Kiran Subbaiah/Texts by KS/Spinoza Out of the blue a man found himself thinking about Spinoza. He had often heard people talk about Spinoza and read some of the writers he admired refer to Spinoza in their books. He was even sure that he had taken a peek into a couple of Spinoza�s books, if not read through a handful of pages in his college library when he had been a student, not too long ago. Yet he couldn�t think of a single thing written by or about Spinoza. He just could not remember. All that had remained in his memory about Spinoza was the name. Uttering the name �Spinoza� to himself, he recalled clearly that the first time he heard it, he had liked the sound of it. It felt good to hear someone say �Spinoza� and even better when he said it himself. It had the punch. It seemed to ring a bell. He realized that it was in fact the name �Spinoza� that had stolen all his attention each time he had heard or read it that nothing by or about the great man himself had remained in his memory. He had a feeling that if he now got down to read something of Spinoza it could be rewarding, so when he stopped by at the municipal library in his town on his fortnightly visit to return and reissue books, he walked straight into the philosophy section, scrolled his gaze familiarly across the books on the shelves arranged in alphabetical order, and sure enough found a significant array of Spinozas lined up there ready for the taking. Granted the appeal this name had for him, he found it quite a treat to see it written in big letters, so many times, in assorted characters and colors. He ran his forefinger across the row of books to make a selection till it stopped to pull out the biggest Spinoza. He had hardly lifted the book off its shelf when he realized what had happened: His mind had not registered any of the other bits of texts on the book covers except for the �Spinozas�. He had pulled this one out not for its title but simply because it happened to be the one with the biggest Spinoza written on it. He made an effort to read the titles again, book by book, and understand precisely what each of the books was about, doing his best to ignore the name, paying attention to the meaning of each title and comparing them to decide which one would be most suitable for the first read. But even before he could reach halfway across the row of Spinozas he realized that his attention had drifted again. He couldn�t even remember any more the titles he�d read at the beginning of the row just a moment ago. He stepped back shaking his head, irritated with himself for not being able to ward off a distraction as trivial as a name. The longer he looked at the books, the more the texts on their spines seemed to shrink and fade away, all except for the Spinozas that throbbed and protruded from their bindings, each trying to get the better of the others in winning his attention. He imagined with apprehension what it would be like to read through one of those books. He pictured page after page of dim, indecipherable characters fade away under his gaze until they completely disappeared. As he turned the pages all he saw was the blank yellowish whiteness of paper with no words on them, except for the Spinozas occurring here and there, rising from the pages and leaving lingering after-images in his minds eye even after he had closed and put away the imaginary book. Realizing the futility in his attempt to read Spinoza the man, through some inexplicable whim, was struck by the idea of doing exactly the opposite: Why not refuse to know anything there was to know about Spinoza? Asuming that Spinoza�s work had something in store for his intellectual inclinations, would his life turn out to be incomplete if he intentionally remained ignorant about it? Surely other things equally significant could take its place. His notions about all those profundities he indulged in would turn out to be quite different if he did not know what Spinoza had to say about them, but could they really end up being inferior? Many arguments pro and con came to his mind but he just let them all be and decided that from that day on, as a resolution, he would refuse to know anything there was to know by or about Spinoza, for the better or worse. The idea of resisting all knowledge about Spinoza had come to the man�s mind when he was actually distracted from being able to grasp that very knowledge. It was in fact, for the convenience of the moment that the idea had appealed to him. It appeared to be quite an amusing game to play for the rest of his life, and he went forth to carry it out in discretion, without letting anyone know that he was playing it. However, there were moments in his life when it demanded a fair amount of effort and also a certain period when it posed to be a serious dilemma, persuading him to give it up altogether. But he stuck to his resolution with a religious determination, guarding his ignorance as though his salvation depended on it. There were times when he would find himself sitting at a table in the company of the intellectual sorts, when the conversation would drift towards certain philosophical issues and someone would bring up the name Spinoza and without warning go on