David Beresford
ANOTHER COUNTRY
My general incompetence when it comes to the purchase of motor cars is well-known to those who know me. The last I purchased from a Bulgarian … but I will go no further, out of respect for the spirit of the Constitution.
Then there was the VW Golf which I had to buy twice after discovering that a statement by the licencing department as to the identity of the owner was a practical joke devised by municipal and judicial minds so that thieves and hire- purchase companies could have fun with the public … But let’s let bygones be bygones.
The point is that it was, no doubt, nothing more, or less than a fit of madness that had me buy this one. But there it is. Each morning Ellen parks it for me in the shade, under a tree across the road. I sit here, pecking away at my keyboard and, when I get tired, look out the window and gaze at its lines before returning to my writing with the thought: “Just a few more hours.”
In the late afternoon I swallow my drugs, which have the same effect on my shuffle and shake as spinach on Popeye. Then I hobble across the street (buggered knee – nothing to do with the Parkinson’s) and head for the hills. And as I hum through the Constantia vineyards, or along a coastal road, I listen to the throb of the V8 engine bolted on to my rusting one-and- a-half ton Mercedes Benz 450SL sports car, and I come as close I guess as I ever will to religious ecstasy.
As can be guessed from that statement, my religious enthusiasms are somewhat limited, no matter how much the pope may apologise for the past. The only church I would ever consider joining, if she had got around to founding it, would have been one based on the teachings of the little old lady who famously informed Professor Stephen Hawking that the world was situated on the back of a tortoise, and for the rest it was “tortoises all the way down”.
I am also less than enthusiastic about the “I think, therefore I am” school of philosophic agonising. But I do regret that someone has not put together a manual to life, which I would have thought should be the prime task of the philosophical profession.
Not one that goes so far as justifying the taste of some of the acts with which the Cosmic Impresario attempts to entertain us in the vaudeville show called life. Not a collection of pious platitudes, but a hard-nosed manual for life. Something – a book, a machine if needs be, or an Internet site – at which I could pitch the question: “Listen; my bank overdraft is getting a bit out of control, as is my bald patch, my knee is buggered and I’ve got this … , well, they call it a disease, although …”
At which point bells will start ringing and across the screen (or whatever) will come the words: “No more, please, I get the drift … What you need is a 22-year-old, rusting sports car.”
The closest thing that approaches such a manual seems to be The Enchiridion of Epictetus, the Roman slave who became central to the Stoic school of philosophy early in the first millennium. I was starting to become a fan of Epictetus and was sorely disappointed to discover he had not only overlooked Mercedes sports cars, but had failed to mention chariots which would, no doubt, have been a great comfort to the sorely-stricken of his day.
The closest I could find to what might be relevant advice was the following: “With regard to whatever objects give you delight, are useful, or are deeply loved, remember to tell yourself of what general nature they are, beginning from the most insignificant things. If, for example, you are fond of a specific ceramic cup, remind yourself that it is only ceramic cups in general of which you are fond. Then, if it breaks, you will not be disturbed. If you kiss your child, or your wife, say that you only kiss things which are human, and thus you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.”
This struck me as a canny move, but an evasion of responsibilities verging on the distasteful.
I then stumbled across a paragraph urging the help-seeker to shun conversations with regard to “gladiators, or horse races, or athletic champions”. Now admittedly there have been occasions, when Shane Warne has been brought on by the Aussies, when I have taken up a defensive position behind the nearest couch. But never to speak of Hansie and the boys!
So where can I get reliable advice to deal with the process of entropy which sadly attends all our lives?
“Rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light,” suggested Dylan Thomas.
Bugger that for a lark. I’m going to enjoy the sunset.