Бесплатный фрагмент - Icarus

Prelude

It’s October 16 already. For a couple of months, I’ve been working on some ideas. Soon I’ll be gone for a sabbatical, during which I plan to bring these thoughts to some logical fruition. It’s quite upsetting, for I still have no idea in what format these ideas will remain, but I believe that these entries will somehow become a collection of essays or, perhaps with proper direction, turn into something more substantial, something I’ve never done before. It’s hard to say yet, but each piece demands considerable effort, as if any of my recent attempts to create, which appear to need a crucial component. I must admit, I’d prefer such an absence more than discovering that the missing element stems from my personal conflict or even suffering. Such a prospect fills me with certain anxiety, for even in my characteristically pessimistic and critique views, I question my readiness to confront any experience that might extract the very essence of my being into literary form. Though I’ve perpetually curbed such an aspiration, I’m truly haunted by the notion that someday I might bend under the weight of my cross. As if I know it for sure. But conversely, I’m tired of such inaction. It may even drive me to some sort of delusion, if I’ll not create something soon. In that sense, maybe some sacrifice must be made. Perhaps, in some manner, I’m even prepared to go straight to it. Sometimes I even think that it was always my intimate dream to do so — to consciously harm myself or anyone close in order to create something meaningful. Well, while my heart remains dear to me and is still here beside me each day, I’m sure that I’ll maintain some sense of worth and even some strength to write. But what becomes of me should I need to sacrifice it instead? That’s what scares me the most, but at the same time indecently excites me — and so, it’s revolting. Sometimes in the pursuit of good, we trade happiness for knowledge and bargain love for wisdom. If only I could stop chasing symbolism in an attempt to render this life worthwhile. Perhaps it would have been better if I’d been born different. In any case, everything’s still ahead. It’s time to sleep now. Maybe tomorrow will bring some clarity to my mind. I don’t know for sure.

Part One

“The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of the dusk”

— Hegel

I

“I am Icarus, and I soared towards the sun, oblivious to the impending doom. As I understand now, it was always beyond my grasp. The gallant fire blinded my vision, leaving me sightless in the boundless azure. My waxen wings yielded to the scorching heat, and I plummeted like the lifeless pebble. Now, as I descend through the endless void, there is scarcely a moment to comprehend the gravity of my folly, to truly fathom what transpires in these final breaths granted to me. My sight has returned, yet what purpose does it serve when nought but emptiness embraces me? The shores of Sicily shall forever remain the distant dream. Never again shall I glimpse the beauty and feel the tenderness of it. Not in this life, nor in any other. The stars begin to fade, along with the heavens and their infinite expanse. The thunderous sea beckons below, leaving me naught but to surrender. Perhaps fate could have been different, or perchance my fall was written all along. Alas, forgive me, Sicily, and farewell. I have tasted happiness, even if not for long” — I imagine they were true thoughts of Icarus, those fleeting moments of realisation as his wings began to burn and he burst out painfully laughing. Today, I find myself embodying him. I am crushed beneath the weight of my hubris, clenched and destroyed by my precipitous fall. The descent has spanned three consecutive nights, each bleeding into the other with merciless continuity. I want to speak with you, though our dialogue may be fragmentary. Your presence, as always, offers solace to me in the silent understanding. Thank you for being here with me in my solitude. Today, as I believe, I marked my missed opportunity to reach the distant shores of Sicily, much like Icarus has failed the journey to his love and freedom. In these moments of my fall, whilst time stretches infinitely before the final breath, I wish to contemplate all that was and what might yet be. Be with me in my reverie, as I navigate through the labyrinth of my memories. Be my witness, as I begin to unfold the story of heights attempted and depths encountered, a poem of deep regret, a story of love that was always doomed to an end.

