“No such thing. From now on, I’m the one he deals with. I’m your representative. Do you get it?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well, here’s something that might help you process it. If I can’t get you more than that offer, then I’ll forgo my commission.”
“But he was so nice to me.”
The agent laughed, a mirthless noise.
“What did he do that was so nice?”
“Well, for one thing, he took me out to an expensive restaurant.”
“Which restaurant?”
“Balthazar.”
The agent laughed again.
“Listen, if you let that junket to Balthazar persuade you to accept that offer, then that will be the most expensive lunch you’ve ever had. That lunch will cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
Auerbach had held an auction for The Varieties of Religious Illusion, and not only had the Balthazar editor made a bid five times his “absolute upper limit,” but he had been roundly outbid.
Cass has certainly had his moments of doubt about his agent, wondering whether beneath the cynical exterior there was an even more cynical interior. Is he showman or shaman? A little of both, Cass has come to think, but a force for good for all that. Sy Auerbach has an agenda that goes beyond putting the “antic” back in “pedantic” and the “earning” back in “learning.” His idea is that the time has come for a different kind of public intellectual. The old-time intellectuals, who were mostly scientifically illiterate, not knowing their asses from their amygdalas, have been rendered worse than dead; they’ve been rendered irrelevant by the scientists and techno-innovators, who are the only ones now offering ideas with the power and sweep to change the culture at large.
Auerbach harbors such impatience for the glib literati-the “gliberati,” as one of his own digerati had christened them-that Cass has wondered whether there might not be some personal history. In particular, Cass has wondered whether Auerbach might not have known Jonas Elijah Klapper, the man of letters who had once reigned unopposed over vast stretches of the humanities, including Cass Seltzer’s. Certainly, Auerbach must have known of Klapper. There was a time when Jonas Elijah Klapper had been revered by scholars the world over-with the notable exception of the British, whom Klapper had been forced to despise en masse, observing that “they seem to have lost, with their empire, the possibility of understanding me.” The only thing that Klapper, born on the Lower East Side, must have admired about the English was their accent, since he had successfully acquired it. When Sy Auerbach describes the kind of thinker he detests, obscure references rendered in dead languages falling from their lips like flecks of food off a messy eater, it always sounds to Cass as if he’s holding Frankfurter’s former Extreme Distinguished Professor of Faith, Literature, and Values up to his mind’s eye and ticking off his attributes one by one.
For months, Auerbach had only existed as a disembodied voice on the phone, always answering the “hello” with the announcement “Auerbach.” The image that the voice had conjured had been surprisingly on the mark, as Cass learned when he finally met the man at a packed reading Cass had given at the 92nd Street Y. This was almost a year after Auerbach had held the auction for Illusion that would make an unlikely millionaire and celebrity out of Cass Seltzer. Auerbach is a large and showily handsome man, with a petulant mouth and fine white hair, looking like milkweed that has burst its pod. He wore a dramatic white fedora and a flashy white suit. It was early summer and hot, but he looked the sort who might easily don a billowing Victorian cape when the weather turned cooler, and brandish a silver-tipped walking stick.
Auerbach, with his uncanny nose for intellectual property, hadn’t hesitated in accepting Cass as a client, unconcerned that there was already a glut of godlessness on the market. Atheist books were selling well, sometimes edging out cookbooks and memoirs written by household pets to rise to the top of the best-seller list. Though he never argues with success, his agent would probably be just as happy if the atheist with a soul went lighter on the soul.
The atheist with a soul. Cass always smiles at the absurdity of the phrase. But which is the more absurd element? The truth is-and what’s the good of a man contemplating an inhumanly frozen world at 4 a.m. if no truth-telling ensues?-that Cass is somewhat at a loss to account for what he has done. How to explain those Thirty-Six Arguments for the Existence of God (see Appendix), all of them formally constructed in the preferred analytic style, premises parading with military precision, and every shirking presupposition and sketchy implication forced out into the open and subjected to rigorous inspection?
Cass had started out with all the standard arguments for God’s existence, the ones discussed in philosophy classes and textbooks: The Cosmological Argument (#1), The Ontological Argument (#2), The Classical Teleological Argument (#3A), the arguments from Miracles, Moral Truths, and Mysticism (#’s 11, 16, and 22, respectively), Pascal’s Wager (#31), and William James’s Argument from Pragmatism (#32). He had also analyzed the new batch of arguments recently whipped up by the Intelligent Design crowd-to wit, The Argument from Irreducible Complexity (#3B), The Argument from the Paucity of Benign Mutations (#3C), The Argument from the Original Replicator (#3D), The Argument from the Big Bang (#4), The Argument from the Fine-Tuning of the Physical Constants (#5), and The Argument from the Hard Problem of Consciousness (#12). But then he had gone beyond these, too, attempting to polish up into genuine arguments those religious intuitions and emotions that are often powerfully evocative but too sub-syllogistic to be regarded as actual arguments. He had tried to capture under the net of analytic reason those fleeting shadows cast by unseen winged things darting through the thick foliage of the religious sensibility.
So Cass had formulated The Argument from Cosmic Coincidences (#7), appealing to such facts as these: that the diameter of the moon as seen from the earth is the same as the diameter of the sun as seen from the earth, which is why we can have those spectacular eclipses when the corona of the sun is revealed in all its glory. He had formulated The Argument from Sublimity (#34), trying to capture the line of reasoning lurking behind, for example, the recent testament of one evangelical scientist who had felt his doubts falling away from him when he was hiking in the mountains and came upon a frozen waterfall-in fact a trinity of a frozen waterfall, with three parts to it. “At that moment, I felt my resistance leave me. And it was a great sense of relief. The next morning, in the dewy grass in the shadow of the Cascades, I fell on my knees and accepted this truth-that God is God, that Christ is his son and that I am giving my life to that belief.”
For the right observer, Cass supposed, the sublime trinity of arches etched out in the ice below might yield a similar epiphany.
Cass had named the twenty-eighth in his list “The Argument from Prodigious Genius,” though privately he thinks of it as “The Argument from Azarya.” The astonishment of beholding genius, especially when it shows up in child prodigies, is so profound that it can feel almost like violence, as if a behavioral firestorm has devastated the laws of psychology, leaving us with no principles for explaining what we’re seeing and hearing. “There are children who are born as if knowing” are words that Cass had heard twenty years ago, inspired by a child who could see the numbers and thought that they were angels.
And then there’s The Argument from the Improbable Self (#13), another one that engages Cass in a personal way. He had struggled to squeeze precision into the sense of paradox he knows too well, the flailing attempt to calm the inside-outside vertigo to which he’s given, trying to construct something semi-coherent beneath that vertiginous step outside himself that would result from his staring too long at the improbable fact of his being identical with… himself.