The Professor’s Speech

An excerpt from the novel “Testimony”. Translated by Leo Shtutin; Published in The CHILLFILTR Review, Lit Up and Chewers by Masticadores

A handful of lectures at the University were delivered by a renowned professor. He was a man advanced in years. His heavyset body seemed to get in his way. Each time he clambered onto the rostrum, he would misplace his trademark folder and, with it, the theses of his gusty speech. Or he might upset the decanter of soda water put out for him by a solicitous steward, or, his trouser cuff catching the corner of the wooden platform, curse and rail against the world. The professor had the bad habit of forgetting about his audiences, which tended to hang on his every word. He would argue aloud with himself, discoursing on his life, on his detractors as well as his devotees, and upbraiding the school he himself had pioneered. But it was precisely these shocking revelations which afforded his lectures their popularity. The entire University gathered to listen to them. Ultimately, we concluded, the professor was indifferent to the opinions of the scholarly community—and to those of humanity at large: he had grown so weary of his own fame that he could at long last permit himself to express the things he held up as singularly important. And so, having packed the auditorium, as per usual—packed it so tightly that not a single person more could have squeezed in—we awaited yet another sensation. The professor, we were sure, would not disappoint our hopes. The antics he pulled, the surprises he sprang on us during his performances—none of it could ever be second-guessed. He was unpredictable. Which was precisely why students adored him, whilst colleagues found him insupportable. The University looked on, expectant. Wheezing, the professor mounted the rostrum. On this occasion the decanter with the soda water was not to fall. By force of habit, the professor opened his folder only to slam it shut again. He produced his round spectacles, flung them onto the lectern. One of the lenses cracked. It begins! we thought, and held our breath. But he failed to notice the cracked lens. In fact he forgot his glasses altogether. He looked us over with long-sighted, bloodshot eyes and pressed his bulk against the lectern. “Like all true anarchists, we strive to obliterate longstanding traditions, strictures, constraints. The Russians even have a march which says as much: ‘There are no obstacles for us’. We all dream of chaos, free fall and anarchy. But! We only dream. Because chaos, we sense, will bring us to destruction. And death, as everyone knows, is what we fear more than anything else. Indeed it is. Yes!” He froze, staring into space. “When we are born, we emerge from non-being, and the brief span of time allotted to us before we return into nothingness is one we hope to prolong. To extend. And the fear of sudden and soon-to-come death hovers over us. Which is exactly the reason we make terrible anarchists. For what is anarchy—but death. Yet anarchy is also the sole form of authentic life. No sooner are we born than we fall into this nauseating paradox. Dying is frightening, living no less so. Because only life itself, this damned life of ours, throws up reasons to die in the first place. “Now then”—here he jerked up his head and surveyed the auditorium—“all is not as dismal, my high-browed listeners, as you might think. Humanity has long since come up with a ruse, a little trick to escape this paradox, sickening in its familiarity. We humans kill the anarchist in us. We run scared and die of horror—you and I included. And our instinct for self-preservation, or our fear of the unknown, call it what you will, ostensibly comes to our rescue by furnishing us with illusions. This self-deception is simple in nature. We believe that performing the same actions year in, year out, day after day—rising at a certain hour, praying, discharging our professional duties, reading the newspaper, adhering hard and fast to some time-honoured routine—will enable us to keep at bay the dread unknown which looms perpetually over our heads. “We are akin to shamans who exorcise and ward off evil spirits. The spirits do not vanish, but our fear, our inmost fear, momentarily recedes. The trick, the ruse concocted by humanity goes by the name of regimentation. The regimentor, that fabricated saviour, kills the devil-may-care anarchist. This is how we foster traditions. Tradition is the basis of any regimen. The English royal court bears only a faint resemblance to the ritual life of Japanese society. The life of the devout Jew entails keeping the six hundred and thirteen commandments. We see the limitations we impose upon ourselves as our salvation. We use them to shield ourselves from the truth which bores unceasingly into our skulls. It’s just a little ruse, do you hear me?” The professor had raised his voice now. “Just a tiny little trick!” And now he was shouting. “But how sweet and steadfast it remains, this illusion of ours, whilst we continue to believe in it. And how vulnerable we all become when our own brains destroy it, laying it bare and tearing it asunder stone by stone.” The professor brandished his hand: the soda decanter crashed to the floor, shattered, deafened us. The professor froze. He swivelled clumsily, as if about to step down from the rostrum. And then, with an abrupt half-turn towards us, he intoned, slowly and distinctly, “Fear reigns over our lives. Ponder this at your leisure. Fear alone induces us to live. To make discoveries, to perform deeds and exploits, to bustle and stir. In reality, all our endeavours unfold in the service of a single, profound, intrinsic goal: to drown out, to forget—forget forever the horror that bursts from our being. But we are not destined, alas, to partake of the joy of oblivion, to know the bliss of insensibility.” He shuffled from the rostrum, took a few steps towards the door, returned abruptly. “By the way,” he said in a low voice, “when one of you blurts out that night terrors torment me, don’t believe them: this rings ludicrous. Does the night really hold greater terrors than the day? are the monsters of nightmare really more frightful than we ourselves, blinded and shuddering with dread?.. We alone pay ourselves nocturnal visitations. It is not you, my listeners and dear colleagues, who are my nightmare. My nightmare is me.” He fell abruptly silent. Then he began fidgeting, as if looking for something in his pockets. But now his gaze alighted on the folder lying on the lectern. He slowly produced from it several leaves of paper—inscribed, we assumed, with the theses of his speech—and crumpled them into a ball which he tossed, unsuccessfully, in the direction of the wicker bin. The leaves uncrumpled on the floor and we saw, for the first time, that they were blank. He fished out a comb, coiffed his thinning hair, thrust the comb back into his pocket. With a bow to his disconcerted audience he quit the lecture hall, leaving the door agape. Some of us, eyeing one another in bewilderment, snaked out after him. Emerging into the corridor, the professor strode towards a broad staircase finished in marble. He leant with both hands upon its antique bannisters, the pride of the University with their fine silver inlay. He glanced back at the throng which had spilled out of the auditorium in his wake. Something flickered in his eyes: effortlessly hoisting his bulk over the famous bannisters, he took wing, soared unhindered for an moment—and vanished the next, whilst spiralling swiftly through the wide stairwell. Shaking off the shock that had beset us all, the fastest among us rushed headlong down the stairs several steps at a time. The ground floor was quiet. No one had heard the sound of the impact. The University windows framed a slow snowfall. Soundlessly moving his lips, a porter was reading Gone with the Wind. The professor’s body was nowhere to be found.