Leave it to the Leviathan

Leave it to the Leviathan

The Depths of Despair and the Leviathan's Lair Deep Within

Sophia stood at the edge of the sea, her gaze fixed on the twin rock formations that rose like ancient titans from the depths. They stood as guardians of the threshold between the world she knew and the vast, unknown abyss that stretched beyond her imagination. As the sky blushed with the first light of dawn, the water mirrored the pastel sky, a canvas of nature's own making. She often came here to think, to escape the cacophony of her daily life. But today, her mind was heavy with the words of Thomas Hobbes, a philosopher whose view of life resonated with the part of her that was weary of the world’s ever-turning wheel.

No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
— Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679)

How paradoxical, she mused, that such a tranquil scene could remind her of Hobbes's bleak portrait of humanity. Yet, as she watched a crab scuttle across the sand, engaging in its daily struggle for survival, she couldn't help but draw parallels.

Alexander joined her, as was their custom at the start of each day. His smile was a beacon that often pierced her somber moods. "You're brooding over Hobbes again, aren't you?" he chided gently, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Sophia couldn’t help but chuckle. "Perhaps. It's hard not to when the world seems to embody his darkest musings," she admitted. But as Alexander stood by her, the Hobbesian nightmare seemed a distant fantasy.

Together, they had crafted a bubble where arts flourished, letters were penned, and society was a tapestry of their own design. Yet, the Leviathan's lair lingered in their midst, invisible yet ever-present.

Their small community, nestled on the coast, had become a refuge for those who sought to prove Hobbes wrong. Here, they cultivated a society where fear did not rule, where the violent death of the spirit was the greatest dread. Laughter was their currency, and joy their weapon against the darkness of the world.

Sophia had once thought life was as Hobbes described, but in Alexander’s company, and with the efforts of their friends, they had shaped something different, something better.

As the day unfolded, Sophia watched Alexander go about his tasks with a whistle on his lips. He had a knack for finding humor in the mundane, for spinning the straw of daily life into gold with his laughter. He would often say that the only way to keep the Leviathan at bay was with a good joke.

Their afternoons were spent in the company of books and music. Sophia would read aloud from the great poets while Alexander tinkered with the old piano they had salvaged, coaxing melodies from its weary keys. It was their form of rebellion against the Hobbesian world outside—a world that seemed to grow smaller with each note and verse.

In the evenings, their friends would gather, and discussions would ignite, fueled by philosophy and wine. They debated the nature of humanity, the existence of inherent good, and the possibility of a society built on trust and common joy. They laughed at their own absurdity, at the audacity of their undertaking.

It was during one such gathering that Sophia realized the profound truth of their existence. They were living proof that Hobbes’s vision was not an absolute decree. They had created their own narrative, a counterpoint to the philosopher's bleak assertion, one filled with the very arts, letters, and society he claimed were nonexistent.

As the day waned and the dusk cast its amber hue over the sea, Sophia contemplated the rocks, steadfast in their isolation. They were a reminder that even in the depths of despair, there can be beauty, stability, and hope. Perhaps, she thought, even Hobbes would have found a sliver of solace here, in this unlikely sanctuary where the leviathan of fear was kept at bay by the simple, yet powerful, act of shared human joy.

Her musings were interrupted by Alexander’s voice, calling her back to the present. “Come, let’s find a new way to mock the darkness,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. And with a shared smile, they turned from the Leviathan’s lair, back to the light of their home.

Evening descended, wrapping the coastal enclave in a velvety cloak as stars began to prick the soft fabric of the twilight sky. It was a time for rest, for reflection, and for the pursuit of passions that the daylight hours could not contain. Inside their cozy abode, Sophia and Alexander settled into their nightly ritual.

Sophia, with her penchant for the profound, opened a weathered book of poetry, its pages worn from the many times she had leafed through it. She read aloud, her voice a soothing melody that mingled with the whisper of the waves outside. The words of Goethe and Rilke filled the room, creating an atmosphere of introspective tranquility.

Alexander, ever the contrast to Sophia's depth, busied himself with his latest project. A record player, long silent, had become the subject of his current restoration attempt. Amidst the background of Sophia's recitations, he hummed a tune, a prelude to the Schubert symphonies he hoped to coax from the resurrected machine.

The juxtaposition of their evening's activities brought to Sophia’s mind the dissonant observation of George Steiner:

We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day's work at Auschwitz in the morning.
— George Steiner (1929-2020)

It was a haunting reminder of the capacity for contradiction within the human spirit. The same hands that crafted beauty and art could also, in another world, commit acts that defied comprehension. Yet here, in their little oasis, those hands repaired, restored, and created.

Alexander paused, sensing the shift in Sophia’s mood. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, looking up from the intricate innards of the player.

She closed the book, her finger keeping her place. “Just thinking about the duality of man, the coexistence of immense kindness and unspeakable cruelty,” she replied, her eyes not quite meeting his.

A soft chuckle escaped him, not one of mirth but of understanding. “The same duality allows us to find humor in the face of despair, to laugh when it seems most inappropriate,” he said, his hands still for a moment.

And so, they spent the evening in the company of giants of thought and music, aware of the darkness that existed in the world but choosing, in their small way, to light a candle against it. They found humor in the thought that their small acts of repair, their delight in poetry and music, could be a rebellion against the worst of what humanity could offer.

As the night deepened, Alexander finally coaxed life from the old record player. The first strains of a Schubert symphony filled the room, delicate and strong, a testament to the resilience of beauty. They danced, Sophia and Alexander, a dance of defiance, a dance that said, as long as there is music and poetry, as long as we can find joy in the face of the void, we remain human.

Their laughter echoed into the night, a sound that would never be heard within the walls of a place like Auschwitz, but one that, in its own way, was a resounding victory over the depths of despair. They danced until they were breathless, until the record player spun its last note and the stars outside winked their approval.

With the coming of dawn, the Leviathan's lair would once again be just beyond their reach, a reminder of what could be. But inside the walls of their sanctuary, Sophia and Alexander would continue to find hope in humanity, solace in humor, and resilience in the face of a paradoxical world.

In the depths of despair, they had created a leviathan's lair of their own, one filled not with dread, but with laughter, not with fear, but with music and poetry. It was their way of honoring the dual nature of man, by choosing, day after day, to embrace the light.

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