among the parish beadles

The more mechanical people to whom life is a shrewd speculation depending on a careful calculation of ways and means, always know where they are going, and go there. They start with the ideal desire of being the parish beadle, and in whatever sphere they are placed they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more. A man whose desire is to be something separate from himself, to be a member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a prominent solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is his punishment. Those who want a mask have to wear it.

But with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those dynamic forces become incarnate, it is different. People whose desire is solely for self-realisation never know where they are going. They can't know. In one sense of the word it is of course necessary, as the Greek oracle said, to know oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. But to recognise that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate achievement of wisdom. The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?

from Oscar Wilde, 'De Profundis'.


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Another semester is over, another painfully long, unending season among parish beadles. No ideas, no vision, everything a means to an end, everything subordinated to the shallowest utilitarianism. The world we live in is theirs, no doubt, more and more. A world of Darwinian strife with an interesting twist: the survival of the dullest, not the fittest. Parish beadles.

What passes for education requires you to become as narrow-minded and paroquial as possible. As early as possible. Choose a parish, a specialism immediately recognisable and sanctioned by the other parish beadles, and stick to it for the rest of your life, reproducing the same clichés, the same authors, the same texts, ad nauseam. After all, sameness is all that matters, isn't it? Just play the game: lick the right asses and, above all, don't make waves nor dare have ideas of your own. To have ideas is the worst possible idea you can have in this world.

Never let anyone who can give you a job think that you are independent-minded and (therefore) capricious and whimsical because you follow your intuition and only write about things to which you are emotionally (tss!) attached. Rule out all intuition and feeling - they have no place in this world, and will only belittle you further in the eyes of the parish beadles. They won't miss the chance to chastise you, sooner than later.

You should become a sort of walking self-help book: be positive, don't criticise, don't condemn, don't complain. The parish beadle in his grey suit and flat hair perfectly parted in the middle is the highest ideal you can aspire to.

And don't forget: the less you try to know yourself, the better you will sleep at night. Dreamless.