The Unbearable Parable

A happy philosopher on Death Row

Hello. Here is a parable for our times. I wrote it for you.

In a country run by an evil tyrant, a great philosopher is convicted of the twinned crimes of Truth-telling and Forbidden Thought. The offenses carry a mandatory sentence of death by roo-roo. (Note to readers …. the ghastly particulars of execution by roo-roo are inessential to this story, but for those unfamiliar with my comedic oeuvre it might provide amusement. You can read it here in very brief poetic form. )

For his formal sentencing, the philosopher is brought in shackles before the tyrant, who is a vulgar, vainglorious, ignorant, boorish, cruel, corrupt buffoon. Like Adolf Hitler, he had been legally elected even though he was, at the time, a convicted felon. He feels aggrieved, and continually seeks vengeance against those he perceives to be his enemies.

At the sentencing, the tyrant adds a diabolical codicil. He tells the philosopher that his will be a “surprise execution,” meaning he will be slowly roo-rooed into oblivion on one weekday during the following week, but that he will not be told in advance which day it will be. That way, muhahahaha, he will not know a minute of peace for fear that his death could come at any time.

The philosopher bows deeply and thanks the tyrant for his mercy and kindness, saying that he will now have some tranquility, because now he knows he definitely will not be executed next week.

“ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?” thunders the tyrant, proclaiming, as is his custom in such circumstances, that he is the truthtelling-est man who ever lived. “We’ll see who the liar is,” he shouts as the prisoner is led away, smiling.

Later, in his cell, the philosopher tells his lovely, doe-eyed daughter why he will know peace of mind for the coming week:

“He promises it will be a surprise execution and that I will not know the day. Let us consider this logically. He cannot possibly execute me on Friday, because then it would not be a “surprise,” since there would be no days remaining in the work week in which I was sentenced to die. So after Thursday ended, I would know it HAD to be Friday. No surprise. Similarly, he cannot execute me on Thursday, because after Wednesday ended, I would know it had to be Thursday since it cannot be Friday…. and so forth.

“Well, what about Monday?” asks the daughter.

“It cannot be Monday,” says the philosopher measuredly, “because then I would know in advance, since all other days had been eliminated.”

A prison guard overhears this conversation, and then communicates it back to the tyrant, who is The Truthtelling-est man on Earth, by his own reckoning.

—

On Sunday night, the philosopher sleeps soundly. Also on Monday night. On Tuesday morning, he is executed in a most awful way.

When asked about it later, the tyrant said, “Oh, yeah. Right. That guy. Well, fuck him.”

—

So how does all this pertain to today?

First, we must assume the philosopher knew the difference between a paradox and a logical certainty.

In this case, he was dealing with a paradox, its obvious fallacy being that he had hypothetically assumed the truth of a promise made by a congenital liar. Why did he do this? To calm his beloved daughter and, in a way, to sedate himself. And so he used pure logic to create a useful self-delusion that made his final days bearable and, more important, intellectually fecund. (Indeed, it is said that he used the few days’ time he had to determine, philosophically, Why Good Things Happen to Bad People but was, alas, roo-rooed before he could disclose it.)

The philosopher knew exactly what he was doing: He had put himself into something of a trance, a tranquilizing state of denial. It is exactly what the rest of us do — more long-term — to avoid thinking about the inevitability of death.

So. What does this all have to do with … Donald Trump?

—

From what I see and read, most of the country has currently put itself in a trance, a state of paralyzing denial over Trump, over what his election means, and over what we should do about it. We don’t really want to think about it. We are dillydallying, waiting to see. Many questions are being deferred. We are taking pundits’ well-meaning advice and retreating for comfort into family. We are drinking more. Maybe everything will be okay. Trump seems to be good for the stock market. Won’t he be? Let’s see. Let’s wait this out.

My advice: Think big. Unlike the philosopher, we are not facing certain, immediate death. We have no need for denial, yet. We can snap ourselves out of this.

Think big.

How big?

Like, “Should We Build a Secret Annex?” That big.

Anyway, that’s where I am going here. I am sure you have your own definition of what constitutes Big. It might be a form of activism. It might involve moving. It might involve finances. But we are about to be in Hell. We should not also be in denial.

—

I want to leave you with one more invented scenario. It’s usually presented as a joke, but I think of it as a pertinent philosophical parable:

For his final exam, a philosophy professor picked up his chair, plopped it on his desk and wrote on the board: "Using everything we have learned this semester, prove that this chair does not exist."

The class had an hour, and most of them took it all. Fingers flew, erasers erased, the test booklets were filled. One member of the class, however, was up and finished in less than a minute. Yes, he got the only A. He wrote:

"What chair?"

