Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (5 page)

What a deception you are in for! What plagues and scourges lie in wait for
you! Give us your mightiest thoughts, shake the world to its foundations—but do not hope to
escape your Calvary! Once you have launched your creations, be certain they will be turned
against you. You will be unique if you are not overwhelmed and engulfed by monsters of your
own breeding. The day is sure to come when you will look upon the world as if it had never
received the impact of a single uplifting thought. You will be
terrified
and bewildered to see how thoroughly awry everything has gone, how utterly you and those you
emulated have been misunderstood. The world you unwittingly helped to make will claim you, not
as master or arbiter, but as its victim.

No, these things I cannot tell you in advance because, to begin with, you
would never believe me. And you shouldn’t! Listening to you, observing the ardor which lights
your countenance, I am almost ready to believe that I am wrong. And I
am
wrong in
putting it to you this way, since one thing is true beyond all dispute, and that is—no matter
what the game, it is worth playing to the end. But can you bring yourself to regard your high
task as “a game”?

There is one other thing to know … when you have expressed yourself to the
fullest, then and only then will it dawn upon you that everything has already been expressed,
not in words alone but in deed, and that all you need really do is say
Amen!

It was here at Big Sur that I first learned to say
Amen!
And here
too that I came to dwell with more than a feeling of mystification on that edifying
observation of Céline’s: “I piss on you all from a considerable height!” It was here, in the
backwoods, as it were, that I discovered—
mirabile dictu!
—that three of my neighbors
had read
Arabia Deserta
. It was also here, in my own home, that I met and retained as
a guest for several months a man who had given up the ministry in order to lead a Christ-like
life. It is here, and nowhere else, that I have witnessed people recast their ideas and live
them out. And here, more than anywhere else, that I have listened to the greatest nonsense as
well as the greatest wisdom.

Stay put and watch the world go round!

I know there are some who complain that Big Sur does not offer enough
stimulus. My feeling, on the contrary, is that there is too
much stimulus
here. To the man whose senses are alive and alert there is not even the need to stir from
one’s threshold. For such a one there is a world here as full and rich, as compelling and
instructive, as Thoreau found at Walden.

As a man who is in love with the world—the alien world—I must confess that I
am also in love with my home, the first real home I have known. Doubtless those who appreciate
“home” most are the eternal vagabonds, the outlaws. If I am ever to venture forth into the
world again I trust I can now offer something of root as well as flower. To offer simply what
Big Sur has taught me would be no small thing. I say Big Sur, not America. For, however much a
part of America Big Sur may be, and it is American through and through, what distinguishes it
is something more than the word America conveys. If I were to single out one element in the
American temperament which has been exalted here, it would be kindness. It has always been the
custom here on the Coast, when raising one’s glass, to say: “Here’s kindness!” I have never
heard the expression used elsewhere. And when Harrydick Ross, my nearest neighbor, says
“Kindness!” it means just that.

Reading my quaint biographical romances, people often ask how on earth I
managed to keep my head above water during the black years of famine and drought. I have
explained, of course, and in these very books, that at the last ditch someone always came to
my rescue. Anyone who has a steady purpose is bound to attract friends and supporters. What
man ever accomplished anything alone? The impressive thing, however, is that aid, when it does
come, never comes from the expected quarter—where it
should
come from, as we
think.

No, we are never alone. But one has to live apart to know it for the
truth.

The first time I knew what it was to be alone, and to like it, was on the
island of Corfu. The second time it happened, despite all my talk about
not
being
alone, was here at Big Sur.

To be alone, if only for a few minutes, and to realize it with all
one’s being, is a blessing we seldom think to implore. The man of the big
city dreams of life in the country as a refuge from all that plagues him and renders life
intolerable. What he fails to realize, however, is that he can be more alone, if he chooses,
in the midst of ten million souls than in a tiny community. To experience the feeling of
aloneness is a spiritual achievement. The man who runs away from the city in search of this
experience may find to his chagrin, particularly if he has brought with him all the cravings
which city life fosters, that he has succeeded only in becoming lonely. “Solitude is for wild
beasts or the gods,” said someone. And there is truth in it.

