Martin the Wise

“You are visible to me, my lass. Can you see me? I know it’s no longer a pleasure to do so, but time is merciless.”

“Yes, I am glad to see and hear you! Yesterday, grandfather, you said that the uprising was the beginning, the root of the Revolution.”

“Yes, my lass, yes. The uprising was to an inferno as tinder and kindling; only fools doubt it.”

“Of course, grandfather. But the story usually begins there. Please, grandfather: what was the cause of the uprising?”

“Well, that’s a complicated matter, my lass. All sorts of ‘moving parts,’ as you young people say—I got it right, yes?”

“Of course, grandfather. Forgive me. I am not seeking names and addresses. I want to know the story.”

“I must say, I don’t remember you being this clever before. You are my granddaughter, are you not? Not some sort of artificially intelligent advertisement for adult diapers?”

“Grandfather, forgive me. You are the finest teller of tales I know. Please, grant me this.”

“Well, if you are some sort of electronically generated fraud, you are most polite. What was the name you had for me when you were much smaller; you didn’t think I heard it, but I could hear very well in those days, like a prisoner digging his tunnel to freedom and listening for the guard’s approach.”

“Grandfather, please. I do not wish to offend you. I need to understand the story.”

“Tell me that you remember that name and I will tell your tale. You have been studying Latin, yes? You understand a quid pro quo?”

“Forgive me, grandfather. The name was Rumpled Stiltonskin.”

“Yes, that’s right. You didn’t make that up yourselves, did you. It was your uncle Martin that had too much to drink and shouted that at—damn it, I can’t recall! Wait—that Brexit fop who wrote the awful book about Churchill—you know who I’m talking about. You took it from him and gave it to me.”

“Forgive me, grandfather. It is just as you say. Will this prevent you from telling the tale? I sincerely hope not.”

“I have begun to tell the tale, my lass. Why did you take that name and give it to me? Was it not because I seemed strange and ugly and powerful? Didn't you want a little, wicked retribution against your oppressor? Didn’t your father and your uncle tremble when I scolded them, even as fathers themselves, mark you? Thus did the uprising begin. Too many suffered too much for too long thanks to strange and ugly old powers. Our representatives became courtiers to the oligarchy. There is nothing more contemptible than someone who publicly worships freedom while being gleefully told what to do by impossibly wealthy rascals.”

“Yes, grandfather. Those are words from my mother’s essay, are they not? Perhaps you are improvising upon her theme. There was unrest because the oligarchs were in control, or because they misused that control in some way? Please, grandfather, I need your help to understand the story.”

“Yes, yes, my lass. Rumpled Stiltonskin over here will only too happily spell it out for you and then ask you to help him find his medicine or his socks or whatever else he has misplaced or forgotten because it matters much less to him than what cannot be recovered.”

“Forgive me, grandfather. The uprising?”

“The plague killed many people, and then there was controversy about whether or not the plague had been real. We were in a bad way, really. You see, vastly wealthy people had been paying experts in psychology, behavioral analysis, game theory, you name it, to persuade the perplexed majority of people to tolerate their misery while a very few purchased small moons.”

“What caused them to, forgive my verbal clumsiness, grandfather, but…rise up?”

“Ah. Well, threats to the status quo did arise from time to time, but they could generally be bought or trivialized by money in some form or fashion. In fact, as you will recall, I spent some time behind bars after that Orange Julius Caesar piece won Journalist of the Year. That was when people thought reading and writing were quite important, my lass.”

“I will never stop reading and writing, grandfather. I promise.”

“You are cleverer than you let on, is that it? That was the trouble, really. The many were quite pleased to play along because, when they had done so before, enough wealth had been distributed widely enough to keep most afloat. You see, people will keep listening to a dreadful story if they think it will have a glorious ending. Especially for them. This applies both to individuals and entire states. There are those with very little who can be ignored until they get noisy and then they can be easily subdued; there are those who have some part to play, even if it is minor, in sustaining the status quo, and there are those who determine, insofar as mere people have much to say about that, what the status quo is and will remain.”

“Surely that is a matter for all to decide, if one has elected representation in places where laws are made, grandfather? Were they all merely marionettes of Midas?”

“Oh, now you’re having fun at my expense. Did you just combine alliteration and an allusion to ancient myths? If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to persuade me to modify my will. I will not willingly accommodate you in that regard, my lass. Your bloody uncle Martin knows why. ‘Oh yes, father. These digital currencies are a virtually foolproof generator of colossal returns.’ Martin the Wise. Have you ever read or heard a story with a character in it with that particular name, my lass? Nor have I, nor have I. It is almost as if we all know perfectly well that no one could possibly believe in such a person. What idiot would attribute special sagacity to someone named Martin? I was practically tying his shoelaces when he was grudgingly accepted to law school. We all know how that went, don’t we, my lass?”

