Interior Lights in a Dark Universe

By Richard Schain

INTERIOR LIGHTS expresses a philosophy of interior self and a defense of metaphysical reality. The bulk of the book is composed of trechos (Port.), literary passages that contain the authors personal and philosophical meditations. Issues addressed include: what is a soul?, interior development through writing, bourgeois reality, metaphysical reality, and independent spirituality.

From the books preface, Certain states of mind are required for a reader to gain something from this work. These are: 1) The ability to read slowly in order to reflect on unfamiliar or impolitic ideas, and 2) A sense of being at odds with society. The reader must feel the need to separate himself in some way from the world in which he lives. It is not for those who wish only to strengthen their position in it. 3) Most important of all, a reader must have a metaphysical sensibility. He or she must be aware that the material world is not all that there is and that there is a dimension of reality not experienced in our daily object-oriented existence.

INTERIOR LIGHTS is essential reading for writers, publishers, literary agents, and all those interested in development of self through the writing process.
M. Dreisbach, Ph.D., CSU Professor Emeritus of Education

Your books are vivid and full of ideas. I quite agree with you that the world is in need of art and not historical scholars.... One can doubt everything but if one writes, one must be secretly a fanatic of ones mind.
E.M. Cioran

Richard Schain is a member of a small but significant group of independent philosophers working outside of academic philosophy. I believe that his writings serve as powerful testimony to the value of the life of the mind, and the perennial urgency of the questions of metaphysics.
Geoffrey Klempner, D. Phil., Director of Studies, International Society for Philosophers; Editor, Philosophy Pathways

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469738420

Richard Schain

Richard Schain obtained B.A. (philosophy) and M.D. degrees from New York University. He trained in neurology at Yale University, later serving as professor of neurology and psychiatry at UCLA. His life as an independent philosopher began with the publication of Affirmations of Reality in 1982. Subsequent works include Philosophical Artwork (1983), Souls Exist (1989), The Legend of Nietzsches Syphilis (2001) and In Love With Eternity (2005). Sententiae on illustration boards have been exhibited as art objects in art galleries. A personal memoir is entitled Behold the Philosopher (2007). Currently, he lives with his wife Melanie in Alamos, Mexico.

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Contents

PREFACE

SECTION I

The Literary Financier

SECTION II

Passages

SECTION III

Profession of Faith

SECTION IV

Adam’s Love Song

SECTION V

Metaphysics of the Soul

SECTION VI

Sententiae

SECTION VII

The Literary Impulse

SECTION VIII

Expatriate Thoughts

SECTION IX

Three Commentaries

SECTION X

The Last Transport

dedicated to Melanie Dreisbach

PREFACE

Certain states of mind in readers are required for them to gain something from reading this book. There are three principal ones necessary.

First is the ability to read slowly. My writings cannot be read as if they were a novel or popular essays. They were written slowly and should be read in the same way so as to reflect on unfamiliar or impolitic thoughts. A few pages at a single sitting may be enough (except for section I, which can be read through quickly).

Second, the reader must have a sense of being at odds with his society. He must feel the need to separate himself in some way from the world in which he lives. This writing is not for those who feel comfortably placed in society or only wish to strengthen their position in it.

Third, most important of all, readers must have a metaphysical sensibility. They must be aware that the material world is not all there is and that there is a dimension of reality that is not experienced in our daily object-oriented life. They need to be open to the presence of a metaphysical self in subjective human beings. Without this sensibility, it is useless to read my work.

The bulk of this writing is composed of what is called trechos in Portuguese (the same word in Spanish does not have this meaning) or, with less clarity, literary passages in English. They represent high watermarks of the writer’s mind; a genre that I think finds its fullest development in Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Discontent (Livro do Desassossego). I have found this format to be best suited for my own writing.

The passages are only occasionally autobiographical as far as events and circumstances are concerned; but they are an accurate record of my reflections. Liberties have been taken with noting the winds that blew in the trees while I was engaging in philosophical work.

Much of what I have written here has been said in a somewhat different style in my earlier works. Much of what is contained in this writing is repetitious. But repetition is reality as Kierkegaard has said in his little-known book entitled Repetition; it is needful and contains the serious elements of human life. I do not apologize for it.

