Free Wittgenstein Jr by Lars Iyer Page A

scented spring in the air, dons would become dreamy and sentimental. When the first spring breezes ruffled their hair, dons would close their eyes and
sigh
 …
    In the high summer, dons would sit out on the grass like resting lions, his brother said. They’d picnic on the lawn, like kings at peace. They’d recline in their deckchairs, laying their Loeb editions facedown on the grass.
    Autumn lent the dons a
valedictory
air, his brother said. In autumn, when the first leaves were falling from the trees, the dons would know a gentle melancholy. Sometimes a tear would appear in the eye of a melancholic don. Sometimes a don would let out a great sigh, as he sat in his leather armchair by the fire.
    In winter, the dons were inert, eyes glazed over, his brother said. Drowsy, like a winter wasp. Half hibernating by the fire, a glass of sherry in the hand …
    But he should never be fooled, his brother told him. He should never let down his guard.
    The mood of the dons could change quickly, his brother said. Like a bushfire that suddenly changes direction. You couldn’t predict them. You couldn’t anticipate them. Their moods were unstable. They were easy to stir, easy to panic. They were susceptible to rumour, to gossip. They were as sensitive as antelopes. A sudden movement, and they’d bolt—a herd of dons leaping over the savannah.
    Above all, he should never show
fear
to a don, his brothersaid. He might be afraid of them, but he should never show his fear. That’s what his brother had learnt. The best thing would be for the dons to take him as one of their own. As a kind of
honorary
don, an honorary fellow. He should try, as best he could, to
mirror
the dons. His brother advised him to ape their gestures, their turns of phrase. To mimic their body language. Their
dress
. To try to
blend in
with the dons—they’d appreciate that.
    Of course, not for one moment would they take him for a don—they would not be so easily fooled, his brother said. Not for one moment would they take him for one of their kind. But they’d appreciate the
gesture
of his would-be donnishness. They’d smile when they witnessed his no-doubt inept attempts at becoming a don. It would be as though he were a child, playing at dressing up, his brother said. And the dons, despite everything, are fond of children …
    Doyle’s rooms. A soirée.
    Tonight’s performance: the madness of Nietzsche.
    Guthrie, the star, is unconscious. Doyle smears mustard under his nostrils. No response. Doyle squirts wasabi through his lips. Still nothing. Titmuss volunteers for the part, and sellotapes a moustache under his nose.
    Titmuss/Nietzsche’s last moments of sanity, watching a horse (Benedict Kirwin) being beaten in the Turin marketplace. Titmuss/Nietzsche, flinging his arms round the horse, and weeping.
    TITMUSS/NIETZSCHE:
You must have chaos inside you, if you are to give birth to a dancing star. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you
.
    Titmuss/Nietzsche slumps. Applause from the audience.
    Change of scene.
    The demented Nietzsche never regained consciousness, Doyle says. Everyone ponders Guthrie.
    EDE: He’s actually drooling.
    MULBERRY: You go, Guthrie! Give an Oscar to droolio!
    Guthrie has something, we agree. Presence. He’s like an Olivier of the immobile. Even his inertia is profound. As though he bore all the weight of existence! All the burden of being!
    DOYLE (playing Nietzsche’s sister): Friedrich! Friedrich! Wake up!
    Guthrie half snores. Sniffs.
    DOYLE/NIETZSCHE’S SISTER: Friedrich! Herr Hitler has come to see you!
    Guthrie seems to stir. His eyes half open. Then his head slumps onto his chest.
    More applause. Doyle bows. A triumph! Bravo!
    Black Zombies all round.
    TITMUSS: Do you reckon you have to be
mad
to really think?
    MULBERRY: Wittgenstein’s mad. Quite clearly.
    EDE: Wittgenstein’s brother
went
mad. Then killed himself.
    DOYLE: It must run in the family.
    EDE: