The Transcript of Severn Darden's Metaphysical Routine, As Promised.

Intro: (Andrew Duncan) And now, ladies and gentlemen, Professor Walter von der
Vogelweide will present "A Short Talk On The Universe."

Darden: Now, why, you will ask me, have I chosen to speak on the
Universe rather than some other topic. Well, it's very simple, heh.
There isn't anything else!

Now, the Universe we examine through what Spinoza has called "the lens
of philosophy". He called it this because he was a lens grinder.
Heaven knows what he would have called it had he been, for example, a
pudding manufacturer.

Now, into three branches is philosophy divided: ethics, esthetics, and
metaphysics. Now, ethics is that branch of philosophy which is neither
esthetics nor metaphysics. Esthe--well, I think you follow.

This evening I have decided to take the jump. Heh heh. Metaphysics.

Now, metaphysics is--what IS everything--ANYHOW? And what's more is
more than what's less--generally.

Now, in the universe we have time, space, motion, and thought. Now,
you will ask me, what is this thing called time? [7 second pause] THAT
is time.

Now, you will ask me, what is space? Now this over here--this is some
space. However, this is not all space. However, when I said that was
time, that was all the time there was anywhere in the universe--at
that time. Now, if you were to take all of the space that there is in
the universe and CRAM it into this little tiny place, this would be
ALL the space there was! Unless of course, some leaked out. Which it
could. And did! Heh. Hence the universe!

Now, the early Egyptian astronomers (there were no late Egyptian
astronomers) looked up at the stars and with these they measured time.
But the Greeks, who were very exact--sometimes to the point of
tediousness--came along with this question: is time the measure of
motion, or conversely, is motion the measure of time?

Viz. I have in my hand a stopwatch--imaginary. And coming through the
room is a railroad train--also imaginary, heh heh. If it was a real
railroad train it would kill us--and besides, it would be very
expensive. Now--I'm timing the train now. Is time the measure of
motion--click--[makes train noise and runs across stage]--click--or
is, conversely, motion--now I'm going to be for you a grandfather's
clock [swings arm]--tick--tock--tick--tock--the measure of time? Now,
with the arrival in the 20th century of Planck's constant and the
theory of quantum mechanics and with Heisenberg's uncertainty
principle--I think--we still don't know.

However, we might very easily turn to the pre-Socratic philosophers
(who were always good for a laugh) for assistance.

Now, take Heraclitus. Dr. Jose Benardete, by the way, has said in his
book "Coming and Becoming", he has quoted Heraclitus incorrectly as
saying that "time was a river which flowed endlessly through the
universe." He didn't say this at all. He said, "time was LIKE a river
which flowed endlessly through the universe." Aha, there you are,
Benardete!

Nonetheless, he discovered this one day, and he went home to his wife,
Helen. That was her name, Helen Heraclitus. That's two H's, like Hugo
Haas--Herman Hesse--Harry Halle[?]--Herbert Hoover--Heinrich Himmler--
oh, that whole crowd, ja.

Anyhow, he went home to his wife, Helen, and he said "Time is like a
river which is flowing endlessly through the universe, and you
couldn't step into the same river twice. Helen."

And she says, "What do you mean by that, Heraclitus? Explain
yourself." That means you could go down to the Mississippi River, for
example, and you could step in, and you could step out, and then you
could step in again. But that river that you stepped in has moved
downstream, you see, it's here.  And you would only be stepping in the
Mississippi River because that's what it's called, you see? Not only
all that water, but if something were on top of the water--for
example, a water bug--if it was there, it would be downstream. Unless,
of course, it was swimming upstream, in which case it would be older
and it would be a different bug.

So, anyhow, Heraclitus went home to his wife with this news, and he
said "Time is like a river which flows endlessly through the universe,
and you couldn't step into the same river twice."

She said, "Don't be an ass, Heraclitus. You could step into the same
river twice--if you walked downstream at the same rate as the river."

He was amazed!

So he went down to the agora, or marketplace, where there were a lot
of unemployed philosophers (which means philosophers who weren't
thinking at that time). And they had a few drinks first and they went
down to the river, and into the river they threw a piece of wood just
to test how fast the river was going. And so Heraclitus saw how fast
the wood was going. So he stepped into the river, and ran and stepped
and ran and stepped and ran, and finally he ran out into the Aegean
Sea and was drowned.