The two poems I have not been able to resist trying to rescue from oblivion were originally published in Philosophical Artwork: Garric Press, 1983.

Lastly but certainly not least, the technical, editing and intellectual contributions of my wife, Melanie Dreisbach, have been utterly essential to me throughout the composition of this work. I am forever grateful to her for her unwavering support.

Since for me this book is long, the preface will be short. I have had my say in it and am content to leave its fate to the dispositions of the Moirai.

Alamos 2011

SECTION I

The Literary Financier

"Amicus mundus, sed magis amica veritas"

—Anonymous Latin epigram

While wandering around my accustomed haunts in Berkeley one evening, I noticed an old college friend of mine sitting in my favorite cafe. He was sipping from a coffee cup and relaxing in a manner that suggested to me he might welcome company. I was inclined to renew our friendship since I had occasionally read newspaper accounts about him indicating that he had reached the topmost heights in the world of finance. My recollection of him at college was of a reserved individual, inclined toward literary interests, and I had been surprised to read of his multimillion-dollar financial exploits. Here was a chance to learn how he had reached his present circumstances, which, I had to admit, elicited no small degree of envy in me.

Upon walking into the cafe, he greeted me immediately. As is often the case with friends of one’s youth, we were able at once to resume our former intimacy. At first, he disparaged my allusions to his financial success, saying he had had some good fortune with his investments, but nothing worth deserving any great notice.

I suppose your literary side has now been relegated to college memories? I commented smiling, thinking to imply, perhaps, that some sacrifices were entailed in reaching the heights of a multimillionaire financier.

Oh no, he responded at once. I am even more dedicated to literature than I was at college. I consider myself first and foremost to be a creative writer.

I had always remembered my friend as an honest and forthright individual. Nevertheless, it seemed unbelievable to me that he could make such a statement with all apparent seriousness, given what I knew about his current career.

That hardly seems possible to me, I said with barely concealed irritation since I too had had aspirations to be a writer but had obtained no success with my efforts at publication. You cannot live in two worlds at the same time. Either you are a financier and a dilettante writer or you are a writer and a dilettante financier. Since everything I know about you indicates that you are not a dilettante financier, it is hard for me to imagine that you are, as you say, first and foremost a creative writer.

My friend was silent for a bit, sipping at his coffee. Finally, he looked up at me and said with some intensity, Would you really like to know why I regard myself first and foremost as a creative writer? Yes, I said, being curious to learn about the state of mind that led to his absurd assertion.

You may remember, he began, that at Cal I was totally absorbed with literature. I craved reading works that I believed developed my consciousness of the world and I aspired to become a writer who would develop the consciousness of others. My idealism of books was so complete that I had little interest in personal relationships, men or women, except insofar as they were involved with literature. It seemed to me that contact with the world is conducted far better through the written word than through the banalities of daily existence. I completed my college education only because I felt it furthered my literary development; later I enrolled in a succession of writer’s conferences for essentially the same reason.

I said nothing but his words evoked painful memories in me. I too had recollections of fruitless activities in the service of a stillborn literary career, which finally ended by my entering into a fulltime profession and abandoning writing.

He continued, apparently not noticing my pained expression, and his delivery became more animated. Then I began to notice a certain change in my mental state. When I first became involved with literature, both as a reader and a writer, there was a purity to my involvement, an idealism that permeated all of my activities. I truly believed that literature was the highest human calling because through it, the soul—yes, I don’t hesitate to invoke this archaic word—finds its only true vehicle for self-expression. Since feelings for religion, community and even family had become virtually extinct within me, literature remained the one avenue for the expression of thought that I believe is essential for every human being who aspires to a life beyond that of beasts.

I could not help smiling again at this outburst of archaic ideas in a man I knew to have the reputation of a calculating businessman. But the change you noticed, what was the change? It appeared as if he had forgotten about what was of interest to me in his paean to literary idealism.

"Yes, the change. As I more and more conceived of myself as a writer, I thought it essential that I should publish my writings, at least those I considered of sufficient merit to deserve public attention. I wanted to become an author. This concept, however, produced a change in my attitudes toward myself and my writings. I don’t have to tell you about the difficulties encountered by an unknown writer seeking recognition. Whereas before, I was concerned with the ideas that arose from my interior self, now I became preoccupied with the styles that might attract the attention of editors and reviewers. The pleasures I obtained from my literary work were no longer obtained from reading and writing but from the approval and support of individuals with whom I did not have the slightest personal connection. I was not totally unsuccessful in these efforts but it gradually became clear to me that my whole orientation had changed as a result of my desire to publish my writings. Do you understand what I am saying, do you know what I mean by a complete change in my orientation?" He said these last words with a strange intensity while staring directly at me.