II

In the depths of his confinement, Icarus dwelt in perpetual thought of existence — the passage of time gradually transformed his initial acceptance into the loathing of his very circumstances. Though he experienced life and love, his soul desired for transcendence beyond the walls that were holding his reality. Such wanting externalized in the relentless struggle against the prison, which he perceived as the vexatious embodiment of his limitations. Being once a distant comfort to Icarus, it became the suffocating reminder of his bondage, transforming his chamber into nothing but a cell. His rebellion therefore became not merely physical but entirely existential.

Daedalus, too, harboured rebellious thoughts, but his perspective is to be fundamentally different. As the architect of the greatest creations, Daedalus stood in contrast to Icarus, much like the Creator may stand to any of his mortal creations. Thereupon, Daedalus does emerge as the true allegory and Icarus as the very human condition. The parallel proves particularly apt, for it is Icarus who mostly captures our imagination. Unlike his father, whose path is predetermined by his pious role, Icarus exists in a state of perpetual uncertainty regarding his one.

Though undeniably the Creator, Daedalus in the sense of story might more accurately be termed mythmaker, the master of all narratives. Icarus, however, turns out to be a form of universal humanity, born into existence without comprehending the true nature of freedom, not knowing of his role. His destiny, though believed in with fervent conviction, remains truly obscured, and the boundaries of it are as indistinct as the Mediterranean horizon. And so, such uncertainty does place Icarus in the position of necessary subordination to Daedalus, therefore, as if just a mere man, he finds himself bound by the obligation to submit to the will of his Creator, a constraint as binding as his physical imprisonment.

As if a testament to the human paradox, the fate of Icarus unfolds ironically — though fashioned by the most sublime of creators, he possesses an imperfection. Icarus, so, becomes an amalgamation of vices. However, these very flaws constitute the core of his identity, the very being, at the heart of which lies the primordial desire to escape the confines of his dungeon and to finally fulfil his destiny. But, as it may be, there exists a compelling possibility that Icarus once harboured the deep affection for those walls, whereas now sees it as his great imprisonment. Indeed, I might posit that he does rediscover the peculiar love in his final moments, though with the transformed consciousness that allows him to perceive these structures with unprecedented clarity.

While Daedalus persists in his creative endeavours, establishing order and facilitating the intended flight to Sicily, the contribution of Icarus does remain minimal. Upon reaching the coastal refuge, both father and son could have contentedly dwelt there indefinitely, finding solace in it, but Daedalus creates the possibility of freedom. As it is, it would be remiss to characterise him as an actual and primary seeker of freedom in the story, rather, I propose, Daedalus serves merely as the guide figure, a supporting hand in the myth where Icarus emerges as the true tragic protagonist. Such an ironic tragedy lies in the inability of Icarus to recognise his own spiritual blindness. He genuinely perceives himself as a mythmaker, akin to his father, unaware of the fundamental difference in their natures. But could he be one truly?

                                        * * *

In my understanding, I imagine Icarus to be capable of profound love, for as it seems, he is not deprived of it, he is enamoured not merely with Sicily, his ostensible destination, but with freedom that probably defines his life: the Mediterranean isle beckons him, yet curiously, he does not perceive it as his “predetermined fate”, despite the inexplicable desire of his heart for those distant shores. And what is truly captivating, Icarus finds himself not torn between competing passions, but rather elevated by their harmonious coexistence: these dual aspirations, the tangible Sicily and the intangible freedom, serve as twin muses to his ambitious spirit. Nevertheless, as the moment of his flight approaches, the significance of Sicily begins to fade like the morning mist, superseded by the pure ecstasy of the impending flight. And so, Icarus proves his inherent imperfection. However, I might say, there is some nobility to capture in his apparent insanity, for it is through the seemingly irrational pursuit that he seeks to discover his authentic self, the so-called “true purpose”. Though he may possess the potential for being the mythmaker, much like Daedalus, Icarus stands yet unproven and his story totally unwritten. Therefore, as he stands upon the threshold of destiny, poised on the seashore, his eyes waver enigmatically between two beacons, that is, the promise of Sicily and the mesmerising brilliance of the sun, those twin lodestars that captivate him equally — one with the concrete comforting reality, and the other with the perilous allure. In these very moments, Icarus exemplifies the struggle between the attainable and the transcendent, between the true love and his very undoing.

