A few weeks back I found myself cycling up Whitehall. The lights ahead of me had changed in my favour, but a man was just starting to cross. I slowed down and making eye contact indicated he could pass safely. Was there...? There was something familiar about him. Bowl me over if it wasn't Will Hutton, economic pundit extraordinaire and former editor-in-chief of the Observer. Taller than I'd imagined, but otherwise undeniably the auger and savant who regularly graces the studios of the more analytical news programmes.
"You're Will Hutton" I observed pulling over and dismounting. He agreed warily and asked who I was. No one of any great import I assured him before, in a curious moment of spontaneity and eccentricity, I began to share with him my theory. It seemed the perfect opportunity for I had a theory and a theory is a thing to be shared. This particular theory had been born out of slow rumination, frantic dialectics, ugly events, abandoned philosophy and serendipitous dreaming . Together these elements had fused and fulminated within the roomy, gloomy seclusion of my mind into something which I felt almost certain was a theory. Almost.
The question was would it, like a pit pony, ghost train or roll of old film, turn out to lose its vision, power and purpose once exposed to the harsh light of scrutiny, once spoken out loud.
I only had the length of King Charles Street - the direction in which he was heading - to try and explain it and to discover the truth. I'm certain much of what I had to say had a garbled intensity which a lesser man might have found alarming. I think it took Will a moment to get over the fact that someone was advancing a bit of home wrought political philosophy with much the same intensity that one imagines Hollywood directors are from time to time subject when cornered by frustrated fans with screenplays to pitch. I babbled on blundering from one point to another and then back again, and on and up and back and then, well then I noticed that he seemed to be nodding; not you understand necessarily in agreement, but with encouragement certainly. "Go on" he muttered when I paused for breath and so I did go on, all the way to the door to which which his business drew him. Perhaps he only feinted interest, perhaps he was just humouring me but actually I think not. In a perfect world I would be able to recall exactly what he said, whereas in truth all I clearly remember now is him using the word 'tight' in reference to my theory and recommending that I read some Hannah Arendt by way of a supplement to my embryonic musings.
This may not seem to the reader a ringing endorsement of my jumbled notions, but then that was never the point. All I needed was a chance to take them out in public and see how they behaved in company. They may not have been perfect; rude, naive and quite possibly clumsy, but I found I was proud enough of them then, to feel confident now that it is worth sharing them with you. I will, however, refrain from the temptation do it in a garbled hysterical torrent for I am hopeful that you will have the time to come with me a little further than the length of that august side street which runs off Whitehall. However, having done me the courtesy of coming this far I think it would be churlish of me not to give you any idea of what I attempted to impart that fateful day. I will give my theory in it's simplest and most reduced form; it's essence if you will.
And it is this; that we have forgotten how to think collectively and that that is a very dangerous thing to forget.
No comments:
Post a Comment