I know very well what you mean. My answer was truthful since I had had a similar experience; perhaps it was this shared experience that accounted for our interest in each other. But you cannot really have expected your first enthusiasms to have been quickly translated into success as a writer. The world is not an easy place for new writers—you must have known that from the beginning?

He was quite relaxed again, almost condescending, I felt, in his response to my remarks. I knew nothing from the beginning about success as a writer. What I knew were the ‘first enthusiasms’ as you put it, which represented the attraction of literature for me. Without these enthusiasms, I never would have embarked upon any type of life as a writer. What I then tried to do when I recognized the changes that were occurring in me, changes that I felt were destructive to my soul, was to analyze the situation and see what I could do to recover my lost enthusiasms.

And how did you do that, I said, wondering to where this semi-monologue was headed. How did you recover your lost little utopia?

He ignored my sarcasm. I can’t say that this happened all at once or even over a few days. But bit by bit, I came to realize the nature of my problem and how to overcome it. He gazed at me again. Shall I continue? I don’t want to bore you. I nodded, finding myself interested in the peculiar logic that my friend evidently took quite seriously with respect to his writing.

I’ve said that my state of mind changed as a result of my desire to have my work published, but of course, the situation was not quite so simple. The desire for publication coincided with the development of my needs in other areas, personal needs, family needs—all of which required money. As you know, I don’t come from a wealthy family and it’s necessary for me to earn my living. Since I was aware that successful writers were often well paid, the feeling grew in me that I must be paid for my writings. It was no longer fulfilling merely to write and to think I had produced something significant that I might share with my friends; now it was necessary for my work to be widely disseminated so that I would be paid for my efforts. I found that a certain bitterness began to pervade my writing, a bitterness that was only dissipated when a check arrived from a publisher. Even then, I never felt I was being adequately paid for my work.

He paused for a moment, looking to see if I was still attentive to him. Something about my expression must have encouraged him to continue.

"It came upon me that I had arrived at a crucial milestone in my literary life. If I were to expect to achieve the level of success that I yearned for, I would have to mobilize all my energies to reach that level, that meant I would have to orient my writings toward public interests, develop connections as a literary personality, concentrate on obtaining an effective agent—in a word, change the direction of my energies from self expression to public interaction. Nothing else would do if I expected ‘success’ in my efforts since I had no other attractions such as personal notoriety or family fame to offer to the literary market. I began to take these paths and, in fact began to obtain the beginning rewards of literary success.

"But then I noticed the change that I had mentioned to you earlier. Whereas before, my writings were an expression of my soul, now they were becoming an expression of my ego. I don’t want to enter into a protracted discussion of the meaning of these terms, but there is no doubt that if I had not differentiated between my soul and my ego, I would have continued in the same path. However, it became clear to me that I had entered into a literary life out of spiritual needs and now I was pursuing it out of egotistical needs. The former became subordinate to the latter. The only thing now important to me as a writer was public acceptance and what is that except a manifestation of egotism. Soon I would be psychologically as well as materially dependent upon my earnings as a writer.

Day and night I brooded over my situation. Since my life as a writer had become a prisoner of my ego, and was even threatening to become the main vehicle for my material life, I needed to find some way by which I could free it from those fetters and permit it to return to its original relationship with my soul. Suddenly it became clear to me that money was at the root of my problem. It may seem quite self-evident to you but it took me some time to arrive at the realization that in our society, money is the key to most of our problems. There was no use in my attempting to lead a life of asceticism or one totally withdrawn from the world. I am too much a creature of my society to be capable of such radical solutions. But what I could do was to separate my literary side from these other unavoidable elements of my existence.

I could now see where he was leading up to in his exposition. My earlier irritation reappeared. But writing is involved with a public. To be a successful author you must have readers. If you withdraw your writing from the world you live in, it will become devitalized and in the end your writing will become a kind of mental masturbation that will do you no good or anyone else. I stopped abruptly, fearful of having offended him by my blunt remarks.