In his consciousness, he looks upward towards his creator, Daedalus, while beginning to perceive the boundless possibilities of his own inventive spirit. As if an ailing philosopher, and I suppose he might end up being a true one, pondering the nature of creation, Icarus reasons that being born of the master craftsman bestows upon him this “divine spark” of transformation — the ability to reshape reality according to his very will. Yet, there lies a tragic uncertainty in whether Icarus can ever achieve even a modest portion of the brilliance of the Creator, for Icarus, despite his inheritance and soaring aspirations, unwittingly enters into the dialectical struggle not merely with the transcendental realms above, but with the very self. In his struggle, he confronts each and every limitation — a longing truth that may dawn upon him only in those final moments of his flight and an eventual fall. And with that, I understand him. I much do.

III

Along the windswept seashore, amidst the mundane tasks of gathering scattered feathers and netting fish, Icarus found himself consumed by an overwhelming ennui; Icarus is bored with the very life. Indeed, from the very genesis of his existence, a sense of disgust had taken root in his soul. I perceive that Icarus must harbor the great contempt for the ordinary fate that befalls common mortals, and such a contempt fuels his relentless crusade against the mundane. The tranquil earthbound existence and love that humanity cherishes, that peaceful quotidian happiness that others hold dear, holds no allure for him. But he was once truly in love. Now, bereft of even these simple pleasures, the aspirations of Icarus soar towards the infinite, despite lacking the very means to even fly. Ultimately, his thoughts, powerful and transformative, possess the remarkable ability to materialise into reality, enabling him to craft his own story as he prepares for his momentous ascension alongside the Creator. A pertinent query emerges — is it not that Daedalus extends the invitation to Icarus to soar towards the island Sicily, the object of his deepest love? In truth, Icarus does not possess even the fundamental capability to construct his wings without the guidance of the Creator — the father against whom he has already staged a silent rebellion in the depths of his heart. Icarus, much like humanity, harbours an unwavering belief in his supremacy over the material and cosmic design. Even before his feet leave the earth, Icarus begins to weave elaborate tapestries of his destined greatness. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself a mythmaker of equal standing to his father, if not even greater in freedom. Precisely, I am unable to cast assertion upon Icarus; his youth and folly are intrinsically intertwined, his thoughts bold and unfettered. Yet, paradoxically, these very qualities evoke an increasing sense of revulsion inside my heart. With each passing moment, I discern more parallels between him and me, as though I were gazing into the fractured mirror, the shattered pieces of which gradually coalesce to reveal my true essence. The reflection that emerges is both unsettling and illuminating — a distorted, yet unflinchingly truthful portrayal. Much as the butterfly caught in an endless spiral, unable to find the perch, I find myself stunned and riveted by the discordant truth, perpetually falling and reaching my death, not even in the midst of our dialogue. And no, think not that I am concealing behind a facade, I am merely conversing with both you and me at the same time, as once was customary and yet loathsomely to acknowledge.

