A Dialogue
“ARE YOU SLEEPY?”
“No, Father.”
“Neither am I. Let’s talk awhile. Open the window. What time is it?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“And the last guest from our modest dinner has just gone home. So, my boy, you have at last reached the age of twenty-one. Yes, twenty-one years ago, on the fifth of August, 1854, you first saw the light of day, a tiny little scrap of a thing, and now you’re a man with a fine mustache, a few conquests under your belt—”
“Father!”
“Now, don’t act all surprised, and let’s have a serious chat, man-to-man. Close the door. I have some important things to tell you. Sit down and let’s talk. Twenty-one years old, a private income, and a college degree: you could go into politics, the law, journalism, farming, industry, commerce, literature, or the arts. An infinite number of careers lie before you. Twenty-one, my boy, is but the first syllable of our destiny. Even Pitt and Napoleon, however precocious, had not reached their peak at twenty-one. But whatever profession you choose, my only wish is that you do something great and illustrious, or at least noteworthy, that you raise yourself above the common herd. Life, Janjão, is one enormous lottery; the prizes are few and the unlucky innumerable, and it is upon the sighs of one generation that the hopes of the next are built. That’s life; there’s no use whining or cursing; we must just accept things as they are, with their burdens and benefits, their glories and blemishes, and press on regardless.”
“Yes, Father.”
“However, just as it is wise, metaphorically speaking, to set some bread aside for one’s old age, so it is also good social practice to keep a career in reserve, just in case the others fail entirely, or do not quite meet our ambitions. That is my advice to you, my son, on this the day when you come of age.”
“And I’m grateful for it, Father. But what career do you have in mind?”
“To me, there is no career as useful or as fitting as that of bigwig. As a young man, my dream was to be a bigwig. I lacked, however, a father’s advice, and so I have ended up as you can see, with no other consolation or moral support beyond the hopes I place in you. So listen to me carefully, son; listen and learn. You are young, you naturally possess the fire, the exuberance, and the impulsiveness of your years; do not reject them, but moderate them so that by the time you’re forty-five, you are ready to enter the age of measure and reason. The wise man who said, “Gravity is a mystery of the body invented to conceal the defects of the mind,” defined the very essence of a bigwig. Do not confuse this gravity with the other kind, which, although also present in outward appearances, is a pure reflex or emanation of the mind; the gravity of which I speak is a matter only of the body, whether natural or acquired. As for the age of forty-five . . .”
“Yes, indeed, why forty-five?”
“It is not, as you might suppose, an arbitrary number plucked out of the air; it is the normal age at which the phenomenon occurs. Generally speaking, the true bigwig begins to appear between the ages of forty-five and fifty, although some cases do occur between fifty-five and sixty, but these are rare. There are also some who emerge at forty, and others even earlier, at thirty-five or even thirty; they are not, however, at all common. I won’t even mention those who become bigwigs at twenty-five; such precocity is the privilege of genius.”
“I see.”
“But let’s get to the main point. Once you have embarked on this career, you must be extremely cautious about any ideas you may cultivate, either for your own use or for the use of others. The best thing would be not to have any ideas at all. This is something you can easily grasp by imagining, for example, an actor deprived of the use of one arm. He can, through sheer talent and skill, conceal his disability from the audience, but it would nevertheless be much better for him to have both arms. The same is true of ideas; it is possible, by violent effort, to smother or conceal them permanently, but that is a very rare skill, and not one conducive to the normal enjoyment of life.”
“But who says that I—”
“You, my son, if I am not mistaken, seem to be endowed with the perfect degree of mental vacuity required by such a noble profession. I refer not so much to the fidelity with which you repeat in a drawing room opinions you have heard on the street corner, or vice versa, because this fact, while indicative of a certain absence of original thought, might well be nothing more than a slip of the memory. No, I am referring to the punctilious and statesmanlike stance you tend to adopt when expounding your views, for or against, regarding the cut of a vest, the dimensions of a hat, or the squeakiness (or absence thereof) of a new pair of boots. Therein lies a symptom that speaks volumes; therein lies a hope. It is not, however, inconceivable that, with age, you may come to be afflicted with some ideas of your own, and so it is important to equip your mind with strong defenses. Ideas are by their very nature spontaneous and sudden; however hard we try, they burst forth and rush upon us. This is precisely what enables the man in the street, who has a very fine nose for this kind of thing, to distinguish with absolute certainty the true bigwig from the false.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but that is surely an insurmountable obstacle.”
