The life of the democratic inan … is motley and manifold and an epitome o, the lives of many … and this distracted existence he terms . . . freedom. …
The perfect guardian of our State must be a philosopher … he whose mind is fixed on true being….
It will be our duty to select … natures which are fitted for the task of [protecting) our City … quick to see and swift to overtake the enemy … absolutely fearless. …
Carpenters and smiths and many other artisans will be sharers in our little State … and hirelings-salesmen … hunters … servants … tutors … nurses … barbers … cooks….
The artist knows nothing of true existence. . . . Let this be our defense for sending [hiin) away … for the safety of the City. …
If we happen to choke up on history, none too soon
we resort to The Republic. A receptionist lets us in
at the door we’re driven to, on acres of sedative green
or the city’s edge. Let theory save us, if it can.
When all the rats in the world have confirmed our flaws,
and the separateness of our wish, or its treaty with laws
where either night causes day or there is no cause
is cramped in a formula every bright youngster knows,
we’ll see what we’ll see. In the meantime, Plato will do
for rest in a dream some two thousand years ago.
White-coated experts have classified us, and now
the door whispers shut, whatever is here is true.
Top floor, Ward Three: Exalted thinkers roam,
bumping harmlessly into abstractions outside their own
abstraction. With each, disguised out of deference to brain,
is his earthly form, sacked in a rough white gown
over rough white pajamas. Here every head has to make
an experiment that might startle even the smart Greek-
to design a New Order, yes, but then bring it the whole meek
self as citizen, and try out how it will work.
Habit, the human stance, inviolateness of symbol,
the universal delusion of appearance-all fail
under such a ferocious demand that truth out and time tell.
A. paces off life’s length from wall to wall.
B., in a secret corner, concealed by her hair
thrown over her face, has bombed the globe for an hour,
but will glue it together again–this time in a square.
C. points at sinful God sneaking under a chair.
D. is led out and shut up. Alas, he found
neither justice nor mercy would function in his State of Mind,
and his torment’s too loud. E., on his knees, is enthroned.
F. tightens his logic, and notes how the window blind,
the cup of milk, a black playing card and a word
confirm his premises. (But, sorry for such absurd
and total commitment, observers are fighting it hard;
they stun these out after a while, and restock the ward.)
Middle floor, Ward Two: Brought away from his barracks, his
aim,
his practice maneuvers, locked in a living room,
is the man of action whose dedication is grim
and obsessive-to find the foul enemy and destroy him.
Held together, all agree that delay is despair
although nothing has ever defined the foe but the mirror.
With pills and injections, bars at the windows and door,
propagandists persuade them to wait, there is no war.
But they cling to their girding for battle-crumpled clothes,
loose shoelaces, straggly hair. As a calming ruse,
all calls to duty are silenced, yet often at agonized
attention they slump, with bent head and cast-down eyes.
The Ideal encloses them rightly. What else would condone
such transcendent ardor? Each follows orders within
himself. Each is the hero who will act alone.
Even when disarmed, with nailfiles, neckties, safety pins,
deodorants and belts removed, J. will pick at his face,
K., who is clever and devious, for weeks will refuse
or vomit his food, L. weeps at the pacifist disgrace
of her breathing, while M. tries cheer as a trick for release.
Quiet till now in his forced retreat, N. suddenly
cries “Help!” at the window. He’s watched. Twice more, and
they’ll see
that he’s turned philosopher, has to be sent to Ward Three.
(But this kind of misfortune could happen in any army.)
First floor, Ward One: The populace mills all over,
layers of the daily groundwork, tireless re-weavers
of meaning by repetition, tunnellers by clever
hands and wits in the trivia of human endeavor.
But seldom outside do we see such dramatically pure
representatives. Each is an all too genuine character,
and one domestic virtue or vice is made clear
through the action of each, as in children’s literature.
Q. is HELPFUL-all day will chat, will roll
R.’s hair into pincurls, wind up a skein of wool
for S., sew a button on T.; (but in the dark lull
of night lies searching, can find no friends at all.)
(Though she kept to her room at home,) SHY R. now and then
will accept U.’s (trembling) offer of a magazine –
he is NERVOUS. X., who is FEARFUL (of pigeons and men,)
smiles at a crooner held back by the T.V. screen.
S., the CRITICAL, knits. But the yarn is too coarse
and too green, the room too warm. Yesterday was worse,
chilly, with spotted lettuce at lunch, squeaky doors.
(Her sensitive skin breaks out at all things, their perverse
imperfection.) No one’s as HAPPY as T. The wreck
of a lifetime, indeed the whole ridiculous mistake
of being, makes him laugh out loud. (But employers will seek
a humor more business-like, a more practical joke.)
V.’s INDECISIVE (and mornings for him are hell-
which shoe should he put on first?) Afternoons he does well,
plays pingpong with W., (who tests his own motives until
he faints in the evenings,) being CONSCIENTIOUS. The smell
of X.’s perfume, her heeltaps, her satin swish
announce she is VAIN. (Three husbands have left her, she’s
rushed
to death, screams Stop! Oh, Stop! at the dizzying push
of wrinkles and loneliness.) Y.’s perpetual blush
only means that she’s ANXIOUS. (Her face is hot but sweat
trickles cold on her leg, for the worst hasn’t happened yet.)
Z.–but this ward is so full! Even sampling it
would take too long, and we’ve run out of alphabet.
Well, our scholarly sojourn is over. We must go.
We’ll pay, of course, for the privilege of saying goodbye
to past ideas. Electricity, chemistry, industry,
understanding, love and time all took us away
from the classic Statesman. A difficult democracy
reinstates us. It yields to the flow of Becoming freely
and moves with that aimless mixture of water and debris,
but its manner of movement aims at the possibility
that home-made restrictions may heal the lunatic will
and that heart and mind, though classless, may be schooled well
by each other. Boatless and untherapeutic, its control
neither supports nor simplifies the individual,
who becomes, in a fluid condition of rule and river,
all wards in one, the dreamer, the doer and the lover
of life’s detail. He becomes, in fact, a survivor
of the kind Plato banished, knowing he would scramble all over
and scuttle the Ark. To swim, mixing grace with reason,
interfering with form for the sake of personal motion
and working with constant depth in the currents of season,
is his stately duty; to sink, his forgivable treason.
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