In the scheme of parallels, Icarus bears a striking resemblance to another divinely created being whose flatulent aspirations led to his spectacular downfall. As it is, Icarus embodies Lucifer, or rather his characteristics with precision, however, one must exercise caution in equating Icarus with the devil or even the demonic entity, for Lucifer possesses a far more nuanced understanding of his role within the divine architecture of the Creator. It is in the very existence of Lucifer to stand in opposition to the design of the Creator, perpetually engaging in the state of attempted flight and inevitable descent. Nevertheless, the symbolic parallel of torn off wings and the plunge into the unfathomable abyss remains hauntingly similar. I might posit that Icarus, like all of humanity, inherits the divine gift of being fashioned in the image of God, while simultaneously being ensnared by the machinations of infernal influence. His relentless quest for purpose and meaning, coupled with his remarkable achievements, of course, not to mention his self-perceived role as the probable mythmaker. It positions him more accurately as the Antichrist figure rather than an embodiment of pure malevolence. Indeed, what man has not, at some point, harboured the secret desire to ascend to Godhood? The tragedy of Icarus lies in his momentary abandonment of earthly love as he gazes into the impenetrable vastness of possibility, genuinely believing in his capacity to achieve the status comparable to Daedalus. Such an antichrist leitmotif becomes particularly poignant when we consider how he falls prey to the seductive beauty of thought and the infinite potential of it for creation. The myth of Icarus serves as the sapient signpost, suggesting that somewhere, perhaps far beyond our human reach, lies the doorway to the transcendent realm; and while it might be attainable, it remains reserved for someone who is fundamentally different from ourselves. Like the third sky. Therefore, through his imminent choices, Icarus illuminates the crucial truth about the nature of the eventual arrival of Antichrist. I assume that the myth suggests that when the true Antichrist emerges, his will be equally tragic, built upon the foundation of the forsaken love, unwavering faith in his Creator, and the misguided conviction in the ability to serve as the one saviour to humanity. Such interpretation transforms the cautionary tale to the meditation on the nature of existence, human aspiration, and the price of reaching beyond the ordained borders.

But what defines us if not the primordial wanting to breach boundaries and transcend the walls of our indwelling? Perhaps there exist anomalies within this cosmic equation, much like the mythical pursuit of Icarus of the dream-laden isle of Sicily. In truth, the crux of the given matter lies not in the realm of possibility versus impossibility, nor in the demarcation of achievable horizons, but rather in the profound capacity for mastering it. One might ponder whether Icarus, despite his unwavering conviction in the ability to soar, could ever have mastered the delicate art of balancing multiple realms or destinations. It remains true even if Daedalus, in his infinite wisdom, had offered his guidance by crafting more resilient wings, bestowing upon Icarus the ability to fly unaided, or perhaps shielding him from the mesmerising radiance of the sun that bewitched his heart. Indeed, Daedalus possessed the potential to be the salvation of Icarus, but herein lies the tragedy of man. All manner of mortal afflictions, rather evil or deprivation or wrath or anguish or vanity or egotistic inclinations, might have been circumvented had our Creator chosen to intervene. God could have endowed us with better qualities from our very inception, or perhaps saved us right from the consuming flames of our follies. Yet, such intervention remains beyond the scope of the equation of our fundamental reality. Daedalus, bound by the constraints of his role, will not bestow more gifts upon Icarus, and will not reshape his mindset, nor persuade him to find contentment within the present conditions. As I said, Daedalus assumes the role of guide, serving as the beacon of wisdom while maintaining a careful distance from any intervention in the unfolding of a myth. After all, he is an architect of it. As much as a writer who neither desires nor possesses the ability to revise an already written and published opus, Daedalus will observe the consequences of his creation from afar. Hence, while Icarus commands the spotlight of the story, he remains merely the tragic protagonist within it, and not the creator. And what has been inscribed in the fabric of destiny must be according to it. Perchance, there wanders the utter futility in the attempt of the book and words to seek out the author of them, hoping for revision or the washing of permanent ink away. It is the nature of predetermined. When once set in motion, it must follow the prescribed course. Throughout the vast expanse of a furrowed field, one finds the essence of free will, rather it is in the labour of cultivation, in the toil of improvement, or in the creation of meaning from mere soil; yet beyond such earthen boundaries, the lucid liberty becomes elusive. Just as the freedom of man exists within the confines of divine providence of our Creator, young and resolute Icarus could reach only as high as Daedalus and the given wings would permit him.

