The Destiny of Methuselah
“I don’t understand all of this. But I think there’s something here. Genius, maybe. It might make you, if you can pull it off,” said Julian.
Tobias nodded. This was the response for which he’d hoped. He knew the draft of the essay he’d just given Julian to review wasn’t coherent or even intelligible. It had no straightforward arguments. Each new paragraph introduced a new and jarring line of thought. Classical poetry was excerpted at astonishing lengths. Greek theological phrases mixed freely with terms of legal French. It had the appearance, really, of a transcription of an overly literate schizophrenic’s ramblings. In Tobias’ mind, it was a big saucy bucket of mental vomit.
It was the substance of this vomit, however, that Tobias was hoping Julian would sniff out. If anyone could judge the vitality of something, particularly an essay, it was Julian. He was a celebrated public intellectual. Thinktanks gave him generous fellowships. Publishers competed for his work. When he lectured, audiences gawped at him like Israelites at the foot of Sinai. He was everything Tobias hoped to be and also his closest mentor.
By contrast, in Tobias’ career as a writer and scholar, he hadn’t achieved much acclaim. His writing, in his own opinion, was largely insubstantial: at best, amusing. He’d spent his working years picking the fruits of his fancy and dishing them out to readers. Tobias was a purveyor of purple prose the likes of which are common fare on the mastheads of every respectably obscure journal of arts and letters. Nonetheless, Tobias thought his readers were starved for vital substance. He made that very point at least once or twice in every essay he wrote. So, he was both very excited and very nervous about this new essay on which he was working.
He’d stumbled on a great idea. It would change everything. At long last, he’d be able to offer his readers that very vital thing for which they’d been hungering for decades. Tobias was convinced he’d discovered the answer to the question of history, modernity, postmodernity, and the fate of man as such. He wasn’t then sure about how to get this answer to make sense on paper. But given Julian’s feedback, he felt certain it would be worth his while to try.
“Thank you, Julian,” said Tobias, “I guess I’ll try developing it further.”
So, he did. And as he developed his essay further, he began telling his friends about it. And his friends, who were all much like him and who thought the world was starved for vital substance—especially the answer to the question of history, modernity, postmodernity, and the fate of man—were very excited. They even asked him for his latest draft.
And he obliged. (He was always very obliging.) Remarkably, the responses he received were extraordinarily positive. They echoed Julian’s assessment. Soon, even people Tobias didn’t know were beginning to talk about his essay. Not two weeks after he had circulated his second draft, Tobias was attending a debate between the Yale firebrand Austin Kalamazoo and the Harvard Roman Catholic Hadrian Van Mule hosted by the Institute for Humane Economy when someone walked up to him saying, “Excuse me, are you Tobias Breckenridge?”
He answered affirmatively and asked the stranger if he was a reader of his work. “Well, I think I’ve read a few of your pieces, but actually I was just talking to someone who mentioned your essay in progress,” he said, gesturing to a large group of people across the room within which Tobias recognized a friend. The stranger continued, “I was wondering if you could send me a draft. It really sounds extraordinary. I’m an Associate Editor at Thymos, you know.”
Tobias had been approached by strangers before. But never because of a work that hadn’t yet been published. More remarkably, the same sort of thing happened at three other events that week: the first, a lecture at the Patrimony Foundation; the second, a fundraiser at the Capitol Hill home of enfant terrible Bev Stannon; and the last, a performance of Eric Fenby’s newly salvaged Contra Delius. Tobias was ecstatic. People were taking an interest in him—and in all the right places! He began to believe what Julian had said was true: that this essay would “make” him.
In the following weeks, he circulated a series of significantly improved drafts and with each circulation his acclaim grew. He received invitations to parties that hitherto were beyond his social reach. He was invited to serve on august and fashionable panels. A small journal he’d contributed a few pieces to half a decade prior emailed him saying he had been granted the status of “Distinguished Senior Contributing Editor.”
But in addition to hearing the echo of Julian’s initial praise, Tobias also heard here and there the echo of his criticism. No one seemed to understand his argument. Everyone was getting lost on one point or another. Some called his reasoning “baroque.” Others called it “byzantine.” Some people didn’t grasp the relation between his historical allusions and theological contentions. One person said that though he personally was fluent in Greek, others undoubtedly would find it difficult to navigate some of the essay’s more technical vocabulary.
The real substance, the vitality Tobias was hoping to get across, apparently eluded his readers. This frustrated him immensely. Tobias didn’t want to disappoint his audience. His reputation had grown to such an extent that if he didn’t deliver on the substance of his essay now—if he didn’t make himself clear—all of his efforts would be for nought.
One day Tobias closed the door of his apartment, saying to himself, “I will not open this door again till this essay is perfectly clear. It will be so clear that someone with no knowledge of the subject will understand it and be able to recapitulate it after the first-read. It will be my masterpiece and when this door opens again, it will be done.” For three days and three nights he labored. He outlined. He drafted. He re-drafted. He read each of his drafts aloud. He recorded his readings and pondered them. Even when he took breaks to eat or drink or sleep, his mind never stopped clarifying the substance of his essay.
At last, Tobias produced a finished draft. He’d never written anything so clear and comprehensible. Philosophy was interwoven with history and illustrated with tasteful literary allusions. Based on an evocative parallel between an Old Testament story and the conclusion he’d reached, he titled the essay, “The Destiny of Methuselah.”
He emailed it to an editor of a small, but well-regarded journal with whom he had discussed the essay previously. Within minutes he received a reply saying the essay would be published on the journal’s website the following morning. That night, Tobias told some of his friends the good news. They were all excited to read the finished product. He assured them the vital substance of the essay would be crystal clear: there would be no misunderstandings.
Everyone was very glad to hear that. However, some of his friends warned him misunderstandings are inevitable. There might be controversy: that he should steel himself against the storm that might come. One said, “Tobias, as much as you might be made, you might also be ruined,” noting, “profound thoughts have profound consequences.”
The next day, Tobias woke up late. It was almost noon. When he saw the clock, he logged onto his computer and checked social media. He was sure the essay would already be a matter of contention: that it’d be the subject of mighty praises and vicious attacks, that he’d in all probability have to enter the fray himself and issue weighty statements in defense of his thinking and reputation. However, he couldn’t find any discussion of the essay on social media, excepting a post made by the account of the journal that had published it featuring an excerpt with a link to the essay on its website.
He was confused. He waited. Around seven p.m., he saw someone had made a comment on the journal’s social media post. It read, “Why do you guys bother publishing this stuff? If I wanted the same tired old…” Tobias read on. The comment continued with an expletive and concluded on a dismal note.
He was flabbergasted. He re-read his essay. It was the same essay he’d written. He looked for more comments or posts discussing it. But after a couple of days, he gave up. There was no controversy, no fanfare—there was nothing.
He called Julian and asked if he’d read the essay. He had. He asked further if it didn’t make sense. He said it did. Tobias said, “Julian, I don’t understand.”
With a sigh, Julian explained, “The problem, Tobias, is just the opposite. You see, they understand. Everyone understands your essay perfectly well. And no one cares very much for what they understand perfectly well.” He continued, “I’m so sorry Tobias. Based on all your previous essays, based on all your drafts, my experience with you, my discussions with you, I never thought this would be a problem. I thought you’d be acclaimed instantly. I had such high hopes.”
Tobias then became a poet and lived happily ever after.