Wittgenstein Jr by Lars Iyer Page A

work
breathe
. The Grantchester walk
expired
in their work.
    It’s the very opposite for him, he says, as we walk along the river. His work
suffocates
from the Grantchester walk. His work becomes increasingly
airless
as a result of the Grantchester walk. He might as well
place a plastic bag over the head of his work
as take the Grantchester walk. He might as well
place a plastic bag over his own head
as take the Grantchester walk!
    Leaving Cambridge for Grantchester means you have to return to Cambridge, he says. The walk to Grantchester and back is still in the orbit of Cambridge. In Grantchester, there is still the dreadful
gravitational pull
of Cambridge. The dreadful
tractor-beam
of Cambridge. Cambridge still calls you back. Cambridge still waits for you, laughing at you.
You thought you could escape me? You thought you could get away?
    In the end, the walk to Grantchester is only a way to
pace the floor of his cell
, he says. As indeed any trip from Cambridge is only a way
to pace the floor of your cell
. A trip to London from Cambridge is only a way to
pace the floor of your cell
. A trip toNorwich from Cambridge is only another way to
pace the floor of your cell
. A trip to Ely Cathedral—just another way to
pace the floor of your cell
.
    To leave Cambridge is to
return
to Cambridge. To try to escape Cambridge is only to be more
imprisoned
in Cambridge.
    Cambridge!, he exclaims. Grantchester!, he exclaims. Cambridge! Grantchester! The path to Grantchester! The path to Cambridge! The path to Grantchester is only ever the path to Cambridge!
    Byron’s Pool. The famous willows, the famous swans, the famous reeds. The concrete weir must be a new addition.
    Byron bathed here with his pet bear, we read on a plaque. And Rupert Brooke and the neo-pagans, a century later. And Augustus John came with his gypsy wagon and his clutch of sun-browned children …
    Signs everywhere. Explaining Byron’s Pool. Explaining Byron. Explaining Rupert Brooke and Augustus John. Explaining the trees. Explaining the wildlife. Explaining the
green and blue corridor
through Cambridge—the proposed cycle path and the planned BMX track.
    Why must everything be explained?, Wittgenstein asks. As soon as there are signs about trees, there are no trees. As soon as there are information boards about wildlife, there is no wildlife. As soon as there’s a Byron plaque and an Augustus John plaque and a Rupert Brooke plaque, the legacies of Byron and Augustus John and Rupert Brooke are
entirely destroyed
. As soon as there’s a plaque explaining Grantchester, Grantchester itself is
wiped from the face of the earth
.
    But perhaps that’s no bad thing, he says: wiping Grantchester from the face of the earth.
    • • •
    He has
insomnia
, he says. Terrible shrieks wake him at night. Screams—which should say,
I am being murdered! Help me at once!
But which in fact say,
I am drunk! My head is empty!
Cries—which should be those of dying men, mortally wounded men, lying in no-man’s-land or beneath collapsed buildings, but which are really the voices of students …
    Students, bellowing on their phones. Great, health-filled, stupid voices, booming out. Stupidity, echoing from the ancient walls. Stupidity, sounding through his rooms. Stupidity, shrieking through the hollow night.
    He can’t work, Wittgenstein says. He can’t write.
    His powers are failing, he says. What presumption even to
speak
of his powers!
    To begin—that would be enough. To take a single step forward. To discover a starting point that does not give way … Why do the foundations of his thought always crumble? Why does the path of his reflections always peter out?
    WITTGENSTEIN: The
will
to work is wearing me out. But not the work itself.
    He speaks of the
joy
of work. Of the
bliss
of work, and of
honest exhaustion
after a whole day of work. He speaks of the Sabbath of God, of the seventh day of creation. He speaks of the Saturday that does not set.
    How will he find his way