A submission to a manifesto, potentially to be renamed from “manifesto” to have a less normative implication to its title.
The intention of this collection of essays is, at least how I have understood it, to share our experiences of existence in the Threshold in order to enable us to create a better society going forwards. There is much to be said about the despotic powers that governed this place before recent revelations, and I believe much ink will be spilled over it, so I am not setting out to write about this.
In life, I was an academic, specialising in political philosophy. I believe, then, that I could provide something valuable to the conversation about what to take forward into the inevitable discussions around what form the society we exist in should take.
Rarely do we get a chance such as this to reshape the structures we live under. Ideal theory concerns how we might construct a state in the most ideal conditions, a term coined first by Rawls. To give a short exposition of his own work, Rawls’s original position is a hypothetical under which every individual is made blind to their own defining characteristics, such as their gender, race, class, previous convictions, etc. In this theoretical position, he wrote, we would decide upon a society that has minimal inequality, because we could awaken to find we are of any group in the world we have created – and thus we would reasonably not want any of those groups to be discriminated against.
Perhaps today in the Threshold, we are the closest humanity has ever been to the sort of tabula rasa that is – according to the political philosophers, at least – ideal for creating a state.
But we are not, in fact, in the original position. Ideal theory must eternally face the problems that confronted it at the start; that we are burdened with experience, with a life from before, and a world that is shaped by the very human hands that we possess. Our experiences will shape the things that we desire from the world, and therefore what things we demand of it; whether we demand things at all or remain silent, whether we wish to avoid a new state altogether, whether we believe we will need one another to continue existence for eternity.
That is to say, in a less long-winded way, we are to rely on the way we know the world to be to shape it in future. And we saw what happened when one person alone decided that. I do not think Bale is to be held uniquely responsible for what happened. It is far easier to place the blame at one person’s feet, but I believe we would be lying if some of us would not make the same choice in his position. After all, he, like us, was shaped by his experiences of the world – and for him, that was the suffering of eternity alone in the Threshold.
Some of us did things in life that are unforgivable. Waking in the Threshold and realising that we are to keep living in a way that is so very similar to before is a horrible scenario, especially when we are confronted with people we knew in life. Those who were victims of our actions.
It is near impossible to deal with.
But we have eternity. And I, for one, intend to spend those years changing, and earning the forgiveness I do not yet deserve.
We do not have to be what we were. And I hope that is what we take forward in constructing the world that the Threshold will be.
Titus Wolfson.
– by Konstantine
To be taught requires trust. The pupil must have faith in the professor, believe in their knowledge and in their desire to impart it.
When trust has been shattered, when books are published under false names and relationships complicated by deceit, it is hard to hold faith. As such, it is hard to teach.
So Titus Wolfson learns first. He learns from Lucilla. They sit together side by side in the library, in the garden - and she tells him about her work and about her life. All the things she never told him in life, she tells him in death. His little sister sat beside him as they did in life.
It once would have annoyed him how difficult he found it to follow her lectures, her thoughts on political philosophy still above his understanding. But he’s different now. He takes a bittersweet joy in hearing her talk about her interests, grateful that some things haven’t changed even after death. He hates that he never saw the woman she could have grown up to be, but she’s here now.
He doesn’t know how he will make it up to her, but he has an eternity to find out.
There is little space for renown in the Threshold, respect is reciprocal, not hierarchical. Titus Wolfson no longer clings to pride, but he does endeavour to earn trust.
Amidst the ruins of the Tower, the fledgling growth of gardens and forests, there has never been more space to rebuild. Piece by piece, Titus constructs a reputation, a new reputation, one not founded on false claims and bids of Cainite ego, but one of earnest curiosity, guidance and learning
Titus Wolfson teaches. It suits him.
turnsheet one: literature review
Titus is among the aisles of the library, as he has been for so many hours, and as he will continue to be. His fingers skip over the spines of so many books from far beyond his time, or far before. Knowledge has been accumulated over an infinite time into one beautiful space, all for him to access.
And it’s overwhelming. There is simply so much to know and understand. He will never be able to process it all, and he will always be playing second fiddle to the great minds of the centuries, because he is not among them. The sight of all the books he has selected piling up on the desk beside him is despicable, and he is nearly sick with a malaise of envy when he sees them all; so much to read and understand that he will never be able to catch up on, let alone contribute to. When the knowledge before him is infinite, his own becomes worthless.
He stands for a second. His legs are starting to hurt, and he is reminded of the fact that for some reason he has always considered himself an old man. The thought almost makes him laugh.
And then he sees her, dazed and wandering through the shelves.
He sits back down, eyes glued to the pages.
turnsheet two: research methods
Even upon walking in, Titus is hit immediately by the smell of incense and warmth, and the overwhelming sense that someone is trying very hard to relax all the inhabitants of the room. It should work; everyone around is looking pretty calm, chatting breezily and settled in to their chosen method of relaxation.
It should work, but Titus has never been particularly good at relaxing. He finds something to do. Makes an effort at small talk.
Sees Lumiere and Zachary out of the corner of his eye.
turnsheet three: collaboration
Titus takes a heavy breath, pocketing his notebook and looking up at the building in front of him. The Tower looms high above, tearing a gash in the featureless sky, a dark stain upon the block.
There are others waiting at the doors. Titus again sighs to himself, straightening his blazer as he steps forward. Time to find out who’s on the other end of that line.
turnsheet four: abstract
The hours stretch easily in the library, melting into each other with only the sound of flipping pages and gentle clock-hands to mark the time. Titus and Lucilla make an odd little pair at the desks.
But one of them is asleep. And Titus is scribbling in a book, something he only catches himself doing a moment too late to stop it, ink staining the page eternally, now.
Eternity. That’s what they have to look forward to.
It will not take that long for Lucilla to remember.
turnsheet five: data collection
Titus sighs at the state of the living room, occupied now, as it is, by two people. He fixes a pile of unsolved sudoku into something resembling neatness and goes to his bedroom. There, in the somewhat dark and intimidating space, he goes through his probably-un-Psychopomp-approved wardrobe and settles on something nice.
Can’t show up to Snake Den looking less than your best, after all.
turnsheet six: qualitative analysis
The streetlamps flicker.
He’s only recently noticed – or perhaps it has only recently started, with the Threshold itself slipping apart into pieces, like many jigsaw puzzles all mashed up together in the wrong box. It makes for an odd effect of the light upon the smoke of his cigarette – flutters, like a moth, or a heartbeat.
A heartbeat. One that stopped thirty years ago. (Or just a few weeks, depending on who you ask.) An arm, cut off, cooked and fed and enjoyed, stolen – things stolen, people stolen, lives stolen.
The sound of clicking heels nears, and Titus drops the cigarette, crushing it underfoot. He smiles.