It’s an extraordinary novel qua novel—about an equally extraordinary experience; and these two interrelate, don’t just run parallel; they interact.
I.e., the vision (2-74 to 2-75) put in artistic form—made into a work of art. So VALIS is more important than 2-74 to 2-75! That was just the vision; what remained was the essential next half: putting it into (converting it into) a work of art.
[60:A-34] God everywhere! The cat and the music. Each cat’s mind is a complete universe; how could this be without the infinity of God?
I know God through doubt (“you are not the doubter—you are the doubt”).
Here is it alclass="underline" each atom of reality yields an infinity: and where infinity is, there is God.
[60:A-35] In VALIS I transmuted myself and my life into a picaroon character: my victory, to artistically render a judgment on my—the artist’s—own life! And here’s how it comes out:
With the death of all he loves behind him (Gloria’s death stands for loss of Kathy and Stephanie, Francie, etc.), including the death of God (the child Sophia), Fat resolves his life into a search for the Savior; this is the plot of VALIS. Its Kerygma; VALIS’ message is not the parousia but pistis.
And this is me (as H. Fat), rendered into fiction forever. And yet the real truth is that I embody doubt, not faith; and yet, when I as I am am rendered into art by me the artist, doubt—absolute doubt—becomes or is seen as absolute faith, as Fat searches for the Savior, while I sit here night after night not believing. Which is the truth? VALIS enters the info flow of the macromind, so it—not I—will survive. And, as Plato said, that which is eternal alone is real.
[60:A-37] Here is the ultimate truth: the fool sees Christ. H. Fat is a fool; and I say (but it is not true), “I am H. Fat”; but in truth he has pistis, I have doubt. But people will believe the artistic version.
(1) In VALIS I depict H. Fat finding Christ.
(2) In VALIS I depict H. Fat as a fool.
(3) ∴ he did find Christ, for the fool finds Christ. Am I that fool? That is my wish fulfillment fantasy: me with faith—i.e., me the fool, not the scholar. Now all I see is my own hallucinated world—hence not God. Then we are in purgatory; it must be so. And in 2-74 I was sprung.
I perceive Ed Meskys blind and I grieve, and that grief is the purpose of the universe—its existence proves that God exists. That grief is higher even than agape; it was spoken of only in the secret literature, and it has no name. Power-wisdom-agape, so far, and now a fourth disclosure: this “grief” that I feel—it is to agape as agape is to wisdom. The Urgrund dialectic yes/no has evolved up one more notch.
I broke into the actual world, saw God; and now I’m back in this God damn hallucination of my own (purgatory). No wonder I’m disconsolate; no wonder I get ripped. To see him and then to lose him—what I need is pistis; I need to be H. Fat. “Jack Isidore” has metamorphosed from caricature of myself to my spiritual self, along the Parsifal—guileless fool—axis. Everything else I wrote tonight is bullshit, but not this. Jack Isidore, me as the fool, found Christ. I must become ∴ Jack Isidore if I am to be saved; I must model myself on him, and suffer the consequences—they are heavy, if you are the fool. This is the passion of Christ: the punishment of the fool.
[60:A-44]
Folder 75
[75:D-1] 3-74, Valis, was the mens dei. I comprehended it. It’s a strange thing to be addicted to, comprehending God’s mind—I must be a Sufi; by “beauty” (the essence of God) read “pleasure”—because the why as to why I do it, it is because it gives me pleasure.
[75:D-2] I’ve finally found a Q I don’t imagine I have an answer for: why is Kathy more beautiful than the perfect (sic) beauty of God? Maybe even St. Sophia can’t answer this; hence, as a result, we have imperfect creation, for which no rational reason can be given, even by God. This is the ultimate mystery, even God can’t penetrate it. How can something unique, transitory and imperfect be more beautiful than God/heaven?
[75:D-3] It’s all told in VALIS: losing Kathy (Gloria), and getting God as a substitute. Really, the story—and it is my life we are talking about—is very simple, when you stumble onto it. And I don’t say if the substitute is an adequate solution (i.e., as good, better, not as good); I just reported it neutrally. But the fact is, it’s not good enough. Okay, then we will apply the hermetic solution—which is what is found in Divine Invasion: Linda Fox and Xena are Kathy. And also God! Manny, alone, is not.