to elaborate and explain a point that Spinoza had made in connection to the matter being discussed. The man would immediately place his elbows on the table and with the pretext of resting his chin on his palms he would plug his ears with his forefingers so as not to hear what was being said. If the words being uttered about Spinoza were still loud enough to be grasped, he would drum with his fingers on his head or quickly pick up something crunchy to eat from the table and chew it noisily, so as to drown the sound of what was being said and make them inaudible to his ears. If the conversation showed signs of converging and persisting upon Spinoza he would get up from the table, allowing his chair to screech against the floor noisily as he push it away, apologize and hurriedly leave the room with the pretext of having to use the toilet. He would return after a safe while and if the discussion had drifted away from Spinoza, he would reoccupy his seat to join in on the conversation; if not he would cook up a reason to take leave, wish everyone goodbye and quickly make a get away. It should be noted however, that while he succeeded in evading all knowledge about Spinoza the name still bore its charm for him and he allowed himself the pleasure of uttering it (audibly if he were alone, or in his mind if others were present) as much as he pleased. He never grew tired of it. While waiting in a queue for instance, or at a bus stop, when there was nothing to do, the name Spinoza would keep him company. He would utter it repeatedly either in a monotonous chant or with assorted rhythms and melodies, at varied scales and tempos, or sometimes even in random erratic cacophony � whichever way he fancied. It never failed to make him feel good. Through the years he cultivated enthusiasm and devoloped mastery in his Spinoza-uttering ritual. Each day he would invent a new way of doing it, never allowing it to get mechanical and retaining the freshness of that name resounding within him. Uttering Spinoza, whether to himself or aloud, proved to be a potent mantra, a sort of miraculous breathing exercise, relieving him from everyday stress, and many a time from other severe psychological pressures as well. For instance, each time he found himself trapped in a conversation where Spinoza�s work surfaced to become the chief topic, when he had to go through all his contorted efforts and drama to resist listening to what was being said, and finally when he managed to escape to safety without having violated his resolution, he would immediately burst into a Spinoza chanting fit to restore his tranquility. The most critical test in keeping to his resolution was when he happened
to meet a young student writing her thesis on a certain esoteric subject
in which Spinoza�s work played a significant role. He had found this lady
very charming and felt a strong inclination to become intimately acquainted
with her. Obviously his attempts at socializing with her posed to be a
problem, a dilemma between the arcane cravings of the heart and an arbitrarily
adopted principle. His puzzling behavior towards her, of repeatedly trying
to strike up a conversation and then making an abrupt exit just as she
had begun to recount to him what interested her the most (Spinoza), made
him seem most impolite if not outright psychotic. He was undoubtedly persuaded
to give up on his resolution (for what purpose did it serve anyway?) to
seek her amity. What kept him from giving up was not so much the thought
of accepting defeat in this purposeless game (which had become by now a
sacred pursuit), but the embarrassment of getting himself to admit to her
about it. Many an hour he spent trying to think of an appropriate strategy
for declaring the reason of his silly behavior but there seemed to be no
way of putting it elegantly. Every earnest mean of owing up appeared to
make the truth to be explained sound contrived, and was certain to augment
the ridiculous impression she had of his character, rather than convince
her; like the alibis of a pervert. He was bound to rejection unless he
just gave up his resolution and went forth to woo her without ever mentioning
anything about his Spinoza affair. But that would be overt dishonesty and
make him a pervert for real, in his potential relationship, and the proficient
induction into Spinoza�s works, for which the relationship promised to
open a door.
In every other respect the man lived his life more or less like the life of any other man, or as we make it out to be. And eventually like any other man, he too died. At his death, when he was extruded from materiality into otherness,
and while he drifted towards the nucleus of the Void, he perceived at the
core of that converging emptiness, the presence of another soul leaning
out towards him, as though anxious at his arrival. He recognized it immediately,
without ever having had the slightest expectance for it. When he had approached
close enough to the other soul, the man (to put it in the language of the
living) stepped forward extending a hand in greeting and exclaimed:
Spinoza of course, was utterly surprised at having been recognized by
the man.
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