But he was not offended. "Writing is the most important part of my life; what is not part of my life is a public, nor is the career of an author. Let me continue, however, and then you can decide about my point of view. As I have said, I felt that the noxious element responsible for the change in my literary life was money; but I also knew that I could not exist without ample supplies of it. Poverty is impossible for my sort of personality. The idea grew within me that if I were to put the energies I was utilizing to gain literary success into some other field of endeavor, I would be able to satisfy my physical and psychological needs while leaving my deeper self free for literary expression. You may remember that my father was a realtor—not a very successful one I fear—but I had grown up amidst endless talk of real estate, property investment and the like. I knew a great deal about the world of property development. I had turned away from it in my youth but now I began to discover the familiar scenes of buying and developing. You will not be interested in the details; suffice it to say that I found that I had a natural talent for making money in this area. Now I am comfortable financially and well regarded in the field. What is more important is that I am free to pursue literature as I wish. I write every day. If something of mine is published, I am pleased but if not, I am also quite content to…"

I could not help angrily interrupting him. I was right before, you are a dilettante, not a writer! What makes you think that because you have been able to earn enough money to indulge your literary pretensions, you can regard yourself as a real writer? No one will agree with you, you are a financial speculator, not a writer. Money is at the heart of your existence, not literature!

He let me finish. He could see that I was overwrought. We should not allow our emotions to get the better of us, he answered calmly after a while, it is better to examine the issue in a rational manner. There is nothing to be gained by quibbling over labels, it is not important whether I am regarded as a writer or a dilettante or a property speculator. What is important is whether my solution permits me to conduct my life in a manner that meets my innermost needs, whatever they may be. Do you want to continue our discussion on this basis? I concurred, ashamed of my outburst that revealed a certain defensiveness on my part.

I have already admitted that money is a major factor in my life. As far as I am concerned, anyone who lives within our materialist society and ignores the importance of money is either a fool or a liar. What I have said to you is that my literary activities are so arranged that money does not enter into them. When I plan a writing project, I care nothing about its acceptance by reviewers, literary coteries or the general public. I care only about giving literary voice to my own thoughts and feelings. This is what writing is to me, this is what drew me into it in the first place and this is how I intend to write in the future. I cannot take the opinions of professional litterateurs seriously, I am too aware of the extraneous factors that determine the judgments of such people. It is my ability to earn money through other means that permits me to maintain this attitude; otherwise I would be forced into the networking and literary careerism that repels me. I write what I want to write when I want to write it; philosophy, fiction, poetry, it makes no difference to me what others think or whether my writings are commercially successful. Of course, I am not averse to sharing my work with those who may take an interest in it but this is an optional factor.

He stopped for a moment, reflecting on his next words. It appears to me, he said slowly and with emphasis, "that I am the genuine writer and that all these other writers who depend upon the opinions of reviewers and readers are the dilettantes. They are like children who cannot act independently but always require the approval of adult authorities. I require the approval of no one when I write, my satisfactions do not come from anyone praising my work or paying me to produce it; they come only from my own self with the realization that I have carried forth my thoughts into concrete existence. I believe that this is a task worthy of Homo sapiens who is the only animal creature capable of expressing his consciousness. I will go further and say that my writing has made me into the person I am today. That’s my story and you can approve of it or not as you wish."

I didn’t know how to respond to him. There was an internal consistency to his logic but somehow I felt it could not be the whole picture and must contain a false premise. I tried again to puncture the wall of his self-containment. Do you really believe you can shut yourself up in your own little cave without any connection to the outside world? What good are your writings if no one except yourself thinks about them? Don’t you feel the need to be part of your society and part of the culture it has created?

But I do participate in culture, he shot back at me. I am intensely interested in the arts, especially literature, and the persons who create art. I read five languages and am familiar with the literature of all of them, and when I encounter a writer who has something to say that interests me, I devour his works, I learn everything I can about him and feel that he has become my personal friend. Oh no, you have no right to accuse me of not participating in culture because there are few who do so as much as I. But … you say my own writings are not experienced by others. I admit that may be so but I do not feel responsible for promoting my own work. As far as I am concerned, my task is finished when I have completed a writing. At most, I may arrange to publish one of my writings and confess to a little pleasure when it appears in print. It would be the height of arrogance, however, for me to lobby for the success of my work as if I were a politician with a constituency. Who am I to say to anyone they should read my writings? It is enough that I have had the gratification of expressing my creative energies. If others, one day, should become interested in what I have written, all well and good, but this will be the result of factors over which I desire no control.