Hello heartbreak. Joe Gideon. Tears first treats it. Then Scanner. Then VALIS. Then Divine Invasion, a projected answer, theoretical (i.e., I didn’t find it); only DI alone of the four novels is not autobiographical. Shows I know what the answer is (I just can’t find it).
As an artist I have been successfuclass="underline" I’d encompassed it in the four novels (and The Golden Man intro); but in life I can’t. The final novel is fantasy.
[75:D-9] I have been looking over Scanner, the intro to The Golden Man and VALIS. The continuity is pain, emotional pain; this goes back to Tears. It is obvious that I have no defense against pain, that I am a—lunatic, one driven mad by—not pain—but by a comprehension of pain (like the Buddha). Comprehension of pain (spiritual and mental, especially) is the basis of my writing, as is my awareness of the frailty of life and how easily it passes over into death. Thus, although I have been driven insane by my comprehension, I am not cut off from reality; hence also I am a saint. And I write very well; I get it all down on paper. What does this add up to? Okay—I have at last carefully formulated an explanation (as Jim Haynes pointed out); I give my answer. It is an absurd answer, an attempt to ex plain what cannot be explained (pain, loss, grief and death). Hence it reveals this: these matters cannot be rationally explained; if they could be, I would have done so (I am smart and persistent). Hence, one can infer that our situation—thrown-ness—is an irrational one, a point I consider in my explanation; hence I expose the ontological irrationality of dasein, and thus stigmatize all philosophical and theological systems including my own. We are back—led back—to the raw brute fact of pain, loss, grief, suffering. Perhaps more than anyone else I reveal the irrational depths underlying reality. My ideological solution is a failure; if I believe in it I have gone mad. And I state that, too: that I am mad. This only reinforces the relentless picture of irrationality; my madness is merely a piece of it, allied to a greater madness. This is a new and singular worldview. What solution do I propose that works? (Inasmuch as my Gnostic system obviously does not; its failure proves its own premise, that of underlying irrationality and irreality and the failure of reason and of systems.) Humor, love and beauty. And a firm rootedness in the particular, in the ordinary. It is in the ordinary that my real solution is found—in diametric contradistinction to my bizarre and weird system. Beyond and above my sensitivity to pain and my unwillingness to avoid it (avoiding it would be evil madness, and the rest of us are guilty of it to some degree, contrasted with me) I am a saint. This is of little use or importance. My insanity, given an insane world, is, paradoxically, a facing of reality, and this is sane; I refuse to close my eyes and ears. So Y equals Ȳ, as Pat says; our world and our proper role in it is paradoxical. The only question is, which kind of madness will we choose? To deny and avoid the irrational reality? I am proof that everyone else is doing this. We are, then, all mad, but I, uniquely, choose to go mad while facing pain, not mad while denying pain. These are simply different paths—but mine hurts more; it is not necessarily better—it is more a curiosity. Why would I choose this route? Because I am a saint. I have kept my soul—as, now and then, an occasional reader realizes. But I have not yet proven that there is a soul; thus I may have chosen my route in vain. No known religion encompasses this, even Buddhism. Very strange. Little can be said for my point of view, except that it can’t be logically demolished; if it could be I would have done so. Thus I am in touch with reality. So, then, in what sense am I insane? I am insane in that I continue to face the truth without the ability to come up with a workable answer. All I have done is (1) indicate the real situation; (2) show that all the known answers, systems of thought, are false. Again, I have shown that the problem cannot be solved or explained, only fled from. This is very disturbing; I indict the whole universe and ourselves as irrational, myself included. I really do not know anything in terms of the solution; I can only state the problem. No other thinker has ever stated a problem and so miserably failed to solve it in human histories; human thought is, basically, problem-solving, not problem stating. Again, my very failure to come up with a plausible solution—even when I try—simply verifies the magnitude of the problem, rather than impugning my problem-solving faculties. It shows that what we normally regard as solution-systems really evade the reality and complexity and magnitude of the problem: fundamental irrationality giving rise to pain, grief, loss and death. Thus I am a very dangerous person. Again, my very efforts to produce a solution are alarming because they so blatantly fail. My failure is the failure of all mankind (to find a solution or explanation). The fault is not mine.