(Spoiler alert - if you want to read the book Whipping Boy by Allen Kurzweil, I will talk about the ending here. You are warned!)
"...the lies we tell others always begin with the lies we tell ourselves." Allen Kurzweil, from the last sentence of the Acknowledgments.
Kurzweil's book, Whipping Boy, did end on the only satisfactory note that the author could give us - the admittance that his obsession was his alone, that the events of the past and the bully that had dominated his thoughts were really about his own discomforts and fears. And that is true - as stated Monday, his "tortures" were not especially egregious. They were not the actions of a truly dangerous boy- to- become- man, as the boy Cal Roeker spoke of in his comment. In the book, the conversations the author had with his nemesis led to a third meeting where the author confesses his interest in Caesar and his need for - what? - revenge? In this, Caesar replied with great clarity; that he did not remember the incidents, but did recall his own adolescent difficulties. And in speaking fully of his part in the scam that landed him in prison,he insisted that he believed everything was on the up-and-up, in spite of conflicts with the facts. But we come to believe him; as the above quote states, he had lied to himself so convincingly that he believed the lies himself. And, to make matters more uncomfortable for the author, Caesar later wrote him an apology for any pain he might have caused him - with great sincerity. Where was the villain, after all those decades?
Of course, it was the author's own obsession, something he only revealed in the last two paragraphs of the last page of the regular text, and in the last sentence of the Acknowledgments. The suffering of decades was the author's own story to himself, as much a lie, in its way, as was Caesar's. He does not say so in a detailed fashion, but we understand.
We also understand that this is not the conclusion the author had wanted. He had wanted a truly evil guy on whom he could blame all his youthful misery. This is revealed best by the extreme brevity with which he treated the final epiphany - something this author (me) would have spent an entire chapter on (maybe that is the difference between a successful writer and the rest of us). And while at first glance everything wraps up nicely, if too quickly, something more disturbing rumbled into my mind some time later. No, it was not what I had thought I would ruminate on - about the emptiness of revenge carried on way too long - but rather about the nature of our selves. Who am I, really? Thinking this, I made a review of myself - and discovered that I didn't have a clue as to my objective nature; that I, too, lived a life of lies told to myself, although which and how many of my personal stories were tweaked I have no idea. If I did, I would know myself, and that is the problem. I don't. Most of us don't.
When my father was about 50, he had what might now be called a mid-life crises, and he began (and finished) a masters degree in psychology at night after work. One class was particularly harsh: after some weeks, each student was given a personal evaluation by the other students, who were encouraged to be as blunt and honest as possible. One might imagine that this would have been tough at first, but that it would have gotten easier with time, for as one was disrobed, he would later wish to disrobe the other. In my father's case, he was dubbed the "over-the-hill swinger," not for his sexual activities (I am certain he never cheated, not out of honor for him, but because I knew him. His old-school propriety on that matter was unassailable, even ridiculously so), but by the way he interacted at large - as if he still had the attractiveness and energy of youth. It was a tough blow to him, although he got over it. With a little thought, he knew that the others were probably right. What he did about it I do not know, although it was a fairly small and harmless flaw.
In my own case, I have no idea about the perceptions I have left others. Perhaps at some time in childhood, one kid thought I was a bully. That would really be news to me, but so it was to Caesar as well. Or perhaps I would be viewed by-in-large as a quirky guy with a closet full of neurosis, of unfounded fears. Such it was for Kurzweil, however briefly acknowledged.
Bigger still, though, is that we ARE our personal stories, facts be damned. While most of us think of this as a psychological thing, it is also a spiritual thing, for we are not who we we think we are, or who anyone else thinks we are (for "they are "us"). Each culture tells itself its own lies, which we collectively validate in our own personal assessments. As humans of all cultures, we also share the lie that makes us the physical species that we think we are. Were we to believe, all of us, that we were shining spirit entities, we would be collectively more like the Elves of the Lord of the Rings fame than humans. Human advancement - or degeneracy - is really all about changing the story about who we are.
All stories are, to some extent, make believe. Some are more accurate than others. We are, in our obvious blindness to our greater reality, living more a lie now than a truth. We learn this in small ways from stories like Whipping Boy, and in bigger ways, when our stories, through death or tragedy or odd coincidences, crumble before our mind's eye. FK
"...the lies we tell others always begin with the lies we tell ourselves." Allen Kurzweil, from the last sentence of the Acknowledgments.
