Arthur on Courage

"You fascinate me, you know. And realize that I don’t use the word flippantly. I’ve been watching you during our past few meetings . . . You don’t give anything away do you? I cannot recall the last time I met anyone with such a firm and steady hold on their language—verbal or visual. Perhaps I never have. You have a stillness of carriage that transforms 'the roaring tumults of the mind into a steady, pendular quietude.' You calm me. Indeed, it is your stillness which is the only proof of the infinity beneath that mirror-like surface (no one unaware could create such a perfect veneer.) You seem to calculate everything you say and do, right down to the number of blinks of your eyes, the relaxed tendons of your hands, the smooth forehead surprised into furrows by nothing. We both know that the slightest unconscious gesture can offer crucial insight and you ensure only what you want others to know is known. The curtain is pulled aside every once in a while . . . almost unwittingly, but the carelessness, too, is calculated, I think. Even now as I say these things to you, which for you must be the greatest compliment because it so seldom observed, and rarer still explicitly understood, you look as you did when you sipped your coffee, or turned to hear the robin, or tilted your chin to catch the dappled sun. There are no degrees of pleasure in your expression. I told you I’ve been observing you. Don’t be alarmed, Belhor. I mean you no harm. I am simply fascinated.

"I wonder though if the effect is truly worth the effort. You create an aura of reserve and openness at once: the quality of being non-judgmental. That’s what people call it, anyway. More aptly, it ought to be called fearless contemplation: to entertain an idea without accepting it. [1] What I mean is . . . what defines that quality in a man which maintains poise in the presence of that unpredictable factor of human beings: free will? I used to have nightmares as a child. They always involved a mindless, bloodthirsty beast that was bent on hunting me down. No matter what I said or tried to show, it couldn’t be reasoned with. Appeals to the mind were knocked dead onto the dirt, where I was soon to follow, and then I would run for my life. I think you know this dream. It is not that you are not afraid, I think; you are human, after all; but that you don’t care that you are afraid. You simply don’t care about fear. My God . . . is this courage? How does one describe that serene condescension to one’s own fears of the unknown in each of us? How do you describe a man who accepts others as whole, separate entities apart from himself, as ends in themselves but still retain the ability to love? I used to think that peace and passion were antitheses. But that’s not it, is it? To understand what it means to live with other people in life, to understand the nature of human life—the messiness, the dependence, the contingency of human relationships—and yet never forgetting or denying the reality of love and friendship. To know it and still embrace it all . . . perhaps, this is the nature of Courage—to perceive keenly, to feel fear and set it aside, to truly know and still care. Yes, I suppose it is worth the effort, that surface of yours; it tells me everything, even things I don’t fully understand yet. I think I was wrong to describe it as a mirror. No . . . it is more transparent than ether and weightier than gold."

Notes:
1. Aristotle