Really, though, I said, one last time trying to breech his armor, be honest, wouldn’t you enjoy being appreciated as a writer, even being paid for your writings as a sign of the public’s regard for them?

He took his last sip from his cup. I suppose I might like that but that doesn’t mean I would choose to have it happen. Actually, I have a theory that once a writer is widely recognized, his creative life is over. Once he has broken through the hard shell of society with his message, whatever and however that may be presented, he becomes a property of society and his subsequent work becomes mainly public entertainment. I feel that I still have some writing to do and am not quite ready to become a public property. It seems to me, to be quite frank, that the best time for fame to come is posthumously, when one has said his piece and can no longer be affected by fame’s consequences.

"And now, I must visit my bookseller who has obtained for me a copy of O Banqueiro Anarchista by Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese writer. I have been told by a reliable friend that this work is certain to be of interest to me."

Thereupon, after paying the bill for both of us, he departed from the cafe.

The End

SECTION II

Passages

The man of just sensibilities and clear reason, finding himself preoccupied with the evils in the world, naturally seeks to rectify them. Primarily, he will turn his attention to the evils closest to him; and these he will discover within his own being. He will be occupied with this task all his life.

—Fernando Pessoa, Livro do Desassossego

* 1 *

My literary isolation is complete. Not one of my published works has been properly noticed in any literary review. This after some ten years of a steady output of poetry and prose. Aside from the scholarly works of my past life, I have self-published three books and several pamphlets that have only been distributed to friends and relatives, excepting about seventy dollars in sporadic sales. There is no doubt that my present efforts go unnoticed in the world of letters and that I have no reading public, large or small. The hundred readers that Henry Miller said was sufficient to justify authorship do not come close to existing in my case.

Nevertheless, I treasure the experience of writing and even more, the liberating experience of being an unknown writer. The act of writing for me is not justified by the appearance of readers; I will not mention the absence of remuneration. Ego gratifications are nonexistent. My writing is entirely a personal affair involving the very marrow of my being; my soul so to speak, since it is the soul that is the essence of the person. Whatever may have been my earlier expectations, the situation is now clear that there will be no literary recognition of my work.

Yet my desire to write has steadily continued through the years. There is something that drives me that has nothing to do with the customary perceptions of the motivations of a writer. The fact is that the more I write, the less interested I am in an audience and the less desire I have to be noticed by critics. What would I do with recognition of the literary guilds? It would probably only awaken the latent feelings of contempt and aversion I developed for these institutions and would deprive me of what my favorite author Pessoa has termed the loss of intimacy and privacy that fame entails.

It has been important for me to understand the significance that writing has in my life because I am not one to be driven by blind passions, literary or otherwise. There is nothing that has more occupied my mind than comprehending the reason why I sit down at typewriter for hours on end, trying to set down my thoughts and feelings via philosophical reflection, fictional creations or poetical expression. The absence of literary recognition of my writings is the consequence of my doing nothing to promote such recognition. The moment I hear the expression market, I shy away like a frightened deer and refuse any further attention. The subjects I write about and my archaic style of writing could not be further from that which currently attracts reading audiences. I never have anything to do with writers’ conferences, courses, seminars, workshops and all the other euphemisms by which successful writers derive income from unsuccessful ones. And the last thing I would ever want for myself is any type of academic affiliation that might provide an artificial springboard for recognition of my work. My fundamental shyness and lack of aggressiveness in social intercourse is magnified many times in my role as a writer.

Why then do I write? I have concluded it is because creative writing for me is a form of self-realization to which I am seriously committed, so seriously that it has come to take precedence over most of my other activities. The objectifying of my thoughts and feelings through writing is fulfilling in a way that transcends my flesh and blood being. It has taken me a long time to accept the concept that I have a soul that needs fulfillment, living as I do in a society that regards the soul strictly in a metaphorical manner. But for me, my soul is a very real thing requiring first priority in the conduct of my life. It has not always been so, but the older I become, the clearer it is to me that my soul demands fulfillment or else the essential me desiccates and fades into oblivion. Bringing the vagueness of my ideas and feelings into the object nature of linguistic expression is a gratification that stands on its own, apart from the outside world. I have had to cultivate a metaphysical sense in order to appreciate this aspect of my life. If I do not maintain this capacity, I will be at the mercy of society and unable to endure literary isolation.