IV

I shall now bid farewell to Icarus, if only for a fleeting moment. My strong desire is to banish thoughts of him, at least for the evening, as I again embark upon another nocturnal literary endeavour beneath the shroud of night. Not long ago, I spoke of the mythmaker, that is being embodied by Daedalus and others of his ilk, those rare souls or beings blessed with the ability to not merely transcend existence, but to mould and transmute it into something altogether more profound. The mythmaker, whereas perhaps not occupying the loftiest position in the pantheon of universal creators, nevertheless brushes against those ethereal, hidden recesses of the stellar realm where most of the mysteries dwell. Yet, as with all things in the mortal coil, there exist stark contrasts, and for every mythmaker who graces our world, there dwells another who lacks such divine gifts — indeed, some who actively seek to demolish those humble myths and extinguish any signs of hope. However, such a talk must wait for another day, for it bears no place in our present dialogue with you. Instead, I wish to momentarily meander down the different path, one that contemplates the profound disparity between the mythmaker and the one I must call man stone or homo lapis — perhaps the tragic figure whose fate is sealed either in meaningless obscurity, that is, existential absurd or in sacrifice to the grand design of someone, a mere cog in the great wheel of microevolution, turning ever so slowly through the ages of passing.

I posit that our reality is not merely multifaceted, but rather exists in “myriad quantitative dimensions”, each layer interweaving with the next in an intricate domain of existence. In one of my forthcoming treatises, which might grace the world in the coming year, I delve into such conundrum with greater depth. However, too soon it is to go there. Let us entertain the notion that reality is an elaborate web, a grand mythological story crafted by an enigmatic mythmaker. While it may prove more comforting to attribute the direction of history to the Creator, such a perspective would render humanity utterly insignificant in such a cosmic theatre. Though man is indeed diminutive in the face of the infinite, we must contemplate the intriguing possibility that one might ascend to the role of mythmaker, much like Daedalus; he stands as a testament to the extraordinary potential of humanity. I harbour the conviction that mythmakers walk amongst us, though they are as rare as precious gems in the vast desert. Perhaps only one shall ultimately emerge as the true architect of our collective story. Precisely, the myth speaks sparingly of the ascension of Daedalus, yet one might speculate that his journey paralleled the tribulations of his son, who, in his own right, sought to emulate the destiny of the father. Regardless of personal inclination, I find myself passionately drawn to explore the mythmaker as an archetype or destination, translating the timeless concept into our contemporary reality, which is also an enduring mythological construct; such translation becomes particularly poignant when we consider that our perceived reality is but the continuation of an age-old narrative, stretching back through the corridors of time like the golden thread, the glorious continuum, weaving together the fabric of human mind and experience.

In the grand scheme of things, I can venture a thought: much as the very angels, each bestowed with their purpose and variable in the cosmic arithmetic, the Creator may have similarly graced certain mortals with roles that echo across the universe. For indeed, every narrative, every precious thread woven throughout time, must be in motion, necessitating those chosen few who shall orchestrate such sublime movement. No, it transcends mere technological advancement or ideological metamorphosis. It rather speaks to the very spiritual ascension. An elevation towards the ineffable unknown. Herein lies the paramount quest of humanity — not merely to comprehend the unfathomable, but to master the wild nature of it — to bring order to the chaos and to tame it. Therefore, whereas the metaphysical realm lurks behind the adamantine door, humanity, with the insatiable curiosity, will continue the fevered attempts to glimpse even the faintest shadows of it. Yet, “tis the mythmaker, that rare man blessed with vision and voice, who shall ultimately unlock the mystical gates, bridging the chasm between the known and the unknowable, between the mundane and the divine, ending our prolonged slumber; and Icarus longs to be the one.