So much for time.

Now we come to another pre-Socratic, Zeno, for time and motion, and
Zeno's Paradox. Now, a paradox is something which when it isn't, it
is, paradoxically. And Zeno's Paradox is that if Achilles, the great
Greek hero and athlete, were to get into a race with a tortoise, that
he couldn't win. Silly, isn't it.

Well, if, for example, the toroise was here and he would give the
tortoise, say, a 10-foot headstart, just to be fair to the beast, and
there would be--it would take, say, Achilles, 1 second to go 1 foot.
So at the end of 9 seconds, he would have one foot to go in one
second, ja? And in a half of a second, he would still have a half of a
foot to go, you see? And in a hundredth of a second he would have a
hundredth of a foot to go. And in a millionth of a second, he would
have a millionth of a foot to go. And since time and space are both
infinitely divisible, he would never pass the turtle! Heh, heh.

But this is ridiculous! Anyone in this room could win a race with a
turtle, you know, and we're not great heroes and athletes. Even for
example, some old, very dignified person, like Bertrand Russell, HE
could win a race with a tortoise. And if he couldn't win it, he could
outsmart it, ja?

Nonetheless, I have discovered possibly the meaning for this paradox.
I was reading recently a book called "Greek Pots In Polish Museums" by
John Davidson Beasley. 8vo, $9.75 and worth every penny of it. Big
wide margins--er, I'm getting off my point. Anyhow, in there is a
picture of a pot that has on it a picture of a ripe [?] archaic
tortoise of the kind that Zeno would have known about. Now, it isn't a
little, flat American tortoise. IT'S A LITTLE BULLET-SHAPED TORTOISE
WITH LONG, SINEWY LEGS, ABOUT 4 FEET LONG, AND IT COULD RUN LIKE
CRAZY!

Now this would seem to explain it, ja? But it doesn't! Because Homer,
who never lied about anything, said that Achilles could, if he wanted
to, beat any man or beast in a foot race. Now what does this mean, "if
he wanted to"? You know how some people can't step on the line in the
sidewalk? Achilles couldn't pass a tortoise! He was a very sick hero!

Now, thought.

For centuries philosophers have told us that thought cannot be seen,
it cannot be heard, cannot be felt, smelled, cannot be tasted. It is
not in the key of G--or F. And it is not blue--nor is it mauve. It is
not a pot of geraniums. It is not a white donkey against a blue sky.
Or a blue donkey against a white sky. Nor does it have aspirations to
become archbishop. It is not a little girl singing an old song.
Thought is not a saffron-robed monk pissing in the snow. In other
words, philosophers can tell you millions of things that thought
isn't, and they can't tell you what it is! And this bugs them!

But you are out there and you're thinking and I'm up here and I think
that you're thinking, and we think, and we think that the sun comes up
in the morning, pouring forth its beautiful bounty of light, and as
Shakespeare said, "What a piece of work is man!"

Are there any questions? Thank you.

I would really like to answer any questions that you might have. Now,
I don't have anyone planted in the audience. Occasionally friends of
mine who are in the audience throw up some hideous thing. They know
the areas in which I am weak! Only in this sense do I have someone
planted. So if you could ask me anything that you might not know about
the universe.

Q: What is the relation between space and time?

What is the relation between space and time? Well, let's see, I
thought I had covered that. Now the relation--well, space, for
example, it is a thing which is occupied by matter. Ja? Whereas time
occupies space, as we all know. Have you ever, for example, had any
time pass when there was no space? I mean, have you ever been no place
for a long time? It couldn't happen! It could, theoretically, of
course. But I mean, even with a lot of equipment it would be
difficult.

Could I have another question?

Q: Do fish think?

