Doctor Criminale

‘But what betrays, the thought or the person?’ I asked. ‘Another very interesting question,’ said Criminale, not answer­ing it, but staring down at the weed-filled water, ‘Please give me your view.’ ‘I remember a phrase I read somewhere, was it in George Steiner?’ I said. ‘It might be, if you read him,’ said Criminale. ‘He remarked how often it is that the great scholar-thinker is also the great betrayer,’ I said. ‘The great betrayer,’ said Criminale, looking at me ironically, ‘You mean myself? Please, in 1956 I was young, and I misread history, a very difficult book. It is easy, let me warn you, you will do it too. One thing I have learned, my friend, there is no such thing as the future. The future is just what we invent in the present to put an order over the past. Don’t live for the future, you will only find the wrong faction and make the wrong friend. I made the usual mistake, I thought I knew what was bound to happen. You will make it too.’

‘But you make your mistakes in public,’ I said, ‘A philoso­pher, people read and believe you.’ ‘I have written big books, yes, contributed to philosophy, made novels too, you know,’ he said, ‘What now? Do I tear up my books because I looked at the clock and saw the wrong time there? All books are like that. You know, if my bedroom life had been just a little different, in 1956 I would have come to the West. Then I would go to America, write just those same books. Would you talk of betrayal then? Would you doubt the words? I made a mistake, I shared it with millions. Let us agree that, and say no more about it. It is not betrayal.’ ‘You didn’t just get history wrong,’ I said, There was Irini.’ ‘Well, let me tell you, because you clearly know nothing about it,’ said Criminale, ‘In certain rimes, maybe all times, love and friendship become impossible. If for forty years you too had lived a double life, you would understand.’

‘A double life?’ I asked. ‘A double life of course,’ said Criminale, ‘Over there in those days we lived in a time when the only rule was to lie. By the wrong emotion, the wrong gesture, you betrayed yourself. But if you knew how to lie, if you supported the regime in public, you were allowed your thoughts in private. If you allowed them to use your reputation, you were not called to the police station. If you stood up for their history, they permitted you your irony. We were a culture of cynics, we were corrupt and base, but it was the agreed reality. Those people loved great political thoughts, they loved Utopia, totality. The revolution of the proletariat, a madhouse. I had a higher life, I was better than that. But cynicism moves everywhere, even into love.’ ‘And thought too,’ I said. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘I see now what you want me to say. That my work is wrong, as corrupt as my world. Well, I ca

‘I ought to go,’ I said, getting up, ‘I really do have an interview.’ ‘Wait,’ said Criminale, taking my arm, ‘You escape too lightly. I will teach you about betrayal} Let me tell you this: we all betray each other. Sometimes from malice, or fear. Sometimes from indifference, sometimes love. Sometimes for an idea, sometimes from political need. Sometimes because we ca

But that seemed far too easy. The past has to answer,’ I said, ‘In your story-real crimes were committed.’ ‘Yes, wrongs were done, but how is it now?’ said Criminale, ‘You tell me, you come from a-media-world.’ ‘Not any more,’ I said, ‘Actually I find I’m a verbal person not a visual person.’ ‘That is not how I mean,’ said Criminale, ‘You live in the media age, the age of simulation, as they all say at that congress. The age of no ideology, only hyperreality. Well, go to New York now, the Beirut of the Western world. The streets are filled with gangs and terrorists, the women rage with anger, everyone lives for themselves. You sit high in some fine apartment, great paintings on the walls, and down in the street people kill for drugs and kicks. Too little reality, also too much. Everywhere, wild fantasies, everyone wants a violent illusion. Life is a movie, death is a plot ending, no stories are real. And even the philosophers think in unrealities, they describe a world of no ethics, no humanism, no self. I know my age had bad ethics, now show me yours.’

‘You remember in your quarrel with Heidegger . . .’ I said. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘You said his mistake was thinking thought could evade history and stay pure. But if it can’t, what then?’ ‘Of course, if you like to think so, thought is corrupt, and nobody wins,’ said Criminale, Then of course there are no ethics, no realities, no philosophies, no myths, no art. The world is as empty as some people say, only chaos and randomness. We are non-existent selves, we start at the begi

As it happened, I didn’t talk to him again. There he was at the seminar di

In the morning, when I checked at the desk, Criminale’s luggage had still not been traced. He would not be leaving quickly, I had enough for my article, and now I could not keep on avoiding him. I left Schlossburg that morning and flew off home. I wrote my Po-Mo piece, which appeared in the Po-Mo supplement, which is why in their cottages in Provence everyone chatted Postmodernism over the Piat d’Or that summer. Then I thought again about whether I should write about Criminale. I had said I would remain silent, but what I had in mind now was not exactly about Criminale at all. The Schlossburg conversation half changed my mind. He had said his story was, perhaps, not so very far away from being my own story, though of course his story seemed to stop more or less where mine started; that was what I thought about.

And Bazlo Criminale’s story did stop, just about a week after the end of the Schlossburg seminar. For, back in Santa Barbara, California, where he had returned, Criminale died – knocked over by a helmeted bicyclist in a Sony Walkman, so engrossed in some orgasmic peak of the latest Mado