Sinister Dexterity

Over the years, some people have asked me why I seem so critical of 'the system', whether in the general sense of what happens in the world, or in the more specific sense of what happens in the country, or in the even more specific and painful sense of what happens in some institutions. I wonder why this question is asked without the reflection that should logically precede it.

The point is that if 'the system' works, there is at least one clear way to make it work better. That is to look at it critically (from Greek kritias, 'a judge') and evaluate its successes (how can these be improved) and its failures (how can these be reduced or avoided). There are other ways, including changing the system altogether — surely a much more radical (from Latin radix, 'a root') step.

In the 12th chapter of the Epistle to the Romans, St Paul warns us against conforming to the patterns of the world. There is a simple reason for this which I've mentioned before: the world is too limited. Excellence goes, almost by definition, beyond the limits of the known world.

This is why I look at things critically. The Good Book also says, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." But this injunction is about moral judgement; taken together with the rest of that Book, it warns that the morally flawed should not presume to sit in judgement over the rest of the equally flawed. Here, when I say 'critically' and as 'a judge', I am only applying the simple tests of consistency and reason, just as any analyst might.

It is probably best that we attempt to rectify (from Latin rectus, 'righthanded') anything that is awry while making sure that the left hand knows what the right hand is doing. This allows you to make a two-handed catch, which is normally preferable to a one-handed catch where catching is appropriate. (As the saying goes, "Catch no ball, good if you're not the goalie.") But to do this, one must necessarily appear at least somewhat sinister ('lefthanded').

Hands

I am watching my left hand draw while I write with my right. It is fascinating in a 'last moments before the truck hits you' kind of way. Over the years, I've accumulated many readings on mind/body dualism, the place of spirit and soul, stuff like that. But when I watch my left hand draw (apparently without conscious connivance), while my right hand types with full obeisance to my conscious mind, I am enthralled, disturbed and vaguely pleased.

I had two ambidextrous grandfathers and so far every single test of my 'hemisphericity' – that odd left-brain vs right-brain concept – shows that I am neither. But perhaps, it is not 'neither', but 'both'. Perhaps my left and right hands really do not know what the other is doing, save through the apperception of my divided brain. Does the left half of my brain talk to my right half much? Or is it merely some kind of sinister dexterity at work?

I am reminded of that famous Escher print which shows two hands apparently drawing each other on some kind of paper manifold. I am also reminded of Castrovalva, the Escher print which shows a universe collapsing into itself without its inhabitants realising it. And when I am reminded of such things, I realise that most cities of light and darkness are illusions, with the clearest and most potent being models of Yeats's passionate intensity – Babels in potential – and the most umbral and sinister being models of the system of the world. And that is it for the world; its right hand is order, its left hand is chaos, and all of it is secularity, all of it on both hands.

So what of the new Jerusalem? Is it built with hands or works or the feet of them who come bearing the gospel of peace? No, it descends, as the Jacobean translators had it, "out of Heaven from God, having the glory of God." And of course, in the middle of it is the Tree of Life, once denied to Adam and Eve and their descendants – but not forever and ever.