The Book_ On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are - Alan Watts [42]
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And his slaves grow lean and grey,
That he may drink some tepid milk
Exactly twice a day. (1)
The startling truth is that our best efforts for civil rights, international peace, population control, conservation of natural resources, and assistance to the starving of the earth—urgent as they are—will destroy rather than help if made in the present spirit. For, as things stand, we have nothing to give. If our own riches and our own way of life are not enjoyed here, they will not be enjoyed anywhere else. Certainly they will supply the immediate jolt of energy and hope that methedrine, and similar drugs, give in extreme fatigue. But peace can be made only by those who are peaceful, and love can be shown only by those who love.
No work of love will flourish out of guilt, fear, or hollowness of heart, just as no valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now.
The separate person is without content, in both senses of the word.
He lives perpetually on hope, on looking forward to tomorrow, having been brought up this way from childhood, when his uncomprehending rage at double-binds was propitiated with toys. If you want to find a true folk-religion in our culture, look at the rites of Santa Claus. Even before the beginning of Advent, which was supposed to be a three-to-four-week fasting period in preparation for the feast, the streets are decorated for Christmas, the shops glitter with tinsel and festive display of gifts, and public-address systems warble electronic carols so that one is sick to death of Venite adoremus long before Christmas Day. Trees are already baubled and illumined in most homes, and as the big buildup proceeds they are surrounded by those shiny packages with shimmering ribbons which look as if they held gifts for princes. By this time Christmas parties have already been held in schools and offices before closing for the actual holiday, so that by Christmas Eve the celebrations have just about blown their top. But there are still those packages under the tree and stockings by the fireplace.
When at last the Day comes the children are frantic. Hardly able to wait for breakfast, and not having slept most of the night, they tear those gold and silver parcels to shreds as if they contained nothing less than the Elixir of Life or the Philosopher's Stone. By noon the living-room looks as if a wastepaper truck had crashed into a dimestore, leaving a wreck of mangled cartons, excelsior, wrapping-paper, and writhing ribbons; neckties, up-ended dolls, half-assembled model railroads, space-suits, plastic atom-bombs, and scattered chocolate bars; hundreds of tinker-toy pieces, crushed tree ornaments, miniature sportscars, water-pistols, bottles of whisky, and balloons. An hour later the children are blubbering or screaming, and have to be shooed out-of-doors while the mess is shoved together to make room for Christmas dinner.
Thereafter, the Twelve Days of Christmas are spent with upset stomachs, colds, and influenza, and on New Year's Eve the adults get stoned to forget the whole thing.
Well, it was fun describing it, but the point is that intense expectation fizzled. The girl was gorgeous but the guy was impotent. But since there must be something somewhere, expectation is kindled again to keep us all going for that golden, galuptious goodie at the end of the line. What could it be? The children knew it well until they got caught in the rat-race. One of the best Christmas presents I ever had was a cheap ring with a glass diamond. It was quite incidental—something that came out of a snapper (or cracker) at a party. But I sat down in front of the fireplace with this enchanted object, and turned it to catch the different colors of light which blazed inside it. I knew that I had found the Ring of Solomon, with which he summoned djinns and afrits with wings of brass—and it wasn't that I wanted them to do anything for me, for it was just enough to be in that atmosphere, to watch these magical beings come to life in the flames