Theodor McArdle, Teddy, is a ten-year-old kid, a genius-child whose mind really doesn’t match his age. In this fragment he shares his spiritual and metaphysical thoughts with Bob Nicholson, a young man who’s been following Teddy’s last appearances in seminars and talks.
Nicholson didn’t say anything.
“But I could get out of the finite dimensions fairly often when I was four,” Teddy said, as an afterthought. “Not continuously or anything, but fairly often.”
Nicholson nodded. “You did?” he said. “You could?”
“Yes,” Teddy said. “That was on the tape … Or maybe it was on the one I made last April. I’m not sure.”
Nicholson took out his cigarettes again, but without taking his eyes off Teddy. “How does one get out of the finite dimensions?” he asked, and gave a short laugh. “I mean, to begin very basically, a block of wood is a block of wood, for example. It has length, width—”
“It hasn’t. That’s where you’re wrong,” Teddy said. “Everybody just thinks things keep stopping off somewhere. They don’t. That’s what I was trying to tell Professor Peet.” He shifted in his seat and took out an eyesore of a handkerchief—a gray, wadded entity—and blew his nose. “The reason things seem to stop off somewhere is because that’s the only way most people know how to look at things,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they do.” He put away his handkerchief, and looked at Nicholson. “Would you hold up your arm a second, please?” he asked.
“My arm? Why?”
“Just do it. Just do it a second.”
Nicholson raised his forearm an inch r two above the level of the armrest. “This one?” he asked.
Teddy nodded. “What do you call that?” he asked.
“What do you mean? It’s my arm. It’s an arm.”
“How do you know it is?” Teddy asked. “You know it’s called an arm, but how do you know it is one? Do you have any proof that it’s an arm?”
Nicholson took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “I think that smacks of the worst kind of sophistry, frankly,” he said, exhaling smoke. “It’s an arm, for heaven’s sake, because it’s an arm. In the first place, it has to have a name to distinguish it from other objects. I mean you can’t simply—”
“You’re just being logical,” Teddy said to him impassively.
“I’m just being what?” Nicholson asked, with a little excess of politeness.
“Logical. You’re just giving me a regular, intelligent answer,” Teddy said. “I was trying to help you. You asked me how I get out of the finite dimensions when I feel like it. I certainly don’t use logic when I do it. Logic’s the first thing you have to get rid of.”
Nicholson removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue with his fingers.
“You know Adam?” Teddy asked him.
“Do I know who?”
“Adam. In the Bible.”
Nicholson smiled. “Not personally,” he said dryly.
Teddy hesitated. “Don’t be angry with me,” he said. “You asked me a question, and I’m—”
“I’m not angry with you, for heaven’s sake.”
“Okay,” Teddy said. He was sitting back in his chair, but his head was turned toward Nicholson. “You know that apple Adam ate in the Garden of Eden, referred to in the Bible?” he asked. “You know what was in that apple? Logic. Logic and intellectual stuff. That was all that was in it. So—this is my point—what you have to do is vomit it up if you want to see things as they really are. I mean if you vomit it up, then you won’t have more trouble with blocks of wood and stuff. You won’t see everything stopping off all the time. And you’ll know what your arm really is, if you’re interested. Do you know what I mean? Do you follow me?”
“I follow you,” Nicholson said, rather shortly.
“The trouble is,” Teddy said, “most people don’t want to see things the way they are. They don’t even want to stop getting born and dying all the time. They just want new bodies all the time, instead of stopping and staying with God, where it’s really nice.” He reflected. “I never saw such a bunch of apple-eaters,” he said. He shook his head.
[Bold text not provided]
» original source & credits
Share
Tweet
