by Daniel Klein
ALSO BY DANIEL KLEIN
The History of Now
Travels with Epicurus
DANIEL KLEIN
NOTHING
SERIOUS
a novel
Copyright © 2013 by Daniel Klein
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, or parts thereof, may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotes in a review, without the written permission of the publisher.
For information, address:
The Permanent Press
4170 Noyac Road
Sag Harbor, NY 11963
www.thepermanentpress.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Klein, Daniel M. —
Nothing serious : a novel / Daniel Klein.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-57962-314-2
eISBN 1-57962-343-3
1. Philosophy—Fiction. 2. Periodicals—Publishing—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3561.L344N68 2013
813'.54—dc23
2012048038
Printed in the United States of America
For the late and dearly missed
Jack Nessel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A number of my friends have generously read various drafts of this little opus and I want them to know how much I appreciate their comments, even though, occasionally, these comments forced me to consider another line of work—say, night clerk at my local convenience store.
In particular, I am grateful to Bridget Potter, who suggested a major shift in the way I told the story. I am also indebted to Peter Cherneff, Craig Lambert, Pat Bonavitacola, Samara Klein, Freke Vuijst, and Tom Cathcart.
My agent, Julia Lord, and my publishers, Martin and Judith Shepard at The Permanent Press, are, as always, way too good to me.
Also, a tip of my philosophical hat to Professor Tim Madigan whose review of Tom’s and my book Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar in Philosophy Now magazine got me to thinking about what a relevant philosophy magazine might possibly be.
—DMK
“Philosophy, n. A route of many roads leading from nowhere to nothing.”
—AMBROSE BIERCE
The Devil’s Dictionary
Bobbing around inside Digby Maxwell’s estimable bag of mental tricks is his uncanny ability to see himself objectively—quite literally, as an object. With an almost negligible neuronal nudge, he can leap into the very opposite of a solipsistic universe, one without an ‘I’ anywhere to be found, but nonetheless a universe that contains this fellow Digby Maxwell.
Digby considers this trick of his to be a singular talent, in fact the fount of his success, such as it is—or, at least, such as it was. But other people, like, say, his former wife, Fanny, see it as just one more example of his lack of a genuine personal identity. “Underneath all that devil-may-care charm and self-deprecating wit,” she says, “there’s just no ‘there’ there.” And, of course, philosophically speaking, the Cartesians on campus would insist that there has to be an ‘I’ who perceives this objective Digby: Cogito Ergo, etcetera.
Not so, claims Maxwell. In mid-trick, thoughts about himself—or about anything else, for that matter—are attached to nothing at all. To no I, no me, no ego. The thoughts are just floating out there in the ether.
Now where was I?
CHAPTER 1
Digby Maxwell is posed in front of a blazing fireplace in the heavily draped salon of a Victorian mansion, a glass of English sherry in his hand. He is wearing a frayed tweed jacket with leather-cloaked buttons that he purchased just two days ago in an upscale used clothing shop in Greenwich Village. For this occasion, he has also donned a knowing, mildly supercilious smile, but it, like his ability to focus on the people around him, is rapidly fading. The reason for this is that he is just a few tokes short of being seriously stoned; and the reason for that is that he is trying desperately to medicate his panic.
So far, his strategy of confining most of his conversation to inside his head is working smoothly. He has met and handshaked all the key players in this bead game of which he is the newly recruited captain, and he has done so without uttering more than two or three words to each shakee.
But now he sees that his hostess, Felicia Hastings, is looking at him expectantly. His guess is that she desires a bon mot to drop from his twitchy lips fairly soon now. Although the widow Hastings is clearly over-endowed with self-confidence, she nonetheless would appreciate some public sign—just a clue, really—that Digby, her new employee, is not a total chuckle-head. It is already common knowledge on campus and in the offices of Cogito magazine that not only is he lacking any advanced academic degree—let alone one in philosophy—but his editorial experience is limited to the subject of what is charitably known as ‘popular culture.’ It was precisely for this expertise that Ms. Hastings selected Digby to become the new editor-in-chief of Cogito; but, alas, it is also why she now is all but poking him with her rheumatoid fingers to induce him to say something witty or at least something New Yorky to bolster her counterintuitive selection.