Kurzweil's book, Whipping Boy, did end on the only satisfactory note that the author could give us - the admittance that his obsession was his alone, that the events of the past and the bully that had dominated his thoughts were really about his own discomforts and fears. And that is true - as stated Monday, his "tortures" were not especially egregious. They were not the actions of a truly dangerous boy- to- become- man, as the boy Cal Roeker spoke of in his comment. In the book, the conversations the author had with his nemesis led to a third meeting where the author confesses his interest in Caesar and his need for - what? - revenge? In this, Caesar replied with great clarity; that he did not remember the incidents, but did recall his own adolescent difficulties. And in speaking fully of his part in the scam that landed him in prison,he insisted that he believed everything was on the up-and-up, in spite of conflicts with the facts. But we come to believe him; as the above quote states, he had lied to himself so convincingly that he believed the lies himself. And, to make matters more uncomfortable for the author, Caesar later wrote him an apology for any pain he might have caused him - with great sincerity. Where was the villain, after all those decades?
Of course, it was the author's own obsession, something he only revealed in the last two paragraphs of the last page of the regular text, and in the last sentence of the Acknowledgments. The suffering of decades was the author's own story to himself, as much a lie, in its way, as was Caesar's. He does not say so in a detailed fashion, but we understand.
We also understand that this is not the conclusion the author had wanted. He had wanted a truly evil guy on whom he could blame all his youthful misery. This is revealed best by the extreme brevity with which he treated the final epiphany - something this author (me) would have spent an entire chapter on (maybe that is the difference between a successful writer and the rest of us). And while at first glance everything wraps up nicely, if too quickly, something more disturbing rumbled into my mind some time later. No, it was not what I had thought I would ruminate on - about the emptiness of revenge carried on way too long - but rather about the nature of our selves. Who am I, really? Thinking this, I made a review of myself - and discovered that I didn't have a clue as to my objective nature; that I, too, lived a life of lies told to myself, although which and how many of my personal stories were tweaked I have no idea. If I did, I would know myself, and that is the problem. I don't. Most of us don't.
When my father was about 50, he had what might now be called a mid-life crises, and he began (and finished) a masters degree in psychology at night after work. One class was particularly harsh: after some weeks, each student was given a personal evaluation by the other students, who were encouraged to be as blunt and honest as possible. One might imagine that this would have been tough at first, but that it would have gotten easier with time, for as one was disrobed, he would later wish to disrobe the other. In my father's case, he was dubbed the "over-the-hill swinger," not for his sexual activities (I am certain he never cheated, not out of honor for him, but because I knew him. His old-school propriety on that matter was unassailable, even ridiculously so), but by the way he interacted at large - as if he still had the attractiveness and energy of youth. It was a tough blow to him, although he got over it. With a little thought, he knew that the others were probably right. What he did about it I do not know, although it was a fairly small and harmless flaw.
In my own case, I have no idea about the perceptions I have left others. Perhaps at some time in childhood, one kid thought I was a bully. That would really be news to me, but so it was to Caesar as well. Or perhaps I would be viewed by-in-large as a quirky guy with a closet full of neurosis, of unfounded fears. Such it was for Kurzweil, however briefly acknowledged.
Bigger still, though, is that we ARE our personal stories, facts be damned. While most of us think of this as a psychological thing, it is also a spiritual thing, for we are not who we we think we are, or who anyone else thinks we are (for "they are "us"). Each culture tells itself its own lies, which we collectively validate in our own personal assessments. As humans of all cultures, we also share the lie that makes us the physical species that we think we are. Were we to believe, all of us, that we were shining spirit entities, we would be collectively more like the Elves of the Lord of the Rings fame than humans. Human advancement - or degeneracy - is really all about changing the story about who we are.
All stories are, to some extent, make believe. Some are more accurate than others. We are, in our obvious blindness to our greater reality, living more a lie now than a truth. We learn this in small ways from stories like Whipping Boy, and in bigger ways, when our stories, through death or tragedy or odd coincidences, crumble before our mind's eye. FK
RSS Feed