Write your abstract
here.
A disquieting parable on the odd bypaths taken by
human
influence; the lessons people sometimes learn, that a
great
man's example was never intended to teach.
The Greek philosopher of life stripped to its
barest
and simplest elements is visited at his barrel by a
disciple, Crates, who has stripped himself so bare he
is
clothed in nothing but grime and dirt (though very
capaciously in that) and considers the barrel Diogenes
lives in, and his virtuous principles, to be wildly
extravagant luxury. Crates lives exposed to all the
elements but water, turning aside as inessential---do
dogs
need them?---the simple, direct principles Diogenes has
extolled as highest humanity.
Alexander has stripped himself of soft vices and
virtues
alike, the better to clothe himself in the armour of
soldiers and the blood of victims by the tens of
thousands,
and in nations subject to his will. He too believes
himself
Diogenes' heir, though as much as Crates, he believes
he's
improved on the lessons of the master. After the
standard
photo opportunities---Alexander asks Diogenes what he
can
do for him and Diogenes asks him sto step back and stop
blocking the sun etc.---Alexander and Crates contend
over
who better exemplifies Diogenes' teachings. Crates'
scornful dismissal of Alexander's conquests---in humane
words of pity: perhaps he hasn't sacrificed all human
virtue as thoroughly as he'd imagined---enrages
Alexander
who threatens him with death by swording. Has Crates
any
weapon of defense? He has---he breathes on Alexander---
and
promises, if threatened again, to release the yet more
potent force of his nether winds.
Sheathe that weapon
of
offence says Alexander, and gives over thought of
slaying.
(Pity: a day without manslaughter's like a day without
sunshine. But he reflects: mass slaughter in field of
battle has won him a title, The Great. The quiet murder
of
a single individual, for mere personal reasons yet,
would
win him infamy.)
This battle over the corpse of his ideas appals
Diogenes
and has him pondering where he went wrong or even
what's
gone wrong with the fabric of the universe itself? if
such
fissures can open between one intelligence and the
next, in
communication of ideas stripped, he thought, of all
needless complication. Ideas expressed as much by
actions
as words---talking pictures: walking about with a
lighted
lantern by day, in search of an honest man; begging
statues
for food, to grow inured to being refused, like the
poor.
None of it communicated, or so wonkily he doesn't
recognize
his ideas in the distorting mirrors that reflect them
back.
Having nothing, he has no gesture except---as rain
begins
to fall in fat drops---settling into his barrel and
pulling
over the lid.