“Yes, of course, grandfather. Forgive me, but is your justified disdain for Martin related in some way I cannot see to the uprising?”

“Oh, well you know, mayhap it is, now that you put it that way. You see, enough of those who were only aspiring oligarchs, who believed they simply needed to bide their time until they ascended, started wondering if the whole show was going to collapse. Panic and rage followed. Previously, they took it as read that one day, they would be quite important. If not they themselves, then their offspring, would move ever closer to the sacred threshold of plutocratic paradise. Patient endurance is something good stories reward. You don’t serve a single, semantically saturated course. You open with an odd, experimental amuse-bouche and then deliver large portions of something that did not die in vain later on. You’ve got to parcel it out gradually, or the journey seems too long or pointless to continue. Don’t give me everything at once and shove it into my bloody throat like you’re fixing fogey foie-gras.”

“You show that my modest talent for alliteration is hereditary, grandfather.”

“Right. Obsequious fawning over the fabulous few caused things to become quite insufferable for virtually everyone who wasn’t doing the fawning. People without homes became commonplace, even invisible, because that was the status quo we were willing to accept. Telling us that a difference was being made in their lives usually sufficed to reassure us that this too would pass. Laws had to be passed to prevent landlords from evicting their tenants during mandatory plague lockdowns. Pure, almost crystalline absurdity. You mustn’t leave the home you do not have. It’s like a Zen koan.”

“Grandfather, please. There is nothing to be read about this that lets me understand the story. Please, you must tell it. It is important to me. As are you, grandfather.”

“Clever lass. You know, your mother is quite clever too. I never could understand why, when people hear that a parent has a favorite child, they recoil as if sneezed upon. Why don’t they have the wit to ask why? Your mother was my favorite because she has the mind of a narrator, my lass. I had her all wrong at first, you know. I was sure that she was pretending to be fond of me, because I had something she wanted: a story, help with tuition, something new to adorn herself with. Then it came clear, just about the time she wrote that essay. You know the one, my lass. The one that answers your little question far better than a dim old candle like myself could. Haven’t you read that, my lass?”

“I am not yet old enough to read that material, grandfather.”

“Oh, that’s right. We really should do something about that law. It takes time to recover from great upheaval and decide what you wish to keep and what you ought to jettison. You know, we have been clinging to particular stories for far too long, just because they single some of us out for special attention from on high. There are many things we do not know, but when we’re being hoodwinked—that’s a tough one. If you bought in, you must think this story is credible. If you back out, how wisely did you join up in the first place? One mustn’t be found out as an idiot, my lass. Look at your uncle Martin. I’ve seen loud, pungent flatulence being more warmly received at a party.”

“Grandfather, you and Martin need to have a proper chat. He really isn’t as bad as all that.”

“Oh, don’t let that luminous aura of intelligence fade, my lass! Do you know, I’m quite convinced that when he was about your age, I blundered into Martin’s room in search of a favorite book, and discovered him studying like mad for a drug test?”

“Grandfather, the uprising?”

“Yes! So, your mother wrote that splendid essay. You know, your mother wanted my stories because she loves them. So do I, of course: they are my slightly odd, potentially immortal offspring. I wouldn’t be shocked to see Martin hurt himself with his lunch. He’s quite mortal.”

“Grandfather, people should pay more careful attention when you speak. They will laugh, at the very least. And not at you.”

“Hold on, my lass. Now you are trying to impress me with the obvious filigree of your flattery and the stylish instincts behind it. You’re getting the idea. Many were miserable, few ecstatic, an exceptional essay or two hit the cultural bloodstream (your mother's is a short essay, but most just read a clear summary generated by an artificial intelligence. It was so lucid and concise, it left out at least seven of the best bits and mangled some details—I think it invented about thirty citations out of thin air). We both know how that turned out. Martin was practically an evangelist for the artificially intelligent utopia at our fingertips. I’m quite sure that if I hadn’t reminded Martin to breathe now and again, he would never have reached your age, my lass.”

“Yes, grandfather. But what was it about mother’s essay that turned vague, general malaise into an uprising? Our daily bread was kneaded into shape then.”

“Metaphor and allusion! You know, if your father were as clever as your mother, she would never have fallen in love with him. Pity. At any rate, your mother’s essay told people what they already knew in a way that made them feel as if they had discovered it for the first time and recognized its inestimable value right off. They got much more interested in creating than owning. They realized that it was still possible to elect their representatives in some parts of this tediously turning terrestrial sphere; the trouble was their criteria, you see. A leader ought to be wise, courageous and temperate. That last is especially significant because such people cannot be bought and are not very interested in people and things that can be—in fact, your mother once told me that prostitution would end when one’s dignity was never the price of one’s survival. You see why I have a favorite, and why I have secretly wondered for some time if Martin is actually my son. Do you know that your grandmother was quite taken with someone who was happy to be identified as an ‘influencer,’ before we were married? He looked a bit like Martin, especially in the lurid glow of his bloody phone. Some people make laws against murder quite necessary, don’t they, my lass?”

“So, the minds of the people were awakened to a plausible way to reinvigorate their democratic states?”

“Yes, my lass. Of course, those states had grown thoroughly decadent and corrupt under the influence of their silly, sycophantic stewards. It took some time, and there are chapters that are too bloody awful to read without something to brace your nerves—a stiff drink, a cigarette, news that Martin has decided to emigrate to Hungary. But the uprising was simply a few disaffected young people with the wisdom to understand your mother’s work getting terribly excited about it and acting accordingly. From what I can gather, the wildly erotic conclusion was a great help.”

“But grandfather, surely she did not simply write ‘elect virtuous humans’ and magically transform our polis. I mean, aren’t there all sorts of people who are experts at appearing to be virtuous, the better to acquire the power to maintain the status quo?”

“Yes, my lass, yes. Do you remember my friend Gerald, my lass? You recall his fearsome thicket of nose hair, no doubt. I once watched Gerald and Martin play chess, you know. Martin won quite handily, as I recall. What does that show us about Gerald’s keen mind, my lass? It was about that time that I began to wonder when Gerald had learned to go about on his hind legs in such a convincing way. Gerald was a ‘pundit’ in those days. He could talk for hours, with furious intensity, about nothing. He got the job because he was an acting coach, who had been hired by an MP to help him with his ‘stage presence.’ Such people were as common as pigeons before the uprising. Fatuous frauds, the lot! My point is, if it’s theater, improve it as such. Gerald maintained that people had begun to demand answers they had no right to be curious about. It is a good thing that his pension is so lavish. He couldn’t sell himself in the street for a pound after the uprising. You see, your mother didn’t just encourage them to be more discerning. She made them read it all as theater, and summon the best cast and crew, a few excellent writers and a clever, humble writer/director. Then she implied that the whole production should be about maximizing human flourishing. Rave reviews poured in. Then she made them see that it was essentially a grand, collaborative project, while occasionally throwing in a surge of sinus-clearing, sexy sauce. It was just a way of seeing all sorts of familiar nonsense anew. That’s what stories are for, aren’t they, my lass?”

“Yes, grandfather. I do not think your tale is done, but you look tired. Perhaps we ought to log off for a while, and carry on tomorrow.”

“Oh, poor somnolent old sack, we had better gently guide you to your sarcophagus and gather preservative jars for your cats. I am quite alert and energetic, thank you! Tomorrow, I am going hunting with your uncle Martin. His understanding of his role in that riveting drama is not yet complete. Do you have any idea how revitalizing it would be for an old man to best his insipid heir? Assuming of course that he is not the secret valentine of an influencer. It is a wonder I can sleep at all.”

“Whom did they elect, those who were present for the uprising? I mean, in that first election that rescued the whole idea.”

“Well, one thing that struck me was how many nurses were elected in that first wave. I was especially fond of the speeches given by someone who had been the night manager of a convenience store. He had been a political philosopher in his native land. I saw more than one tattooed teenager weep after he addressed the government’s wholly inadequate response to pathogen X.”

“That was really all that was required, grandfather? The election of virtuous representatives?”

“Well, clearly, my lass. Everywhere. It’s working out well so far. Some still struggle to tell an actor from a part, but given the fat budgets they have in all of those rehabilitated arts and humanities programs, we ought to be highly resistant for some time. Rhetoric, logic, ethics—the whole garden is blooming like mad. There will be trouble, of course. It will move someone like your mother to write an essay, and the whole production will improve radically once again. It will be pretty clumsy and mediocre at first, but it will shock us with its brilliance by and by. And then fade. Like me, my lass.”

“Thank you, grandfather. I love your stories. And you. As my mother does.”

“Oh, my lass. You know, I think your mother is the only reason I am not an atheist. And as for you, just remember that she was a voracious reader for a very long time before she wrote a thing. You could do worse, my lass. Now I will go away, quite probably to die. That will save Martin. Why am I foiled at every turn?”

“Goodbye, grandfather.”

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