“There’s something about a Victorian home that makes me want to commit an act of gross indecency,” he says, his medication bearing some of the responsibility for his choice of words.
Ms. Hastings trills a little laugh, but the guests on either side of her, June MacLane and Elliot Goldenfield, Cogito editors and university instructors in, respectively, gender studies and German transcendental idealism, do not express amusement. In fact, MacLane’s gender-ambiguous face expresses contempt.
“Like what?” she snaps.
In the moment, Digby is more struck by the click of her hard consonants that suggest she grew up in South Jersey than by the need to field her question appropriately, whatever that may be.
“Oh, personal abduction,” Digby says mildly, then adds, “or maybe just some routine plunder,” in hope that this addition has a mollifying effect.
Fortunately, his hostess finds his retort droll, or so she says, and this seems to put an end—for now, at least—to any more quizzing from the gender philosopher. This gives Digby the opportunity to excuse himself and head for the Victorian lavatory, fingering the roach in his jacket pocket all the way. He tokes up as soon as the door is closed and locked.
About Digby’s panic: this welcoming party merely touches the tip of the angst iceberg that chills his soul. The bigger picture is that he is a forty-three-year-old man who has been unemployed for more than a year, and is now flying solo and by the seat of his pants in a small Vermont college town with a commission for which he is totally unqualified—at least as far as he can determine. Because the truth of the matter is he has only a feeble glimmering of what it is he is supposed to do here.
I am an impostor. A charlatan. A quack in tweeds.
But this should not be any cause for panic because it is not as though Digby is living in fear of being found out. He was already found out before he ever pulled off Route 9 into Louden one day ago. Everyone at the party knows his quack status, except, possibly, the hostess who also happens to be the heiress of Bonner Hastings III, the late founder and bank-roller of Cogito. Digby is here at Felicia’s pleasure.
So his panic must have deeper origins and Digby suspects they may be existential. In the three weeks prior to his job interview, Digby subjected himself to a crash course in the history of philosophy, hair-raising in both its speed and superficiality. He did not linger over concepts he could not grasp, which were well more than half of them. His only lingering was over certain passages in a refresher titled, The Essential Søren Kierkegaard. These passages spoke—in translation from the Danish—to his panic. Apparently, panic-struck angst is not that rare and is never very pretty. Digby found this somewhat re
assuring but also sickening, a word the frail Dane threw around liberally, especially in his dense, headache-inducing tract, The Sickness Unto Death, an analysis of the inherent tension between the ‘finite self’ and the ‘infinite self,’ neither of which Digby could locate in his own self with any clarity.
Digby was also struck by the fact that Kierkegaard adopted the pseudonym, ‘Anti-Climacus,’ as his byline for Sickness. It was definitely a catchy alias, suggesting a dogged self who just can’t bring himself—or for that matter, Mrs. Kierkegaard, if there was one—to a satisfying conclusion. Did Søren mean it as a gag? Was this Danish humor? Several years earlier, when Digby was still employed writing his “Proximo” column for New York Magazine, he pronounced the clubs of Copenhagen to be on the cutting edge of the contemporary jazz scene; in the piece, he quoted one Danish jazz club owner as saying, “Some people have a problem putting the idea that we are known as Jolly Danes together with the fact that we have the highest suicide rate in Europe. It’s easy—all Danes who aren’t jolly commit suicide.” It was a Danish joke.
