The Meditations of a Non-Thinker
Look at your nose. It is smooth and round, and red and shiny. Possibly ’tis flat, obtuse, snub, Roman, or Jew. Or in case you happen to think of some other qualification, it is that. So with your eyes—if only you will apply suitable adjectives. And also with your chin, mouth, hair, ears, jowls, or whatever. The reason I suggest this, is in order to add the insinuation that, if you regard any of these members in a mirror for some length of time, their aspect changes. For instance—you, my kind sir of the snub nose, affirm that your nose did not appear beautiful at first? But you will as well admit that its grossness lessened in accordance with the time spent in contemplating it. You got to know it just a little better than you knew it before. Or you who wear the slight scraggly beard—no, not you, madam—, will you kindly step forward to the glass and observe how your impression of that fringe changeth from the disgust of a reformed highwayman to the pride of a father? If we but had the time, we should spend a delightful afternoon, dear reader, watching such profitable changes in expression. Human nature is fascinating, is it not? But verily all of this—for I shall leave aside even the proposition of how such an outward change affects the spiritual grace—is merely to remark that by taking thought on any part of your person, no matter how small, you become acquainted correspondingly with such a part.
This is indeed great. For the action pleases the gazer supremely with his personality. Yet I hasten to assure you, my dear reader, that such a phenomenon is quite natural—because after all, we are all of us pretty much fools, and generally when a fool becomes better acquainted with himself, he becomes more endeared to himself. As to the question of the right or wrong of this human attribute, I make no advances, for it is aside from my position as recorder. But from what I have heard wise men say, I should judge it to be a lamentable weakness, especially lamentable since the whole evil appears to issue from a person’s having thoughttoo much. As a child I was taught to respect thought. And actually I once believed this to be a worthy hypothesis. But now, as I linger on the verge of a dreary grave, my old head is fearsomely shaken with doubt. Ah yes, to think that—but I had better not think!
When we think, we do not observe the golden mean. We rush in where angels fear to tread. We are not humble, as Christians. We are exalted, as fools—and as such we love ourselves. So when we are in the act of thinking, we will not leave off with any sane or wholesome solution. We believe such a conclusion not good enough for us. We call it barren. We must needs explore further. After finding a cliff at the edge of a rational plane of thought, we urge on and grope into the outer darkness. For the little time that faith supports we continue safely—and blindly—enough, and then—fall down on the rocks, where we proceed lame and disorderly—or like Peter, sink absolutely into an offended sea—and are not saved.
You must allow that when you work yourself into such a state, the effect on your feelings is far from pleasant, far from elegant even. I should imagine that one in the grip of mental excesses is not unlike the habitual user of drugs—the morphinomaniac, opium-eater, or alcoholic. The mood is surely delirious, grotesquely fanciful, spirit-ridden. Possibly you believe it is pitiful to see a strong and normal man slowly gathered in by some subtle influence to become a slave grovelling bestially before a false and gilded—but an all-compelling—idol. Aye! this is pitiful. But the pity of it is not the greatest part. Here are you, possessed of abilities, ambitions, loving friends, philanthropy of the highest kind, delighted with this world, and enchanted with the prospect of the next. You hope everything and you fear nothing. By some insidious trick of fate—a fate that preys upon an insignificant weakness of yours—you feel yourself subdued slightly by the nod of some dim gigantic animal. But you are not afraid. For your interests are so worthily turned elsewhere that you know the Thing to have little power compared to your own—and you do not care. Oh, therein lives the fearful irony! You may indulge in your morphine, your opium, or your thinking largely to aid your powers and your works. The undermining influenceis not felt—until too late. Yes, too late.... The degraded wretch moaning and whimpering, and shivering all over spasmodically as he tries to get up on his feet, and his rotted nerves will not respond—can you imagine the inner state of such a fellow? Do you not conceive that one day he may have been as fine—or a far finer—person than you? Imagine, then, the turbulence in his heart! He dreams back to old days, perceiving the former integrity of his character, the power of his mind and body—and compares all with the present. Maybe he fashions images of what to-day he might have been—beautiful glowing things, full of the light of heaven and of loveliness! He starts from his vile gutter, repelled by horror, and is about to rise magnificently—when a fit of the passion seizes him, and you watch him grovel in the nauseous mire. Happy beast he is—now. But the torture of his mind will return.
The agony which thinking induces by such means as I have outlined above leads me to consider for a trice its alternative, because it is joyous and fruitful. Can you imagine a green and yellow countryside, with a little white farmhouse amidst a cluster of dark oaks? Willows are near a cove in the stream below, which ripples its way coolly through the hot day. Do you hear the dry voice of a locust, or a cricket? Perhaps the bird in that isolated pine tree will be singing soon. Breathe deeply, for the sun is low over the hill and a colder, fairer wind blows from the dark woodland. You sense its fragrance, feel a thrill, and are deeply delighted with the whole atmosphere. But stay, I hear a slow cowbell and the barking of a collie.... The colors of the sunset are delicate and marvelously blended.—And winding down the path comes a small boy, with pails to fill at the brook for his mother. So it goes on. However clumsy the little picture, I have tried to indicate slightly the pleasure met with when youfeel. These emotions of yours are sacred because they are unfathomable. And they are more beautiful than anything else you will ever know. As for the fruitfulness of imagination, I must let you judge more for yourself: I will only say that, when people are wearied out, the beauty of nature has ever been found more of a balm to their spirits than the futility of overheated thought. Thought and emotion are living in eternal conflict within you.As one fills your life you have less room for the other. Any choosing....
The psychologist, that enigmatic rabbit born recently amid a litter of new ideas, maintains thought to be the only respect in which we differ from animals. Now in the light of this last word I had better not have used the term “rabbit”; but, however.... I should like to suggest (though I am not sure whether you will call me a squirrel or a guinea-pig) that we differ still more from animals in our power of imagination. You certainly have seen cartoons entitled “Wonder what a lobsterthinksabout,” but it is always you who do the wondering and not the lobster (no inference that you are one, sir). And you never see “Thinkwhat a jellyfishwondersabout”! Furthermore, if the psychologist is entirely right, you who have followed so assiduously this essay—which is largely devoid of thought—are at least for the time being largely an animal. Are you?
L. HYDE.