In contrast to the saviour that I fashioned of the mythmaker, I could not conceive of a more fitting designation than to call the antipode the man stone, for it is destined, like a miserable pebble, to merely descend through the waters and settle amidst the silt and shadows of the depths below. The realisation that one is fated for such a role can be utterly devastating, a weight really heavier than the stone. But one must not tremble before or resist the grand design, for it is as inevitable as the turning of the seasons, as immutable as the laws that govern our existence. For all time, I have maintained unwavering honesty with you, and I must confess that perhaps we both might prove to be nothing more than simple cobbles, cast into the great waters. More to it, there exists another dimension to the truth. While one might take countless attempts to forge a different destiny, to carve out the path distinct from that which was predetermined, another might comprehend their insignificance from the very moment of their first breath. Whatever intricate plot might unfold in the middle chapters of our existence, the finale remains eternally fixed, and everything that follows bears neither significance nor presents any worthy cause for which to wage battle. Such a phenomenon might be regarded as the peculiar form of catharsis, a purging of meaning and the simultaneous absence of it, notwithstanding that, much like any property in the art of alchemy, one might imbue the own existence with whatever significance one desires; but the sole distinction lies in the fundamental verity. Only that which is written by the Creator constitutes genuine truth, while everything conceived by minds of humans, no matter how elaborate or ingenious, remains but the melancholy fabrication, a shade of authentic meaning cast upon the walls of our understanding. In the end, one must pray for the mythmaker to be.

V

In the quietude of my musings, I find myself drawn to reveal the deepest truth about what echoes within the divine realm. I believe that at the very core dwells true love, not simply as the fleeting sentiment, but as an eternal force. Such love, pristine and genuine, when born and cultivated in the human spirit, harmonises perfectly with the grand architecture of existence. And so, my contemplation turns to Icarus, whose tale whispers not of haughtiness alone, but of something infinitely more profound, which is his longing reached beyond mere vanity, towards the azure Mediterranean expanse of Sicily. Such is the bearing of divine imprint — to be fashioned in the image of the Creator. As it is, the revelation pierces me with exquisite sorrow, for like Icarus, I too have known the depths of love — a healing love who many comprehend only in their falling. For love surpasses mere fondness. It is truly an all-consuming dread of separation, an immense terror that stretches beyond the boundaries of my or the comprehension of anyone. Like a shadow that grows longer at twilight, such fear expands until it engulfs the very human heart. So does Icarus, utterly possessed by the fierce grip of love. To fully understand love is to willingly embrace all perils, even if it culminates in the tragic descent. For to truly fathom love, one must inevitably relinquish it, much as Icarus surrendered all. Thus, only when I lastly gaze upon my burning wings and the diminishing silhouette of my beloved sun can I truly grasp the exquisite beauty and anguish of my love towards it.

And no, please, do not presume that love bestows answers to each human question, for it surely does not. Indeed, love offered no solace to Icarus. It rather stood witness to his tragic demise. In the entirety, the myth veils the presence of eminent love in Icarus. Were Icarus amongst us, we might fail to know the depths of his passion. None would perceive that behind his gaze burned an untameable desire to embrace the obscurity. And I am sure, the root of the dilemma will dwell deep within ourselves. The nature of our human predicament lies within our evolved state, where superficial appearances command greater significance than the depths they might conceal. Perhaps it would explain the perpetual pursuit of novelty by humanity, and the eagerness to grasp at fresh experiences while remaining willfully blind to their inner substance. Thereafter, upon reflection, I believe that without love, Icarus would never have flown; with that neither the thirst for discovery nor the destined-to-fail crusade could exist, if there is no omnipotence of love in the foundational chapter, which in all of the myriad forms and feasible possibilities, is probably the very primordial force, propelling us beyond any earthly constraints.

In the myth, love is seen in many forms, even when veiled from immediate sight. Observe the love of Daedalus, which emerges both as fatherly tenderness and the profound bond between an artisan and his masterpiece; such duality suggests that the essence of love is simultaneously nurturing and potentially ruinous. Then there is the love of Icarus, directed towards the very notion of transcendence, the pure, unbridled longing to fly beyond mortal limitations. Or there is the tale which represents the deeper dimension of love — the devotion of a storyteller to the truths woven into the fabric of it; such love breaches the confines of mere narrative, echoing through time to illuminate countless souls across generations.