* 2 *

How much mental effort, how many anxieties, how many wrong directions in my life have been required for me to accept the primacy of my own soul over my surroundings. How often do I still look to the outside when I should be looking within. My upbringing was totally lacking in helping me to perceive the nature of my own interior reality; consequently it is almost second nature for me to look to an exterior structure or exterior community for obtaining validation of my activities. Like a dog who runs for a rubber bone no matter how often he finds that it is not meat but tasteless rubber, so it is when society gives me a nod of approval my instincts are to rise on my haunches and come to attention.

Last week I happened to notice my name mentioned favorably in some obscure professional publication dealing with some abstruse subject to which I had devoted far too much of my energies in an earlier phase of my life. The subject is of little importance and the controversy surrounding it absurd, elaborated largely to advance the career of academicians. I am aware of the self-serving nature of the so-called ‘research’ to which I had formerly subscribed; still, the mention of my name in a professional magazine produces a silly gratifying feeling in me. I realize that my efforts at freeing myself from the prison of professional vanity have not yet been successful. At such times, I despise myself because I seem incapable of overcoming childish desires for recognition. As long as I snap to attention whenever society notices me. I will never be able to be what I most want to be, an independent soul in charge of itself and conscious of the nature of its external milieu.

What I would like of the world is that it knows who I am. I am not a creature of a profession nor am I a paterfamilias, an American, a Jew, a military officer or a male animal. These are all roles assigned to me at times by society, history or nature, or a combination of all three. These roles have never done anything for me except to assist with the requirements of survival and procreation. I have long since paid my dues for that assistance. I am even willing to continue to pay the dues much as I pay for my annual insurance policy, membership in a professional society or my taxes to the government. But I am no more primarily any one of these roles that are imposed upon me than I am a Taxpayer, as I am referred to in the tax forms sent to me annually. I am who I am, God says in Exodus and I would like all to know that I say the same. The only way I have found to make myself known to myself is through my writing. The only way others can know me is by the same route.

* 3 *

Sitting on a bench in Sproul Plaza, as is a frequent activity of mine, I observed a young man in ragged shorts and t-shirt post notices on the student bulletin boards. He posted many copies of the same notice everywhere so that only his could be read. It proclaimed in giant red print, DEMONSTRATE FOR THE PEOPLE OF EL SALVADOR, and gave details of the demonstration. The notices it covered over were other demonstrations, events, lectures and all the usual happenings that go on in the circuses of Berkeley. No doubt this one would be soon covered over in the anarchical struggle for wall spaces in the area.

I have never discovered a cause in which I am not personally involved that I consider to be worth my energies. One may attribute this to selfishness on my part but I perceive it as my inability to be convinced of my ability to see the truth in situations external to me. What do I know of conditions in El Salvador, or in Nicaragua or Palestine or Tibet? I do not have the slightest inkling of what the populations there feel or think, or what the realities are of their circumstances. Nor do I have any idea of how my government should behave toward their governments or to the changing factions that seek power in these countries. When I was young, I fervently believed that the struggling masses were best represented by the Communist party and that the Soviet Union was an example to the world. I now know how grievously wrong was that opinion. During World War II, the Japanese were portrayed to me as evil little men intent on destroying my country, but I now know I knew nothing of the facts of the situation. During the Vietnam War, I was persuaded that the destiny of the Vietnamese people lay with their indigenous leaders, but I no longer believe that the people of South Vietnam have benefited by the hegemony of the rulers of North Vietnam. How much better off South Korea seems to me than if they were ruled by a dictator from North Korea. Today I am assailed by proponents of endless causes, domestic and foreign, all of which are represented to me as moral issues. But I am no longer so naive as to think I can make moral judgments about causes exterior to my own personal milieu.

* 4 *

I live in a society that cares only for community activities. It is in groups that people become alive, it is only as members of communities that individuals find the courage to assert themselves.