Modem Times 2.0 - Michael Moorcock [23]
—Nature, July 5, 2007
“WE NEED RITUALS, Jerry. We need repetition. We need music and mythology and the constant reassurance that at certain times of the day we can visit the waterhole in safety. Without ritual, we are worthless. That’s what the torturer knows when he takes away even the consistent repetition of our torment.” Bunny Burroughs ordered another beer. There were still a few minutes to Curtain Up. This was to be the first time Gloria Cornish and Una Persson had appeared on the same stage. A revival. The Arcadians.
“These are on me.” Jerry signed for the bill. “Repetition is a kind of death. It’s what hopeless people do—what loonies do—sitting and rocking and muttering the same meaningless mantras over and over again. That’s not conscious life.”
“We don’t want conscious life.” Miss Brunner, coming in late, gave her coat to Bishop Beesley to take to the cloakroom. “Have I got time for a quick G&T? We don’t want real variety. From the catchphrase of the comedian to the reiteration of familiar opinions, they’re the beating of a mother’s heart, the breathing of a sleeping father.”
“Maybe we’ve at last dispossessed ourselves of the past. We name our children after bathroom products, fantasy characters, drugs, diseases, and candy bars. We used to name them after saints or popular politicians …” Jerry finished his beer. A bell began to ring.
“That’s just a different kind of continuity. The trusted brand has taken over from the trusted saint.” Miss B picked up her program. “We’re still desperate for the familiar. We try to discard it in favour of novelty, but it isn’t really novelty, it’s just another kind of familiarity. We tell ourselves of our self-expression and self-assertion. When I was a girl, my days were counted in terms of food. Sunday was a hot joint. Tuesday was cold sliced meat, potatoes and a vegetable. Wednesday was shepherd’s pie. Thursday was cauliflower cheese. Friday was fish. Saturday, we had a mixed grill. With chips. Just as lessons came and went at school, we attended the Saturday matinee, Sunday at a museum. Something uplifting, anyway, on Sunday. We move forward by means of rituals. We just try to find the means of keeping the carousel turning. We sing work songs as we build roads. Music allows a semblance of progression, but it isn’t real progression. Real progress leads where? To the grave, if we’re lucky? Our stories are the same, with minor variations. We’re comfortable, withminor variations, in the same clothes. The sun comes up and sets at the same time and we welcome the rise and fall of the workman’s hammer, the beat of the drum. If we really wanted to cut our ties with the past we would do the only logical thing. We would kill ourselves.”
“Isn’t that just as boring?”
“Oh, I guess so, Mr. Cornelius.” Bunny petted at his face and put down his empty glass.
As they walked towards their box, the overture was striking up.
3. FROM CLUE TO CLUE
The theme of the Wandering Jew has a history of centuries behind it, and many are the romances which that sinister and melancholy figure has flitted through. In this story you will see how the coming of the mythical Wanderer was a direct threat to the existence of our Empire, and how, when he, as the figurehead of revolt faded out of the picture, Sexton Blake tackled the real causes behind it.
—”The Case of the Wandering Jew,” Sexton Blake Annual, 1940
“I’M RUNNING OUT of memory.” Jerry put his head on one side, like a parrot. “Or at best storage. I’m forgetting things. I think I might have something.”
“Oh, god, don’t give it to us.” Miss Brunner became contemplative. “Is it catching? Like Alzheimer’s?”
“I don’t remember.” Jerry took an A to Z from the pocket of his black car coat. “It depends whether it’s the past or the present. Or the future. I remember where Berwick Street is in Soho and I could locate Decatur Street. I’m not losing my bearings any worse than usual. Why is everyone trying to forget?”
“It wasn’t part of the plan. I’m a bit new to this.” Bunny Burroughs glanced hopefully at