There are Oxford chairs in the desecration of philosophy, his brother told him. In the murder of philosophy. In the destruction of philosophy. In the strangulation of philosophy.
His brother overheard a don use the phrase learning competencies, Wittgenstein says. His brother was asked to demonstrate the real-world applicability of his fundamental work in logic. His brother was expected to make a case for the impact of his thought on the world at large.
His brother said nothing, Wittgenstein says. He kept mute. But he knew he had to leave the high table, and to leave Oxford. He knew he had no choice but to leave England.
Almost all of us have liaisons. Brief encounters, lasting no more than a night. But relationships—no, not really. Never anything that serious. There is never anything that serious at Cambridge. The Cambridge years don’t count. They’re years out, years on holiday. Frivolous years, not part of ordinary life. Cambridge is just a playground …
Brief encounters … One-night stands … One-week flings … One-term relationships … But romance? Romance has nothing to do with us.
A one-nighter — snog in a club, home in a taxi, pulling off clothes, opening a condom packet, a study-bedroom fuck, bed rocking, bed creaking, staggering home in the dawn. A whole weekend — lying in bed and doing it again, and then again and again. As long as a fortnight — as long as infatuation surges through us, until, one day, lust gets bored, yawns and stretches its limbs …
But Ede’s love for Phaedra (Fee) is entirely different, he says.
He tracked her down, he says. He found her at some dreadful rah birthday party.
Raves are full of posh girls now, waving glowsticks and going all trippy, he says. And the DJs have double-barrelled names.
And there she was, in the middle of it all, Ede says. The sum of all beauty. The centre of the world.
EDE: Do you know what it means to dance, Peters? To really move?
He danced, Ede says. He broke out his moves. He mouthed song lyrics. He acted them out. He was slick. He was funny. She laughed. He smiled. He mouthed, I like you. She looked demure. He mouthed, Shall we go outside? She mouthed, Yes.
Outside into the cool clear night. Fee: the centre of the world. And he, beside Fee, close to the centre. The pair of them, carving out their little channel in space-time.
Everything is true, he thought to himself, as they walked. The stars are hard and bright and true. The moon is true. The night is true …
Remember this, he thought to himself. I am awake and the world is new. Life is alive in me. Life is alive in a new way.
Does she know how beautiful she is?, he thought to himself. She’s Guinevere. She’s Helen of Troy. Wars could be fought over her. Murders committed. Holy vows broken.
I should kneel, he thought to himself. I should fall to my knees. I have been called, like a prophet. I have been chosen. I have a mission. The bells of life are ringing in my ears.
It was as if the world was rocking, Ede says. His knees were weak. To walk was to stagger. The pavement was a ladder mounting upwards.
He laid his coat on her shoulders. She nestled into him. I am Certainty, he thought to himself. I am Protection. I am the Firm Ground. And her heart was the fluttering bird that he wanted to stalk, to catch, to hold, to free …
And later that night, he bared her upper body. Later, he saw her white skin, her breasts, her luminous face, full of everything divine …
Wittgenstein is hoarse this morning. He pulls a tube of cough sweets from his jacket pocket. He unwraps one, and pops it into his mouth.
He speaks of the undoing of logic. Of logic’s deactivation. He speaks of the release of logic, as of captive birds into the wild.
He speaks of giving logic a kind of freedom. A kind of wildness. He speaks of unfettering logic. Of taking off logic’s blinkers. He speaks of letting logic soar up wildly into its own sky …
Logic is lost, that’s the trouble, he says. Logic has got lost. We must lead logic back to itself, he says. We must let logic recover its memories.
And one day, logic will whisper in our ears, he says. Logic will say the kindest words. We will mistake it for roaring, he says. We will confuse it with the howling wind …
And logic will bloom in our hearts, he says. And then we’ll see it — that our hearts, all along, were logical hearts. And logic, which we think we master, will be our master, he says. Logic will be the crown we wear on our heads …
Redemption: that’s what he seeks. Logical redemption. Logical love. It must sound strange to speak of logical love. But there really is such a thing as logical love.
It must sound strange to speak of the blood of logic, he says. Of the heart of logic. But there really is such a thing as the blood of logic. As the heart of logic.
In his dream, the Logik is light, he says. The Logik laughs.
In his dream, the Logik can be expressed in a single greeting. In a single word. In his dream, the whole of the Logik can be expressed in a gesture. In a handshake. In a friendly nod of the head.
A walk in Grantchester, under the weak winter sun. Wittgenstein, in a terrible mood. Whose idea was this? he demands.
Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have worn a path to Grantchester, he says. Over the centuries, the academics of Cambridge have sought to cool off their minds in the willow-shade of Grantchester. To slip down a few gears on the river-path to Grantchester. The Grantchester walk was part of the rhythm of their work; the respiration of their work. The Grantchester walk let their work breathe. The Grantchester walk expired in their work.
It’s the very opposite for him, he says, as we walk along the river. His work suffocates from the Grantchester walk. His work becomes increasingly airless as a result of the Grantchester walk. He might as well place a plastic bag over the head of his work as take the Grantchester walk. He might as well place a plastic bag over his own head as take the Grantchester walk!
Leaving Cambridge for Grantchester means you have to return to Cambridge, he says. The walk to Grantchester and back is still in the orbit of Cambridge. In Grantchester, there is still the dreadful gravitational pull of Cambridge. The dreadful tractor-beam of Cambridge. Cambridge still calls you back. Cambridge still waits for you, laughing at you. You thought you could escape me? You thought you could get away?
In the end, the walk to Grantchester is only a way to pace the floor of his cell, he says. As indeed any trip from Cambridge is only a way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to London from Cambridge is only a way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to Norwich from Cambridge is only another way to pace the floor of your cell. A trip to Ely Cathedral — just another way to pace the floor of your cell.