Well, that's a very good question, but it's not in the realm of
metaphysics. Now I had a fish once--name was Louise, as a matter of
fact. Small, fat fish. And every day at the same time I would go to
the edge of the pond--a little iron tank in my house--and throw it a
bunch of grapes. You know? Every day at the same time the fish would
be there. After a few days she knew at 1:45, grapes, bam! Fish!
However, I began making it 15 minutes later every day, you see. And
then when I was there at 2 o'clock, she'd be there at 1:45. She was 15
minutes behind. After a while she was hours and days behind! And she
starved to death. Yes, fish think--but not fast enough!

Could I have another question, please?

Q: [German accent, much thicker than Darden's] Professor, what is
truth?

What is...?

Q: Truth.

Truth?

Q: Truth.

Oh, ja. Mm-hm. An accent.

Well, truth is very difficult to explain. It is not merely the
opposite of falsehood. When I say I am here, that is true temporarily,
but it is not always true. And certain truths are immutable. Like for
example, I am not elsewhere, which is just as true here [walks across
stage] as it is over here. You see? I am still not elsewhere. No
matter where I go I can't get away from me! Sort of frightening--that
should be called truth!

Could I have another question?

Q: Will the sun rise tomorrow?

Yes. Next question?

Thank you.

Severn Darden, You Are Missed.

Last night, before our youngest's mouth was affected, my hub and I went on our first date in ages. It was billed as a political improv group as they played Presidential-debate Jeopardy. We later learned that the moderator was someone who analyses faces, like the main character in Lie To Me--so his hints of analysis were fascinating glimpses into a specially educated mind. 

Unfortunately, the improv team's best political comedian could not see the screen, which was where most of the humor was taking place--in the facial reactions of the presidential and vice presidential candidates. 


Also, unfortunately, his teammates were not very aware politically, which does make it harder to improvise political comedy. I found myself wishing my very funny husband were on the team instead. And also wishing that there had been some women up there, as their lack drastically reduced the opportunities for humor--which, of course, made me wish I could have been on the panel as well. 

I suppose this wouldn't be so farfetched, if I chose to pursue it, because a long time ago, when I was a teenager, I took a class with Paul Sills. In those days, I was in college already, though still very much high school age, and spent a lot of time pretending to be a grownup, so pretending that I understood a word that Mr. Sills said was not such a stretch. Mostly, he yelled, a lot, in a strained, desperate baritone, words like: "What? What? What?" or "No, no, Where? Where? Where?" and my favorite ever comment from any  teacher I've ever had: "No, Sakki, it's not your fault." (spoken with pity. "You're the victim of a public school education." A pause. "You think there's a right way to do things." (A quote I return to on a regular basis when I am struggling with whatever the hell we struggle with in our lives, creative challenges, say, or just plain life itself.)

Viola Spolin in the 1930's. 

Sill's improv was based on his mother, Viola's Spolin's improv work, which had been designed not for theater, but to help English language learners get over their shyness and leap into language. If the kids were focusing  on goals like creating an imaginary place (a Where) and interacting with that, they wouldn't be as focused on making mistakes in their English. 
On the right in the striped shirt, Viola Spolin, above, her son Paul, and in front, his shoulder's hunched as he listens intently, Severn Darden. 

Viola's games, the basis of all modern improve, might things like building an imaginary identity, (a Who) while working away at some imaginary activity (obviously, a What.) Unfortunately, Paul did not explain this concept, just dumped us into exercises and yelled WHO! WHO! WHAT! WHERE at us. Usually for each exercise, we'd be given two of these objectives and have to create the third--like the fabulous improv I got to do one time with the extraordinary Paul Sand. 

front row, from left, Barbara harris, Paul Sand, Mina Kolb, Severn in beard in back, and Andrew Duncan? (Alan Arkin is tucked behind Paul Sand.) 

He was the boss, I the secretary and our objective was to create the Where and the What (where we were and what we were doing) and the way we were to do it was taking turns going on stage to create (via pantomime) one object in the space we were creating. Each time one of us came on, we would have to interact with the item the other person had just added before add our own, around and around, until we had a complete (imaginary) office and could then, focusing on the things in the room, create the What--whatever it was we were doing, which in this case turned out, (rather unimaginatively) to be a romance. But, I have to tell you, when you've both been flirting via the creation and use of every conceivable (invisible) piece of office equipment or furniture long before you actually interact with each other, everything that takes place becomes fresh and unexpected--everything has been created in that magical somewhere between you, not within the shoddy little limitations of your own imagination. 