“No, it isn’t. There is a way. You must throw yourself into a punishing regime of reading books on rhetoric, listening to certain speeches, and so on. Gin rummy, dominoes, and whist are all tried and tested remedies. Whist even has the rare advantage of getting one accustomed to silence, and silence is the most extreme form of circumspection. I wouldn’t say the same about swimming, horse-riding, or gymnastics, even though they do force the brain to rest; but it is precisely in resting the brain that they restore its lost strength and vitality. Billiards, on the other hand, is excellent.”
“How’s that? Doesn’t billiards also involve physical exercise?”
“I’m not saying that it doesn’t, but there are some things in which observation trumps theory. I recommend billiards to you only because the most scrupulously compiled statistics show that three-quarters of those who wield a billiard cue pretty much share the same opinions as the cue itself. An afternoon stroll, particularly in places of amusement and public display, is highly beneficial, provided you don’t sally forth unaccompanied. For solitude is the workshop of ideas, and if the mind is left to its own devices, even in the midst of a crowd, it is prone to lapse into some unwarranted activity or other.”
“But what if I don’t have a friend on hand willing and able to go with me?”
“Not to worry; there are always those habitual gathering places of idlers, where all the dust of solitude is blown away. Bookshops, perhaps because of their studious atmosphere, or for some other reason that escapes me, are not suitable for our purpose. However, it can be worthwhile visiting them from time to time, as long as you make sure everyone sees you doing it. There is a simple way of resolving this dilemma: go to a bookshop solely to talk about the rumor of the day, the funny story of the week, some salacious affair or scandal, a passing comet, or whatever it may be (unless, of course, you’d rather approach habitual readers of Monsieur Mazade’s erudite columns in the Revue des Deux Mondes); seventy-five percent of these worthy denizens will repeat to you exactly the same opinions, and such monotony is eminently useful. By following this regime for eight, ten, eighteen months—let’s call it two years—you can reduce the most prodigious of intellects to a sober, disciplined, and tedious equilibrium. I haven’t mentioned vocabulary, for words are implied by the ideas they convey; it goes without saying that it should be simple, vapid, and strictly limited—definitely no purple notes or shrill colors.”
“That’s awful! Not being able to add a few rhetorical flourishes once in a while . . .”
“Oh, but you can; there’s a whole host of figures of speech you can use: the Lernean Hydra, for example, or the head of Medusa, the cask of the Danaids, the wings of Icarus, and all those many others that romanticists, classicists, and realists employ without compunction whenever the need arises. Latin tags, historical sayings, famous verses, legal axioms, witty maxims—it’s a good idea to have them readily to hand for after-dinner speeches, toasts, and so on. Caveant, consules is an excellent way to conclude anything with a political theme, and I would say the same of Si vis pacem, para bellum. Some people like to refresh an old quotation by working it into a new, original, and beautiful sentence, but I would advise against a trick like that; it will only warp the quotation’s venerable charm. However, better than all of these, which, at the end of the day, are mere trimmings, are the clichés and traditional sayings handed down from generation to generation, burned into both the individual and the public memory. These expressions have the advantage of not requiring any unnecessary effort on the part of your listeners. I won’t list them all now, but will set them down in writing later. Beyond that, your new profession will itself gradually teach you the difficult art of thinking what has already been thought. As for the usefulness of such a system, just imagine one hypothesis. A law is passed, put into force, but has no effect; the evil persists. Here lies a subject to whet idle curiosities, instigate mind-numbing inquiry, the fastidious collection of documents and observations, the analysis of probable, possible, and definitive causes, the endless study of the capacity of the individual to be reformed, the nature of the evil, the formulation of a remedy, and the circumstances in which it should be applied; in short, enough material for a whole edifice of words, opinions, and nonsensical ramblings. You, however, will spare your fellow man this long harangue by simply saying: “Reform habits, not laws!” And this short, transparent, limpid phrase, pulled from the common purse, instantly solves the problem, and lifts everyone’s spirits like a sudden shaft of sunlight.”
“I see by this, Father, that you condemn the application of any and all modern methodologies.”
“Let me be quite clear. I do indeed condemn their application, but I heartily approve of the phrase itself. I would say the same thing regarding all recent scientific terminology, all of which you should learn by heart. Although the distinguishing characteristic of a bigwig may well be a rather unyielding attitude reminiscent of the god Terminus, whereas the sciences are the product of everyday human endeavor, if you are to become a bigwig later on in life, you should arm yourself with the most up-to-date weapons. Because one of two things will happen: either these scientific terms and expressions will be worn out from overuse in thirty years’ time, or they will keep themselves fresh and new. In the first case, they will fit you like an old glove; in the second case, you can wear them in your buttonhole to show that you, too, know what’s what. From scraps of conversation, you will eventually form some sort of idea about which laws, cases, and phenomena all this terminology corresponds to; because the alternative method of scientific inquiry—from the books and theses of the experts themselves—as well as being tedious and tiring, brings with it the danger of exposure to new ideas, and is thus fundamentally false. Furthermore, if you were ever truly to master the spirit of those laws and formulae, you would probably be inclined to employ them with a certain moderation, like the shrewd and prosperous seamstress of whom a classical poet wrote:
The more cloth she has the more sparingly she cuts,
And the smaller the pile of scraps left over.
“It goes without saying that such behavior on the part of a bigwig would be most unscientific.”
“My word, it’s a tricky business!”
“And we’re not finished yet.”
“Well, then, let’s carry on.”
“I haven’t yet spoken to you about the benefits of publicity. Publicity is a haughty and seductive mistress, and you should woo her with little gifts, sugared almonds, lavender sachets, and other tiny things expressive more of the constancy of your affections than of the boldness of your ambitions. Soliciting her favors through heroic deeds and sacrifices is something best left to Don Quixote and other such lunatics. The true bigwig takes an entirely different approach. Rather than composing a Scientific Treatise on Sheep Breeding, he buys a lamb and regales his friends with it in the form of a dinner, news of which cannot fail to rouse the interest of your fellow citizens. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, your name is in the newspapers five, ten, or even twenty times. Committees and delegations for congratulating war heroes, distinguished citizens, or foreigners are particularly beneficial, as are church organizations and various clubs and societies, whether devoted to mythology, hunting, or ballet. Even certain minor incidents can be mentioned, provided they serve to show you in a good light. Let me explain. If you were to fall from a carriage suffering nothing more than a nasty shock, it would be useful to trumpet the fact to all and sundry. Not on account of the incident in itself, which is insignificant, but for the purpose of reminding public affections of a name that is dear to them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That is your cheap, easy, workaday publicity, but there is more. Whatever the theory of art may have to say on the subject, it is beyond doubt that family sentiment, personal friendship, and public esteem all encourage the artistic reproduction of a well-loved or distinguished man’s physiognomy. Nothing prevents you from being the object of such distinction, particularly if your discerning friends sense no reluctance on your part. In that case, not only are you required by the rules of common courtesy to accept the portrait or bust so offered, but you would also be ill-advised to prevent your friends from arranging a public exhibition of said portrait. In this way your name becomes firmly attached to your person; those who have read your recent speech, say, to the inaugural congress of the National Union of Hairdressers will recognize in your rugged features the author of such a weighty peroration, in which the “levers of progress” and the “sweat of the brow” overcame the “gaping gullets” of poverty. In the event of a delegation bringing the portrait to your home, you should thank them for their kindness with a grateful speech and a banquet—a venerable, sensible, and honest custom. You will, of course, also invite your closest friends, your relations, and, if possible, one or two prominent figures. Furthermore, since the day is one of glory and jubilation, I do not see how you could decently refuse a place at your table to some newspaper reporters. In the unfortunate event that the duties of these gentlemen of the press have detained them elsewhere, you can help them out by yourself drafting a report of the celebrations. And should you, on account of some entirely understandable scruple, not wish to apply the requisite glowing adjectives yourself, then ask a friend or relation to do it.”
