(From Zorba the Greek)
“No, you’re not free,” he said. “The string you’re tied to is perhaps
no longer than other people’s. That’s all. You’re on a long piece of
string, boss; you come and go, and you think you’re free, but you
never cut the string in two. And when people don’t cut that string…”
“I’ll cut it some day!” I said defiantly, because Zorba’s words had
touched an open wound in me and hurt.
“It’s difficult, boss, very difficult. You need a touch of folly to do that;
folly d’you see? You have to risk everything! But you’ve got such a
strong head, it’ll always get the better of you. A man’s head is like a
grocer; it keeps accounts: I’ve paid so much and earned so much
and that means a profit of this much or a loss of that much! The
head’s a careful little shopkeeper; it never risks all it has, always
keeps something in reserve. It never breaks the string. Ah no! It
hangs on tight to it, the bastard! If the string slips out of its grasp, the
head, poor devil, is lost, finished! But if a man doesn’t break the
string, tell me, what flavor is left in life? The flavor of chamomile,
weak chamomile tea! Nothing like rum – that makes you see life
inside out!”
(from The Tao of Zen Nihilism)
“You’ve got to LIVE!” he shouted at me, grasping my collar, his face red hot.
Live. Not five, but sieve.
“LIVE!” he shouted again. “LIVE! LIVE, DAMMIT! LIVE!!!!”
The smell of rum was on his breath, his eyes glaring into mine. “Not in books! Not in movies! Not in ANYTHING! LIVE, DAMMIT!”
I was shaking, I was so scared. My philosophy professor — a man with degrees, a man who held my grades in his hand — was shouting into my face, holding my collar in his big hands. A little drunk at the campus pub “where true philosophers congregate, Mr. Wick.” Every Friday night, this is where he was. And that’s where I am now, with this man who I’ve watched from the back of the class, shouting in my face, his hands on my collar.
“What are you doing?” he shouted. “Sitting in your room? Reading your books? You’ve got to go out and make mistakes! You’ve got to go out and fuck up your life! How the hell are you going to live if you don’t have a life?!”
“I — I –”
LIIIIIIVE!!!
He let me go and I fell back onto the stool, almost falling to the floor. I caught my balance and looked up. There he was, sipping his rum, his face a Greek alabaster statue. Then, he looked at me again.
“Every moment you aren’t alive, you’re dying,” he said to me. Then, he turned to Joe Crowe.
“And Nietzsche is full of shit!” he said, his voice perfect, smooth, and sedate.
I sat there, numb as the arm I fell alseep on last night. And watched him.