But the scene with Paul was later. Now, I was in the middle of a class that Mr. Sills cancelled in the middle of one of his shouting fits. "No, no, no. You're not--you don't--Where! Where! That's it. The class is over. We're done. We're finished. " And he stormed out of the room while we students--and they were all at least ten years older than me--all stood there, eyes wide, v-e-r-y confused. 

I followed him outside, where I found him muttering to himself at the end of the outdoor hallway--this was one of those hideous sixties Los Angeles apartments that were built with the hallways outside. "Did you just cancel our class?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said. 

"For today? Or forever?"

"Forever," he said. "You're not--! You just don't--! You can't learn it. You're not, you're all NOT learning it." 

"Well, I know I'm struggling," I said, because frankly I never had a clue what he was yelling or why. "But I think I am learning something from you." 

And just like that, he invited me to "play" with some people, giving me a When and a Where--a shady neighborhood near downtown--but no Who. A bit later, my mom dropped me off, I went inside, and found a bunch of pretty old people (especially to me) whose names I recognized from old Second City Recordings, and who knocked me breathless with their improvisatory skills. The greatest of all was a bearded, shuffling bear of a man named Severn Darden. I still remember him encouraging me (ha!) by telling me about the incandescently twisted Barbara Harris, who joined the Compass players when she was my age. "Don't worry," he said. "Barbara was a teenager, too. She barely talked for months and months and months and then one day, she said--" a dramatic pause--"'A whole half a lemon?'" He sighed. "Brilliant. Absolutely genius." (And okay, but even sans context, in Severn's mouth, those words were hilarious. It didn't matter what led up to it, you could tell it was a hell of a punch-line.)  

So, in honor of Severn, I will tell you my favorite improv moment with him. I don't remember our What, or our Who, but our Where was a picnic. While we others created our fancy little scene, Severn, in one of his favorite roles as the moon-faced, rebellious, adult teenager muttered things now and then, ignoring us, and focusing on eating grapes (pantomimed, of course) from a large bunch held over his mouth, lipped into it one by one.

Then, at the ultimate moment in the sketch, (when he had to begin to behave like a grownup,) he began, in character, to pretend he was a WWII plane spitting machine gun bullets which he spewed--imaginary grape seeds aimed at us all, chasing us off the blanket and away from his picnic. It was the funniest and most unexpected thing I have ever seen. And it was utterly and completely Severn Darden. 


I know that I am a fortunate person to have seen him at work so many times, to have heard his wisdom, however hard it was to translate. I know I was fortunate to study, however briefly and incoherently, with Paul Sills. (Tino Insana, when he joined us, explained privately that Sills had mellowed with age and with treatment for his diabetes, and that, he, Tino, had known Sills to chase people across the stage, knock them down and blam their heads into the floor, trying to get them to understand his concepts. Talk about listening as a wide-eyed teenager!) 

Anyway, yesterday, seeing that group--as generous as they were with one another, as kind and supportive--I longed to see Dick Schall (the best pantomimer I have ever known) and Valerie Harper--a couple of times--Dick Libertini now and then, Mina Kolb and Tino Ensana and Paul Sand and Annie Ryerson--she was so kind--and Avery Shreiber and what was the name of the little Lebanese guy who would always get into fights with Paul--fights you could tell they'd been having for the last fifty years? Oh, yes, Hamilton Camp--otherwise known as Hamid Hamilton Camp. 

And, of course, Severn, who was so amazingly, extraordinarily, incredibly brilliant and so willing to plunge into whatever he was doing like a peregrine falcon in a stoop, all 240 miles per hour. 


For those of you who wish to see him in his professor mode, here's one interview, and for those who want to read one of his professor riffs, I will include it in the next post--though it's really not the same unless it's coming from his brilliant mouth. 

Still, I strongly recommend you read it, and howl. And when you're done, check out anything by Elaine May and Elaine May on the internet, including but not limited to her roasting of him as the cousin of Albert Einstein. Life is too short not to spend a great hunk of it roaring with laughter. 



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrXFQNXmwqM