Wittgenstein Jr by Lars Iyer Read Free Book Online Page A

They know he comes to
judge
Cambridge. And they know their own time is passing. The time of the don is no more.
    • • •
    Once, the dons were part of something, Wittgenstein says. Part of the genius of Cambridge, like the ivy on the bridges, like the boathouses along the river. Once, the dons carried the whole history of England on their shoulders, in their processions and their ceremonies—soaring patriotism, a sense of moral purpose, eccentricity, unworldliness, diffidence: resting on the shoulders of the dons.
    All of England was once a
lawn
, Wittgenstein says. The whole of the country, with its uplands and lowlands, with its suburbs and towns, was once the
quintessence of lawn
.
    The English lawn ran right into the Houses of Parliament. It ran right into Buckingham Palace, into Whitehall and the Law Courts. And into the media empires and the great publishing companies.
    The English lawn rolled up to middle-class houses, just as it rolled up to aristocratic mansions. And even if it was halted by working-class concrete, it ran nonetheless through the
heads
of the working classes, just as it ran through the heads of the middle classes and the upper classes—a timeless idea of England.
    England has always imagined itself in terms of
rural idyll
, Wittgenstein says. Of the fields’ patchwork, all openness and breadth. Of the village green, with its war memorial. Of the parish cemetery, covered with elms. Of pretty little wildernesses, marked off from working land. Of
ornamental
lawns, close-clipped victories over age. Of
informal
lawns, with deer parks and temples. Of
panoramic
lawns, divided only by ha-has. Of
landscaped
lawns, framing the great country houses …
    It was for the green peace of meadow and hedgerow thatEnglish soldiers defended their country from foreign invaders, Wittgenstein says. And it was for the rural idyll they went forth to conquer the world. Wasn’t it a simulacrum of the English lawn that they watered in the hill stations of India? Didn’t they try to roll out the English lawn in the white mountains of Kenya?
    And it was in the name of the English lawn that the
enemy within
was kept down, Wittgenstein says. The Peasants’ Revolt was crushed for seeking equality on the English lawn. The Diggers were transported for declaring that the English lawn was part of the commons. And the new industrialists sent their sons to become
good little gentlemen
in the public schools of the English lawn.
    But never was the English lawn so lush as in the
great universities of England!
, Wittgenstein says. Old expanses of lawn, strewn with meadowsweet and buttercups in high summer. Crocuses blooming in spring. Students picnicking, all white-flannelled elegance.
    And the old dons, of the
great universities of England
—the English lawn ran through their hearts, Wittgenstein says. The old dons lived out their lives on the English lawn. They sipped warm beer and watched cricket on the English lawn. They munched crustless sandwiches at garden parties on the English lawn. And one day, they were
laid to rest
in the English lawn.
    The dons drew all their strength from the English lawn, Wittgenstein says. They were always
sure of things
on the English lawn. You could never
best
a don on the English lawn. You would only
break your lance
tilting at a don on the English lawn.
    Of course, the English lawn was ultimately
provincial
,Wittgenstein says. The philosophy of the English lawn was concerned exclusively with
English lawn issues
, which is to say with nothing of any real importance. Nothing really
mattered
in English-lawn philosophy, he says. Nothing was really
at stake
in English-lawn thought. The don was a
lawn-head
! No more than a lawn-head!
    But perhaps there was
something
to the world of the dons, Wittgenstein says. Perhaps there was something to be said for donnish amateurism, for donnish pottering-about. Perhaps there was a value to pass-the-port philosophy. To home-counties philosophy! Perhaps there was