is condemned to be no more. Life executes its mandates,
and from its judgment there is no appeal.
I know that you are what you are because you were what you were:
and you will be what you will be because you are what you are. The
action of Life through me upon you is in the process. I condemn your
condemnations, and by condemning them I destroy that which I condemn,
and leave you free from that which is condemned, instead of shielding
you and protecting that which you condemn.
For, look you! Life it is and Life alone that has the power to condemn,
for the thing that is dead is condemned to its grave, while you have
fertilized with your concealments the things you have condemned, and
they have flourished under your condemnation.
And as to Ideals. You cannot fall short of your highest ideals when
you are purged and cleansed of that within you which condemns. The
residue--the real You--is pure, holy, divine. What greater ideal could
you entertain?
Nor need “human nature” be changed to accomplish the transformation.
Does not your nature help me preserve the very thing which I wish to
preserve? You condemn, but nature in you, which is my Master as well
as yours, preserves that which I need, and when I condemn your mask
to be shattered to fragments you will then come forth like the little
chick when the time has come for its emergence from its imprisoning
shell. When the hour strikes you will heed the clarion call of Life to
unmask--to leave the outworn shell and blighted mask behind which you
were to get the experiences that fitted you to stand forth as one of
whom it might with truth be said: “It is Finished.”
Brother! Sister! Life has condemned the divided house in which you have
been dwelling--condemned it to its fall. Life has condemned in you the
old, that the new may become established. You will be transformed into
Man! A New Man! A man with a new sense--a sense capable of conscious
happiness--of a happiness that the old could never know. A peace,
indeed, that passeth understanding.
Life is building a new world, and preparing new beings to inherit the
fullness thereof. New beings that will sense the full fruition of the
comradeship of Man. Can you picture an ideal destiny transcending
this--that you are in the laboratory of preparation to become a
master-builder in this new-world building process? Yes, Life is making
you over in its seething crucible, that you may realize the Joy of
Life--such joy as you have never known.
The old world--the shell in which you are being formed--is pleasureless
to you. You conceive of pleasure only by the intellectual deduction
that pleasure ensues when pain ceases. Pleasure and pain are comrades;
one follows the other as light succeeds darkness. So, too, does
happiness follow misery.
It will come, brother, whether you want it so or not. You cannot stop
progress any more than you can stop the sun from shining. To stand in
the way of progress is suicide--like standing in the way of an express
train at full tilt; you are ground beneath the wheels, while the train
rushes on, heedless of the trifle that has sought to stay its flight.
Life has you in its laboratory. It is making a new man of you. And you
will build the new world. A world in which joy will be in everything
well done. Work will be a pleasure. A new civilization approaches.
It will bring with it new concepts--new concepts of work. Man has
passed through the theological civilization to the capitalistic, and
our concept of work has changed in the process. In the theological
civilization all human activity, mental and industrial, sprang from the
church. All that was achieved was done in the name of the church--God
and the church.
Painter and sculptor spent their lives in embellishing a cathedral.
Labor was deemed a curse of God on man. You must labor because you
have sinned, was the call of the church to diligence. All the “better”
industries were fostered by the church, and the laborer was a galley
slave. The redemption of Adam was to be a surcease from exertion. Labor
was esteemed a punishment for sin, and Salvation was a promise of
endless idleness.
Man went to war for the church, for then the church was supreme. Now
capital is supreme in the minds of men, and with the newer sovereignty
comes a remodeled philosophy. Work is no longer viewed as a curse. We
work because of our present needs rather than because of a desire to
expiate the sin of Adam. Nor do we now kill people for God’s sake or
for the greater glory of the church. We do our killing in the name
of Commerce, for the establishment of broader markets. Expansion is
our war-cry. When a railway magnate declares that God in his wisdom
had given him and his associates control over the coal deposits of
Pennsylvania, the good people laughed at him. Not because they disputed
the ownership of the select. No, they concede thus much. They smiled
at Mr. Baer’s anachronism. He was some centuries behind the times,
invoking a dethroned sovereign instead of the recognized reigning
monarch. Five centuries ago all ownership was justified as from the
grace of God, and no one had then the temerity to laugh the pretension
to scorn.
In the new civilization--in the new world that is to be built by man
for Man, rather than for God and Capital--work will assume a newer and
saner phase. We will work because of the pleasure we shall derive from
serving. We will serve well because we will love well. And he will be
greatest among us who serves most, until in the common love and service
all distinctions of greatness will be dissolved in the effulgence of
boundless, bondless Love.
Can you conceive of this? Can you see the new world coming?
Yes, it is coming, and it will be built by you.
Yes, you are condemned to the cross of the great preparation, that in
your resurrection you may build a new world, here and Now.
So, you see, that mask of yours served its purpose. You were at a
masquerade, and it was fitting you should wear your mask. But midnight
approaches. Only a few minutes more, and life will remove all masks.
Then you shall stand revealed to me as you are, and you shall see me as
I Am. And we will recognize each other as comrades, and laugh together
at the way we fooled each other with our sham.
Hark! Do you hear the gong?
Lo! the hour is at hand.