8
The Alexandrian tradition was a Grecian tradition: one of order (the cosmos), of proportion, of hannony, of the tautology of cause and effect (the Oedipus cycle )—a tradition of symmetry and the closed circle, of return to the origin. And it is Virgil's concept of linear movement, his linear model of existence, that the elegists find so exasperating in him. The Greeks should not be idealized overmuch, but one cannot deny them their cosmic principle, informing celestial bodies and kitchen utensils alike.
Virgil, it appears, was the first—in literature, at least—to apply the linear principle: his hero never returns; he always departs. Possibly, this was in the air; more likely, it was dictated by the expansion of the Empire, which had reached a scale in which human displacement had indeed become irreversible. This is precisely why the Aeneid is unfinished: it must not—indeed, could not—be completed. And the linear principle has nothing to do with the "feminine" character of Hellenism or with the "masculinity" of Roman culture—or with Virgil's own sexual tastes. The point is that the linear principle, detecting in itself a certain irresponsibility vis-a-vis the past—irresponsibility linked with the linear idea of existence—tends to balance this with a detailed projection of the future. The result is either a "retroactive prophecy," like Anchises' conversations in the Aeneid, or social utopianism or the idea of eternal life—i.e., Christianity. There is not much difference between these. In fact, it is their similarity, and not the "messianic" Fourth Eclogue, that practically allows one to consider Virgil the first Christian poet. Had I been writing The Divine Comedy, I would have placed this Roman in Paradise: for outstanding services to the linear principle, into its logical conclusion.
403 I Flight from Byzantium 9
ie delirium and horror of the East. The dusty catastrophe Asia. Green only on the banner of the Prophet. Nothing :>ws here except mustaches. A black-eyed, overgrown- th-stubble-before-supper part of the world. Bonfire embers used with urine. That smell! A mixture of foul tobacco d sweaty soap and the underthings wrapped around loins e another turban. Racism? But isn't it only a form of santhropy? And that ubiquitous grit flying in your muzzle en in the city, poking the world out of your eyes—and t one feels grateful even for that. Ubiquitous concrete, th the texture of turd and the color of an upturned grave. 1, all that nearsighted scum—Corbusier, Mondrian, opius—who mutilated the world more effectively than y Luftwaffe! Snobbery? But it's only a form of despair. ie local population in a state of total stupor whiling its ie away in squalid snack bars, tilting its heads as in a in reverse toward the television screen, where some- dy is permanently beating somebody else up. Or else ;y're dealing out cards, whose jacks and nines are the sole ^essible abstraction, the single means of concentration. santhropy? Despair? Yet what else could be expected im one who has outlived the apotheosis of the linear nciple? From a man who has nowhere to go back to? om a great turdologist, sacrophage, and the possible thor of Sadomachia?
10
A child of his age—that is, the fourth century a.d., or, better, p.v. (Post-Virgil)—Constantine, a man of action, if only because he was emperor, could regard himself as not only the embodiment but also the instrument of the linear principle of existence. Byzantium was for him not only symbolically but literally a cross, an intersection of trade routes, caravan roads, etc.—both from east to west and from north to south. This alone might have drawn his attention to the place, which had given to the world (in the seventh century B.C.) something that in all tongues means the same: money.
Money certainly interested Constantine exceedingly. If he did possess a measure of greatness, it was most likely financial. A pupil of Diocletian, having failed to learn his tutor's high art of delegating authority, he nonetheless succeeded in a by no means inferior art: to use the modern term, he stabilized the currency. The Roman solidus, introduced in his reign, played the role of our dollar for over seven centuries. In this sense, the transfer of the capital to Byzantium was a movement of the bank to the mint.
One should perhaps also bear in mind that the philanthropy of the Christian Church at this time was, if not an alternative to the state economy, then at least a recourse for a considerable part of the population, the have-nots. To a large extent, the popularity of Christianity was based not so much on the idea of the equality of souls before the Lord as on the tangible—for the have-nots—fruits of an organized system of mutual assistance. It was in its way a combination of food stamps and the Red Cross. Neither
Neoplatonism nor the cult of Isis organized anything of the kind. In this, frankly, lay their mistake.
One may muse at length on what went on in Constantine's heart and mind with regard to the Christian faith, but as an emperor he could not fail to appreciate the organizational and economic effectiveness of this particular church. Besides, the transference of the capital to the extreme rim of the Empire transforms that rim into the center, as it were, and implies an equally extensive space on the other side. On the map, this is equivalent to India: the object of all imperial dreams known to us, before and after the birth of Christ.
1 1
Dust! This weird substance, driving into your facel It merits attention; it should not be concealed behind the word "dust." Is it just agitated dirt, incapable of finding its own place but constituting the very essence of this part of the world? Or is it the earth striving to rise into the air, detaching itself from itself, like mind from body, like the body yielding itself to the heat? Rain betrays the nature of this substance when brown-black rivilets of it go snaking beneath your feet, beaten back to the cobbles and away down the undulating arteries of this primeval kijlak, and yet unable to amass themselves enough to form puddles, because of the countless splashing wheels, numerically superior to the faces of the inhabitants, that bear this substance off, to the sound of blaring horns, across the bridge into Asia, Anatolia, Ionia, to Trebizond and Smyrna.
As everywhere in the East, there are vast numbers of shoeshiners here of all ages, with their exquisite brassbound boxes housing their kit of boot creams in round, thinnest-of- copper containers with cupola lids. Like little mosques without the minarets. The ubiquity of the profession is explained by the dirt, by that dust which covers your dazzling, reflecting-the-entire-universe-just-five-minutes-ago loafer with a gray, impenetrable powder. Like all shoeshiners, these people are great philosophers. Or, better, all philosophers are but shiners of great shoes. For this reason, it isn't all that important whether you know Turkish.
12
Who these days really examines maps, studies contours, reckons distances? Nobody, except perhaps vacationers or drivers. Since the invention of the pushbutton, even the military don't do it anymore. Who writes letters listing the sights he has seen and analyzing the feelings he had while doing so? And who reads such letters? After us, nothing will remain that is worthy of the name of correspondence. Even young people, seemingly with plenty of time, make do with postcards. People of my age usually resort to those either in a moment of despair in some alien spot or just to kill time. Yet there are places examination of which on a map makes you feel for a brief moment akin to Providence.