Riders of the Chariot

2011_2_03 RIDERS OF THE CHARIOT

Patrick White’s novel RIDERS OF THE CHARIOT is a narrative about the creative tasks of four connected characters whose lives magically interact in Sydney, Australia, in the post-war years of the forties and fifties. They are more examples of the breed that White thought of as the burnt ones, touch-by--God-individuals engaged in what Carl Jung would term “Opus Redemption.” The four compose the RIDERS OF THE CHARIOT with the Chariot in this case being a reference to Merkabah Mysticism and Jewish Gnosticism, with one of the four, Mordecai Himmelfarb, being a zaddik, the Hasidic ideal of the just and honest man. The ‘work of the chariot’ involves sacrifice, abuse, misunderstandings, humility, visions, highs and lows—even a crucifixion. It all boils down to being a loner, a crank, an outsider, and a social pariah. As for the halo, few can see it, including some who wear it.

The Four Riders are part of a spiritual vision, which I’d characterize as a common thread of mystical intuition about UNIO MYSTICA, our underlying reality. All four Riders suffer terribly and lead lives of utmost isolation; they are people that God has separated from the common run of humanity, the vast population of “normal people,” each for their own service and purpose. All four live out the roles of scapegoat, pariah, or illuminated outsiders who carry the moral and metaphysical burdens of their fellow creatures. They act out their lives in their respective roles in the context of modern life, within their various spiritual legacies.

Mordecai Himmelfarb is one of the four Riders in White’s novel and he is of particular interest to me because he is the fictional representation closet to my own experience, and that’s one reason the book has special meaning for me. Himmelfarb was a professor and author in Europe prior to World War II. After the war he moved to Australia (Sydney) and took a job in a factory that made bicycles, a menial job at odds with his past and true capacities. Few people could understand his post-war choices. But it does not seem so strange to me. So what was involved with his decision to move to Australia and take such a job? After his earlier social and academic success something happened which emptied that life of the virtue it once had. Rhea, his beloved wife, was seized by the Gestapo and sent to a concentration camp and he never saw her again. He felt a profound guilt over her disappearance and death, and the only thing that made sense to him was commitment to a life of humility and obscurity. To deny what he had been became a spiritual goal for Himmelfarb. Such a life was more important than “a place in the pews.” Worldly achievements were the playthings of egocentric humanity. He had another goal: to transcend his ego.

My life since I left university teaching has followed a similar path. My post-war choices (the Vietnam War, of course) have been seen by many of my older, academic friends as pretty strange and puzzling, for like Himmelfarb I found a job as a custodian in a neighborhood Presbyterian Church. When I resigned my position at UNLV in 1971, I was fully aware I was committing professional suicide. But I didn’t care. I had moved beyond that concern. I was that fed up with Higher Education in America. My moral imperative and personal vision were at odds with theirs. I had been a political activist on campus for 5 years and it earned me a reputation as a troublemaker, which would cost me tenure. But no matter, I wanted to and needed to make a gesture of defiance when I left to show my former colleagues that there were things more important than job security. So I quit before they could can me. For me it was all part of THE GREAT REFUSAL, the inclination to reject war, materialism, egotism, careerism, social status, environmental abuse, and mainstream values. I walked away from a position I was good at, as Himmelfarb did in Europe to pursue an alterative path. As one academic friend of mine put it, “You climbed a mountain and when you reached the top, you took a leap in the dark, ignoring what you had won. You abandon a post others would kill for. You treated it as garbage in, garbage out.” As I read that today I think of what Ed Abbey once said: “I live at Fort Fuck-it-all.”

Like Himmelfarb, humility became a main concern for me on my new job. Being a janitor was a parallel position to what the ex-professor from Europe had done, and believe me, the transition from Assistant Professor and Big Man on Campus to being a janitor, the lowest of the low, a real scum-job, wasn’t easy; it took a long while, as I had to wrestle with my ego time and time again. Working for Presbyterians made it even more difficult, as they were uppity and aristocratic, believing they had more clout than their numbers would indicate. I went from the limelight to complete invisibility. It was a true test of principle—as radical a turn-around as one could imagine. However, I did have one thing going for me from the get-go: my working class roots. I had worked in five factories in Racine, Wisconsin, my hometown, before I was twenty-one. My father and mother had been life-long factory workers, and so were many of my relatives. In some ways it was like being back in a familiar saddle.

Nonetheless I would characterize those years at the church as my time in purgatory. Other time I saw my service as on the chain gang, or my time as a desert ascetic. But in measuring its impact on me, it was one giant leap foreword in regard my pursuit of self-knowledge, the ultimate attainment. That was the over-all goal, along with putting that knowledge to creative use in my drawing and writings.