“None of this is going to be easy, Father.”
“You’re absolutely right, son. It’s difficult and will take time, lots of time, indeed years of patience and toil, but happy are they who reach the Promised Land! Those who fail will be swallowed up by obscurity. But those who triumph? And, believe me, you will triumph. You will see the walls of Jericho fall at the sound of the holy trumpets. Only then will you be able to say that you have arrived. On that day you will have become the indispensable ornament, the obligatory presence, the social fixture. There’ll be no more need to sniff out opportunities, committees, clubs, and societies; they will come to you with the dull, crude air about them of de-adjectivized nouns, and you will be the adjective of their leaden speeches, the fragrant of their flowers, the indigo of their sky, the upstanding of their citizens, the trenchant and meaty of their news reports. And this is the most important thing of all, because the adjective is the very soul of language, its idealistic and metaphysical component. The noun is reality stripped naked and raw; it is the naturalism of vocabulary.”
“And all this, you think, is just a standby in case all else fails?”
“That’s right. It doesn’t preclude any other activity whatsoever.”
“Not even politics?”
“Not even politics. It is simply a matter of abiding by certain basic rules and obligations. You may belong to any party, liberal or conservative, republican or ultramontane, the one caveat being that you must not attach any specific ideas to these words, and only recognize their usefulness as biblical shibboleths.”
“If I go into parliament, can I speak from the rostrum?”
“You can and you must; it is a way of attracting public attention. As for the subject of your speeches, you have a choice between pettifogging minutiae and political ideology, but with a preference for ideology. Minutiae, one must admit, are not inconsistent with the urbane dullness that is the mark of every accomplished bigwig, but, if you can, go for ideology—it’s easier and much more appealing. Suppose you were to inquire into the reasons for transferring the Seventh Company of Infantry from Uruguaiana to Canguçu; you will be heard only by the minister of war, and it will take him all of ten minutes to explain the reasons for his decision. Not so with ideology. A speech on the most arcane aspects of political ideology will, by its very nature, excite the passions of politicians and the public gallery, provoking heated interjections and rebuttals. Moreover, it requires neither thought nor investigation. In this branch of human knowledge everything has already been discovered, worded, labeled, and packaged; you need only rummage around in the saddlebags of memory. But whatever you do, never go beyond the boundaries of enviable triteness.”
“I’ll do what I can. So no imagination, then?”
“None whatsoever. Much better to put the word around that the gift of imagination is very low-class indeed.”
“And no philosophy?”
“Let’s be quite clear: a smattering perhaps when writing or speaking, but in reality, none. ‘Philosophy of history,’ for example, is a phrase you should frequently employ, but I forbid you to arrive at any conclusions that have not already been reached by others. Avoid anything that has about it so much as a whiff of reflection, originality, or the like.”
“And humor?”
“What do you mean, ‘humor’?”
“Should I always be very serious?”
“It all depends. You have a jovial, fun-loving nature and there’s no need to smother or suppress it entirely—you can laugh and joke once in a while. Being a bigwig doesn’t necessarily require you to be a melancholic. A serious man can have his lighthearted moments too. Only—and this is a crucial point . . .”
“Go on.”
“You must never use irony—that mysterious little twitch at the corners of the mouth, invented by some decadent Greek, caught by Lucian, transmitted to Swift and Voltaire, and typical of all skeptics and impudent freethinkers. No. Better to tell a rude joke, our good old friend, the chubby-cheeked, brash, and blatantly rude joke, wrapped in neither veils nor false modesty, which hits you right between the eyes, stings like a slap on the back, makes your blood pound, and snaps your suspenders with laughter. What’s that?”
“It’s midnight.”
“Midnight? Well, then, young man, you are already entering your twenty-second year; you have definitively come of age. Let’s turn in; it’s late. Chew over what I’ve told you, son. All things considered, our conversation tonight has been worthy of Machiavelli’s The Prince. Time for bed.”