The frontispiece for my existential memo, The White Transmission.
Last week in the bath, one dreary July afternoon, after coming back from a wet cycle up on the primordial plateau behind Johnstone, I finally read Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a small book about a seagull called Jonathan and his eagerness to find out about this thing called 'Life'. All anthropocentrism aside, it is a wonderful little book, with some pertinent things to say about the state of modern society.
'Surely, there's more to life than fighting over fish-heads', Jonathan asks at one point. Before embarking upon a period of self-imposed exile away from the Breakfast Flock, where he fine-tunes his ability to fly.
The flock can often bring us down, especially if it is, in the case of the modern capitalist world, in a state of eco-existential paralysis (in other words, cannot tell its elbow from its arse). So sometimes, a little egregious behaviour can go a long way, in departing from the stress of the unthinking and unmoving herd. This is the core message of the book: to question the direction of society, to question its behaviour, and to re-assess our own.
It's a book that will, until man becomes human once again, continue to be popular for its brevity, its simplicity, and its wonder. It is also a book which, because of the seagulls nesting on the roof opposite my desk, and my own particular fondness of their bold beauty not to mention their elegance and agility, resonates deeply.
Moreover, it is a book which, in spite of the many mentions of high speeds attained by the young and speed-stricken Jonathan, is not about speed at all, nor about slowness, but rather about simply moving under your own steam, at your own pace, synergetically attuned to the forces around you. As the Great Gull tells the young seagull apprentice:
'Any number is a limit. And perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there'.
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