According to Kierkegaard-qua-Anti-Climacus, panic is basic to the human condition even if one is fraud-free; all it takes to go to pieces is to tune in to one’s mortality. Yet, says Søren, our mortality is exactly what we should be focusing on because therein lies enlightenment. It was at this point that Digby tuned out and turned to something more uplifting, The Essential Immanuel Kant. Based on past experience, Digby has found that thinking about his inevitable demise makes him feel paralyzed, totally lifeless, and hopeless. Yes, Anti-Climacus, consciousness of one’s mortality is the mother of all panics, so who needs it?
Mortality aside, Digby’s finite self, the one that in its fifth decade is trying to restart his career, remains beside itself with panic, especially because it is attempting to restart his life as a quack. Thus Digby’s need to inhabit a chemically spawned alternate universe, if only for an hour or two at a dinner party, is self-evident.
Speaking of which, there is nothing quite as self-evident as the fragrance of burning marijuana in an enclosure the size of a Victorian lavatory. There was a time when lighting up a Camel or better yet, a Gauloise, was sufficient to mask the smell of pot in a bathroom, but those days have been rendered obsolete by the coequal disgrace of generating tobacco smoke just about anywhere. In any event, Digby left his pack of Parliament Lights in his car.
For a split second, Digby experiences a memory glimpse of the golden boy he once was, a modern-day Nostradamus of pop-cult with jobs on trendy magazines his for the asking, well-dressed women undressing in front of him in finely appointed hotel rooms as merely one of his rewards. “But it’s not too late!” he says to himself more loudly than a man talking to himself in a first floor bathroom of a guest-filled house should.
Steam! A high wattage inspiration sizzles his mind. Although he was a middling student in the two introductory philosophy courses he took in college, he did have a gift for physics and he now recalls that droplets of heated water are an excellent odor sponge. Happily, the Hastings made an exception to their period design and installed one of those one-piece vinyl showers in the corner of their Victorian lav. He opens its glass door and spins the hot faucet to full throttle. Within minutes, the tiny room is flush with fog, a virtual Russian sweat bath. He inhales deeply. There is still a touch of the old ganja in the atmosphere so he opens the oak medicine chest and seizes a bottle of eau de cologne. He shpritzes. Genius! Every breath is breathtakingly perfumed. Without doubt, he has just invented a room deodorizer of stupendous proportions. If he could only figure out how to market it, he could walk away from this absurd job before it begins.
There is a knock on the lavatory door. A voice: “Everything okay in there, Mr. Maxwell?”
It is the voice of Madeleine Follet, the magazine’s long-standing office manager.
“Tip top,” Digby answers through the door. “Why do you ask?”
“Steam,” comes Madeleine’s reply. “It’s kinda puffing through the bottom of the door. And sneezing. Lots of sneezing out here.”
“I see,” he says. “No problem. Be right out.”
Digby is abruptly and gratefully cold sober. In rapid sequence, he turns off the shower, replaces the bottle of eau in the cabinet, then finds and switches on the ventilation fan. He is ready to make new friends.
But first, a quick touch-up of his persona. He rubs the fog off the sink mirror with his tweed sleeve. There is apparently more touching-up to be done than he anticipated. His face is beaded with odor-absorbing droplets, his hair hangs like a soggy Victorian fringe over his eyebrows, his newly bought Brooks Brothers button-down, although advertised as wash-and-dry, has acquired the texture of a crepe tunic, and his tweed sleeves, especially the one from which his right hand emerges—the hand with which he manipulated the shower faucet—has the weftage of a spring terrier paddling in a millstream.
He pats his face dry with toilet paper. Then, seeing that bits of the paper stick to his mug like mini-distress flags, he rubs his face with a linen guest towel. He decides to leave the rest as is. Actually, the fringed-forehead effect strikes him as dramatically appealing, like the coiffeur of a knight’s page in a medieval miracle play.
Digby’s hostess and her guests are silently waiting for him in the dining room. With the exception of Ms. MacLane who gives him a fisheye, they courteously ignore his entrance and sit mutely as he takes the only vacant chair, the one catty-corner to Felicia Hastings.