Only when we are truly alone does the fullness and richness of life reveal
itself to us. In simplifying our lives, everything acquires a significance hitherto unknown.
When we are one with ourselves the most insignificant blade of grass assumes its proper place
in the universe. Or a piece of manure, for that matter. Properly attuned, it’s all one come
Christmas, as we say. One thing becomes just as important as another, one person as good as
another. Lowest and highest become interchangeable. The own precious self gets swallowed up in
the ocean of being. It is then that the carrion bird no longer seems hideous, nor merely to be
tolerated because of his scavenger propensities. Nor do the stones in the field then seem
inanimate, or to be regarded with an eye toward future walls and buttresses. Even if it last
for only a few moments, the privilege of looking at the world as a spectacle of unending life
and not as a repository of persons, creatures and objects to be impressed into our service, is
something never to be forgotten. The ideal community, in a sense, would be the loose, fluid
aggregation of individuals who elected to be alone and detached in order to be at one with
themselves and all that lives and breathes. It would be a God-filled community, even if none
of its members believed in (a) God. It would be a paradise, even though the word had long
disappeared from our vocabulary.

In all the cities and countries I dream of visiting one day there
are, of course, no such communities. Even in the holiest places man is
prone to act the fool, the bigot, the idolater. As I said before, today we find only
individuals dedicated to “the good life.” Nevertheless, these isolated individuals are
bringing about a community which will one day replace the dismembered warring communities
which are a disgrace to the name. The world does tend to become one, however much its
component elements may resist. Indeed, the stronger the resistance the more certain is the
outcome. We resist only what is inevitable.

I have talked of Big Sur as if it were a place apart, having little or no
connection with the world. Nothing could be less true. Nowhere else in my travels have I found
individuals more alert to what is going on in the world, nor better informed. It is rare that
a community as small as this can boast so many world travelers. I never cease to be amazed
when I hear that this one has just left for Siam, that one for Japan, Turkey, or Greece,
another for India or Peru, another for Guatemala, Yucatan, or the Polynesian Islands. Some of
my neighbors have dwelt for extended periods in very remote parts of the globe. Some have
lived with the Indians (of both continents), some with the primitive peoples of Africa, Japan,
India, Melanesia.

Nearly every one seems to be a specialist in some field, be it art,
archaeology, linguistics, symbolism, Dianetics, Zen Buddhism or Irish folklore. Men like Ross
and Tolerton, to mention two near neighbors, have a range of practical knowledge, not to speak
of earthly and heavenly wisdom, which would be hard to match in any community. Others, like
the Trotter boys, as they are still called, perform feats of strength in the daily pursuance
of their tasks which would put glorified “strong men” to shame. Nearly all the women are
excellent cooks, and the men as well ofttimes. Every
other home possesses
a connoisseur of wines. And every other father has the makings of an excellent mother.

I cannot refrain from repeating—never have I known a community in which there
was so much talent, so many capable men and women, so many resourceful, self-sufficient souls.
Even that scallywag up in the hills who pretends to be a good for nothing, “a real son of a
bitch,” as he lovingly labels himself, knows how to live with himself and can be, when he
chooses, a most gentle, lovable, charitable person, one of those happy “misfits” who has
tasted everything and who, God bless him!, has therefore no more respect for the inside of a
temple than the inside of a jail, no more consideration for a scholar than for a tramp, no
higher opinion of a judge than of the culprit who keeps the judge in food and raiment.

And where else in this beloved country is a neighbor apt to turn up
unexpectedly in order to inquire what he can do for you? Meaning by that—what needs fixing,
mending or repairing? In an emergency there are always a half-dozen fullbodied spirits within
shouting distance who can be relied upon to drop everything and come to one’s assistance. I
have never known a situation to arise, and I must say we have had some bizarre ones, with
which these volunteers could not cope. The moral of all this is—the less organization the
better!

When all is said and done, there remains the inescapable fact that to keep a
footing here taxes all one’s resources. One may be capable, practical, determined,
persevering, full of vitality, yet never quite equal to the challenge which is constantly
imposed. It is all thrown at you pell-mell: landscapes, seascapes, forests, streams, birds of
passage, weeds, pests, rattlesnakes, gophers, earwigs, misfits, vagabonds, sunsets, rainbows,
yarrow, hollyhocks, and that leech of the plant world called the morning-glory. Even the rocks
are seductive and hypnotic. And where else on this earth will you find a towering wall of fog
advancing from the date line with a knife-blue crest behind which a setting sun shoots out
“squirrels and lightning”?

It is all so inviting, so spectacular, so complete in itself, that at
first you are emotionally stymied. The preliminary bout of intoxication
which inevitably follows is one the alcoholic never knows. Comes a settling down period,
generally accompanied by a slight touch of boredom—the ransom one pays for flirting with
perfection. Then follows the trouble period, when inner doubts pave the way for domestic
squabbles, and the whole horizon grows dark with conflict. When at last you hit bottom, you
say—every one has said it at least once!—“Big Sur? Why, it’s just like every other place!”
Speaking thus, you voice a profound truth, since a place is only what you make it, what you
bring to it, just as with a friend, a lover, a wife, a pet or a pursuit.

Yes, Big Sur can be a dream come true—or a complete washout. If there’s
something wrong with the picture, have a look at yourself in the mirror. The one difference
between Big Sur and other “ideal” spots is that here you get it quick and get it hard. Get it
between the eyes, so to say. The result is that you either come to grips with yourself or else
turn tail and seek some other spot in which to nourish your illusions. Which leaves a whole
universe to roam—and who is to care should you
never
come face to face with
yourself?

Big Sur is not a Mecca, a Lourdes, or even a Lhasa. Nor is it a Klondike for
the incurable idealist. If you are an artist and think to muscle in here, it would be wise to
first find a patron, because the artist cannot live off the artist, and here every other
individual, seemingly, is an artist of one sort or another. Even the plumbers.

What could one bring that would be of value to the community? Just a normal,
modest desire to do whatever needs to be done in whatever way it can be done. Briefly, two
capable hands, a strong heart, and a certificate of vaccination against disillusionment. If
you have an intellect, bring it with you, but not the rubbish that usually goes with it. There
are too many intellects here already. And, if you bring nothing else, bring a sense of humor,
for you will need it here if you haven’t needed it elsewhere. If you believe in medicine,
bring your own medicine chest, for there are no doctors here
except
learned ones. And don’t bring any pets unless you are prepared to make frequent trips to the
veterinary, because, for reasons as yet unknown, the pets here take on all the illnesses of
human kind as well as those of the animal kingdom.

As for Partington Ridge, whence this message emanates, there is still no
telegraph, no telephone, no sewage system, no garbage disposal plant. To get rid of your empty
bottles, tin cans and other refuse, you must own a car and drive an appreciable distance to
the allotted dumping ground, or else engage the professional services of Howard Welch, the man
from Missouri.

Thus far Big Sur has crept along with what’s to hand. What is probably needed
to put it on the map are—a brothel, a jail, and a gold-plated electric chair. It would also be
wonderful to have a Jewish delicatessen, but that’s probably asking too much all at once.

In tailing off I would like to quote the words of another Henry Miller, better
known in these parts than yours truly. I refer to Henry Miller the cattle baron, a man who
once owned so much land that one could start from the Mexican border and walk to Canada
without ever taking foot off his possessions. Anyway, here is what he once said: “If a man is
so unfortunate as to beg for food, give it to him and win his gratitude. Never make him work
for it and get his hatred.”