Sarcophagus

A sarcophagus is something which 'eats the flesh'; the word sarx in Greek means 'flesh'. This came out of a random thought I had as I looked at a picture of the pyramids and thought of the great age of those mighty monuments.

And then I remembered the Greek word anaimosarke. This word means 'flesh without blood', or alternatively, 'not of flesh and blood'. It is used in an ancient poem about the cicada, a merry fellow which seems to be anaimosarke.

And I remembered further. I remembered a post from seven years ago. In that long-ago silence, something stirred. I remember an inquisition, and someone telling me that this post was about somebody else. I remember thinking, "This is nonsense, my post is about Superman and Batman!"

The problem in this post-modern age is that it's not about what you intended when you wrote something, but what people think you intended, what people can twist your writing to mean, and what people can say you have influenced other people to write. Whether you did any of it is immaterial. It's the Macavity Syndrome. And when that strikes, it is as good as eating your flesh and everything else in it.

This isn't to excuse anything ill-considered in my own writing. I have written things that I have been sorry for afterwards. And honestly, deeply so. But I am a little upset to be blamed for things I did not write.

Yet, there are still things that abide. Faith, hope and love, for example.

Furious Intelligence

When I was very young, it irritated me a lot that my relatives would say things like, "You're very smart, you should do better in your studies!" or "You're so clever, how could you do such a stupid thing!" or "You're a genius, why can't you teach other people to be like that!" or "Don't say you didn't do this naughty thing, only you could have done it!"

See, the problem is that terrible spectre of generalised intelligence. If you are good at a few key skills (often cited as "reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic" – three Rs which aren't really all Rs – or the better "comprehension, composition and computation") it is assumed that you are good at all other things, ranging from giving talks to regurgitating facts to criminal activity.

But it's a terribly asymmetric thing, this 'generalised intelligence'. For example, I can always be accused of doing something (say, blogging) as if I were less intelligent, less stylish, less careful with language than I normally show. But someone who is indeed less intelligent or stylish or careful with language could never be accused of blogging like me. The presumption is that you can scale intelligence and other manifestations of skill down, but never up.

To some extent, that is true. But it leads to the idea that to be of outstanding intelligence is to open yourself up to assault from any quarter which can't be bothered to think more deeply into a situation. It is akin to saying, "A crime has been committed, so the instigator must be the most intelligent criminal available, especially since we can't tell whether he was there or not, and there are no traces of him!"

It's called the Macavity Syndrome, and even if it weren't, I would call it that. Macavity's story is told here, but for the benefit of those who might not get there, I have reproduced the source poem by T S Eliot at the end of this post. Essentially, it is the complex of suspicion, paranoia and disregard for evidence that leads people to attribute a crime (or thoughtcrime) to any person who might seem capable even if there is no evidence for it. This is because paranoid metacognition will say at least two things: 1) there is no evidence because the perpetrator is too clever, 2) there is a concealed crime despite the lack of evidence simply because whatever was done was too clever for us to understand.

The pernicious thing about this is that less discerning people will actually believe this. It appeals to the reptilian hindbrain that responds viscerally to fear. Whether there is indeed something to fear is moot – threats, nightmares, vague apprehensions, the unknown, all these things can be there or not; it doesn't matter to the hindbrain. It is the most primitive part of ourselves, and the part most needing control in a higher-level society. I have no doubt that the hindbrain is best in situations of likely violence and immediate danger, but in other situations, it is a poor substitute for considered judgement and reason.

And that is why I feel dire discomfort and even simmering anger when the Macavity Syndrome surfaces. My own hindbrain plays off the fears of my forebrain. My forebrain tries to stay faithful to my mission statement, but wrath and pride threaten to dominate. I feel compromised simply by the fact that my society so readily Macavitises. Ah, me. Alas. But I am no Macavity, and therein lies the rub.

=====

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

by Thomas Stearns Eliot, in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (1939)