—

So what does this mean, vis a vis Trump?

The A student may have a good sense of humor, but he did not deserve his grade. He gave the teacher what the teacher wanted — unquestioned obedience, despite contravening facts. Not truth, just … obeisance. Blind acceptance of the teacher’s view of the world.

Don’t do this with Trump. Not if you fear roo-roo.

—

Okay, now for today’s two Gene Pool Gene Polls.

Gene Poll #1:

And Poll #2

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We are about to deal with your questions and observations that came in before 10 p.m. EST on Monday. Please send new ones in here, to the Orange Q&O button:

Also please consider upgrading your subscription to “paid,” ESPECIALLY if you voted that you did not like today’s column. Because if you pay for your subscription, you own a piece of me. That means you are my boss, which means you can give me orders, such as “Don’t do parables.”

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Before we get to the Questions, a brief challenge. Just today, I was approached outside a Safeway by a polite fiftyish man who said, “I’m not asking for money. I’m asking if you could buy me something inside.”

Then he told me what he wanted. I instantly told him I would buy it for him. Not a second’s hesitation. And I did buy it.

Can you guess what it was?

I’ll give you a moment. It might be the single requested item most likely to get a “yes.”

Hint: It is not food.

Hint: It cost $14.99.

Give up?

Sure?

Okay, here goes:

Toilet paper.

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Q: I have trouble with the “This is not Muhammad; this is not a mountain” cartoon that you ran in Barney & Clyde ten years ago, and republished last week.

It is insulting to the millions who believe Muhammad (or at least his face) should not be pictured and who are not terrorists. It both violates their religious sensibilities and equates the believers with terrorists.

As for how lines on paper can be harmful, consider the Nazi posters about the Juden.

I am a believer in freedom of speech, but not because all speech is innocuous.

—

A: Unsurprisingly, I disagree with you — not that lines on paper can’t be harmful. Of course they can. In response, one is entitled to be furious, to speak out, to accuse, but not to commit deadly violence. Also, one religion should not impose its rules on others — and then exact punishment for perceived transgressions.

Remember what we drew: an ambiguous ancient Arab figure we labeled “not Muhammad.” Who WAS that image? No one — even the devout — even knows what Muhammad looked like. We certainly don’t. Who is to say who that figure is? Should some guy with an AK-47 be able to appoint himself an art critic? Our point was aimed at the terrorists: Stop being criminally insane, and intellectually infantile.

We were not saying anything at all about the Islamic faithful. Nor were we drawing Muhammad and waving it in their faces. We were drawing an innocuous ambiguity, and waving it in their faces.

—

Q: Re the Jimmy Carter funeral: Note that everyone in the first three rows seems to have his or her hand on his or her heart. The prominent exception is Dear Leader, who doesn't have a heart.

A: Several readers pointed this out. This is also the very moment Jimmy’s coffin was passing by. Trump looks offended at having to be there and witness this unpleasant thing.

Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt and suggest that his left nipple ring is infected, and he was avoiding the pain of touching it.

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Q: In answer to your funereal question about feeling the icy grip of death: Yes, I felt the Grim Reaper this past week. The managing partner of the law firm at which I work suffered a stroke last weekend, and died the day before yesterday. He was 68, about 4 years younger than I am.

A: There is a corollary to this. One of the finest, wisest, most accomplished people I’ve ever known was Howard Simons, who had been the managing editor of the Washington Post during Watergate. But I knew him later in life when he was the curator of the Nieman Foundation at Harvard. I talked to him just before he died of pancreatic cancer in 1989; when I asked him how his outlook on life had changed since his diagnosis, he smiled and said, “mostly, you no longer worry about flossing.” Here’s the thing: I was 37. Howard was 60. I passed 60 thirteen years ago, and on every subsequent birthday I have consulted myself, gauged my state in life, and had to think, nope, still haven’t overtaken Howard. Not gonna happen.

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Q: I enjoyed my high school 50th reunion much more than I thought I would. One of the best parts was talking to people I was not close to, or did not even know, in school. Everyone there had matured and moved beyond high school teenage hangups and cliques.

I also discovered that keeping oneself fit, being thin, and looking younger than your years, gets better every year.

Of course, those who come to reunions feel good about themselves and what they’ve done with their lives. If your life is a disappointment to yourself, you’re not going to advertise that by attending a reunion.

— Dave Metzger

A: Now you are really rubbing it in, Metzger. You saw my photo in Saturday’s Gene Pool.

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I’ll end it on that sad note. See you in a day or two. Remember the OQO button.

Oh, and as always, you can comment: