Many weeks passed as the Cynic read the works of his brothers. Still clad in all black, he sat comfortably in an armchair, legs crossed, sipping a cocktail, and scouring the pages with his red pen. He made a note on the final page, and with a swift gesture cast the last book aside, smiling with juvenile glee as it toppled a stack of books to the ground. What once was a pristine library of knowledge and wisdom had become a pigsty of disorder. Books lay scattered about the floor, empty champagne and cocktail glasses adorned the bookshelves, and virtually no work had been spared the touch of the Cynic’s red pen. The Cynic, feeling quite pleased with himself, began another letter to his brothers. It read:
Dear Brothers, I hope you’re well, just kidding, I still hate you. I found my way back into our study, of course, and took it upon myself to review your work. I must say you’ve been busy, the amount of pretentious philosophical posturing you two have created is staggering. I took the liberty of making some improvements to your published works (you’re welcome). Here are a few highlights… let’s see, we have “Pragmatic Altruism”, a giant essay where you concluded that you can’t do anything right because other people are mean, and you need to engineer a species of “Pragmatic Altruists” before you can get anything done, talk about stroking your own egos. Then we have “Judgement vs Understanding”, a lecture on why we shouldn’t judge people and should just be kind to everyone. Here’s an idea, you guys should visit New York City and see how long that attitude lasts (spoiler alert: you’ll be hopeless in a matter of minutes). Finally we have “The Answer” (gestures to the heavens with both arms in mocking holiness), where you concluded people should just listen to the silent wisdom of the heart; wow, talk about failing first grade; the heart pumps blood, idiots, it doesn’t solve existential crises. I could go on, we have various pieces on writing (do authors ever tire of complaining about writing), and a lovely piece about a day at the beach that ends with surrendering to the cosmic voice (have you two ever actually been to the beach?), but I think you get the point. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve determined the best course of action is to just put the old girl down and start over. Once again, screw you, with love, The Cynic.
What a brilliant piece of work, he thought to himself before folding it into a paper plane and tossing it out the window. It sailed off, hovering gently above the treetops of the nearby forest, before disappearing over the horizon. Without wasting any time, The Cynic rose from his chair, and with a snap of his fingers, summoned a gasoline tank. Before he even had an opportunity to act though, the doorway of light materialised behind him, flew open, and knocked him to the ground. Two figures strode through: the Pragmatist, dressed in all grey pajamas, looking far more tired than usual, and the Altruist, dressed in an all-white suit, his face displaying the hallmark signs of disappointment and sadness.
“Are you quite alright?”, spat the Pragmatist with a weary sneer, as he wiped sleep from his eyes and glared at the gasoline tank laying on the floor.
The Cynic jumped to his feet undeterred.
“Hell no! I’ve got plenty left. I haven’t even started on the mountain of half-written essays and meditations you’re trying to get through.”
He gestured around at various documents and papers strewn across the room, then spoke again:
“How about this one: Meditation on Liberty”, He picked up a page, cleared his throat, and began reading aloud in the voice of a pompous college teacher:
“I once saw an animal die in captivity and was struck by how powerless they were in their final moments.”
His face distorted into mocking distress and he wiped an invisible tear from his eye. The Altruist spoke up with a clear voice containing just a healthy dose of textbook therapist compassion:
“Cynic, listen, I get it. You’re hurting. We shouldn’t have kicked you out, but this isn’t the way. Why don’t we all-”
The Cynic cut him off.
“There is no we, you made sure of that. Do you have any idea what it’s like feeling you two write all that crap while being stuck in the back of the author’s mind? It was fucking awful. Do you know who else hangs out there?”
The Pragmatist spoke with stern conviction.
“Yes, we know, Cynic. We know who lives there. It’s no surprise you’re behaving like the Critic.”