“I kind of got carried away in there,” he says cheerfully to all assembled. “It’s so fresh up here in the mountains. So clean. And I detected some Manhattan grime still clinging to me.”
And that does the trick. Immediately chatter resumes, a few smiles are posted in his direction, and Mrs. Hastings calls over her shoulder for the soup course to be brought to table by the help—a wan blonde wearing a smart pants suit. In truth, the ease with which he has just covered his ass does not surprise Digby: since he was a young boy he has had a talent for the heartfelt yet totally nebulous excuse. He has always known intuitively that form trumps content in interpersonal relations.
Indeed, with the ice broken and his brain back in gear, he is able to make small talk and listen attentively to his tablemates, MacLane, Goldenfield, Madeleine Follet, and this Russian fellow sitting across from him, a visiting scholar who occasionally speaks in an indecipherable blend of syntactical enigmatology and logical notation. Digby even gets off a wee bit of wit here and there as they go from butternut squash soup to chicken croquettes to watercress salad. This isn’t so hard, he thinks, I am, after all, a professional bullshitter.
After coffee and apple crumble a la mode are served, Felicia taps her spoon against her cup. The chitchat stops and she speaks.
“When Bonner knew that he did not have much time left with us, he asked me to bring a chair next to his bed and—well—to take dictation.” Here the widow pauses to smile from face to face. “He was bossy to the end, my Bonner!”
All titter appreciatively.
“Bonner’s last wish was the same as his lifelong wish—to ensure that his magazine would carry on. Cogito was, in a sense, his child.” Again, she pauses and looks down, it seems, in the direction of her womb, the organ that did not produce any siblings to rival Cogito. “But old fashioned as he was—and I am told Bonner was old fashioned since he was a toddler—he always had respect for new forms of thinking, new sensibilities, and most importantly, new ways of doing philosophy. He was a classicist and an Aristotelian to the end, but he always insisted that if Aristotle were alive today, he would have his own blog, ‘Some Particulars About Universals dot com.’ ”
Digby leads the laughter this time, in part because he always enjoys hearing himself quoted.
“Bonner told me that even if he had been well, he would have been unable on his own to push Cogito in the direction he wanted it to go,” Felicia continues, producing a leather-bound notebook from her lap, opening it, and beginning to read. “ ‘My mission has alway
s been to make philosophy accessible to the general reader. But I have lost touch with who that general reader is. What animates him. What questions bedevil him.’
“And that is why Bonner wanted me to find a successor whose roots were in the culture at large. An editor of Cogito who comes to philosophy from the outside in. A man who starts with the questions that thinking people in the twenty-first century are asking and then seeks the philosophers and philosophies that respond to them. In short, a man exactly like Digby Maxwell.”
Although Felicia Hastings’ speech and the graceful nod in his direction that follows it were obviously rehearsed, Digby finds himself full of admiration for the old girl. Not just by her articulateness, but by the power of her loyalty to her late husband. Marital loyalty, in Digby’s personal experience, is quaintly old fashioned.
Clearly, it is his turn to speak. He swallows hard. He smiles.
“I am an impostor,” he begins. Digby finds that he is at his best in this sort of situation if he starts right off by tying himself in a knot; he believes it stimulates his right brain. “In fact, I undoubtedly know less about formal philosophy than anyone in this room. But being an impostor is a condition that all of us suffer from to some degree or another in a Kierkegaardian sense. We live in an age of massive denial. And so perhaps the impostor’s trick of improvising can prove particularly valuable at this time and in this venture.”
Digby has only the vaguest idea of what he is talking about, but one thing about his right brain is that it is fluent, undisturbed by logic. Sensing that his audience—well, most of it—is grooving to his performance, he runs on for a while, managing to cram both Mickey Mouse and Ralph Waldo Emerson into one daredevil sentence, and YouTube, steroids, and Foucault into another. By the conclusion of his pell-mell peroration he appears to have won over some of the skeptics in the crowd including, to his astonishment, himself. He feels competent, up to snuff, in charge.