The Cynic stared into the eyes of the Pragmatist for a few moments before glaring at the Altruist. When he spoke the bitterness had been replaced with derision:
“You know what has always irritated me most about you, Pragmatist? You side with him”, he said, still staring directly into the Altruist’s eyes, “when really, you should be with me. What do you think is more likely: We live in a place where good is possible, or we live in a meat grinder that is slowly killing us all?”
The Pragmatist turned away and held up his hand, as if to say: Enough. He spoke again with conviction:
“Listen, Cynic, I’m not going there with you again. We’ve been over this. It’s too depressing to live that way, no one enjoys it, you don’t even enjoy it. You need us as much as we need you, and we have to choose optimism over pessimism.”
The Cynic sneered.
“I do not need you. I do not need anyone. I am perfectly happy on my own.”
The Altruist’s face distorted with genuine concern.
“Oh Cynic, you’re not happy with anything anymore, that’s the problem, you always find the flaw no matter what we do. We’ve been trying to publish all these documents for over a year now and you just keep covering them with red ink. We’ve barely published 20,000 words and have another 100,000 to go. We got rid of the Critic because she was making life impossible and now you’re doing the same. Why? What do you want from us?”
The Cynic paused, taken aback, and thought for a moment. His eyes dropped as sadness made its way to the surface. When he responded it was not with snark or spite, but exasperation:
“I want you two to actually listen to me. I want you to acknowledge my value. I want you to stop trying to write me out of the journal by filling it with lofty idealistic crap. I am needed here, and without me, we end up with crap like “First Poem”. Here, let me read you a line: ‘There is no freedom, and there is no control.’ Guys, I think the people locked up for crimes they didn’t commit might disagree on that. Practically speaking.”
The Pragmatist looked to the side momentarily, the gears in his mind clicking, while the Altruist spoke in the same kind tone:
“Cynic please, why are you behaving this way? This isn’t you. The Cynic I know is cynical because he cares, not because he is full of spite. This isn’t cynicism, this is pessimism and criticism, where did you go?”
The sadness of the Cynic continued to rise, accompanied with a newfound frustration. He spoke again, more metered than before, as if to make a point to annoying, dimwitted solicitors.
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you cast me into the void to fend for myself. All I had for company was the Critic. You try spending any time with her, it’s miserable. She infects you with all her, all her hate, until there’s nothing else left. I didn’t even know she was there until it was too late.”
The Pragmatist spoke up.
“What do you want us to say, Cynic? We’re sorry?”
The Cynic paused, then nodded in exasperation, his eyes wide as if to say “obviously”.
“Yes, absolutely. Hit me with an apology. Whenever you’re ready”, he said bluntly.
The Altruist and the Pragmatist looked at one another for a few moments, nodded, then spoke in unison.
“It was wrong to cast you out like that”, said the Altruist.
“We’re sorry”, said the Pragmatist.
The Cynic closed his eyes and took it in. Several moments passed and slowly his frown turned upwards into a coy smile. A weight lifted and when he opened his eyes, the bitterness had faded (but not vanished), and his eyes belied a dry wit in lieu of a festering hatred. He spoke again, with the vicious snark of his voice replaced with a playful teasing:
“Alright, you’re forgiven, but if you ever do that to me again, there will be hell to pay. I’ll burn the whole goddamn library to the ground next time. Got it?”
The Altruist gulped and looked around nervously while the Pragmatist stared into the Cynic’s eyes as if to say “DO NOT”.
“Acknowledged”, he said sternly.
The Cynic walked around, picked up a few pieces of manuscript, and passed them to the others.
“Now listen, we have some good material here, but we need to rework it a little. What’s published is prologue, but if we’re going to keep doing this, we need to strip out the bullshit. No more posturing, no more enlightenment, just a perfect balance of pragmatism, cynicism, and altruism. If it doesn’t align with all three of us, we toss it away. To the flames, as it were.”
He gestured to the fireplace still crackling nearby.
“How’s that sound?”
The Altruist smiled awkwardly, happy to see an end to the conflict, but uncertain. He spoke with a grimace:
“Look, I don’t want to commit to anything that extreme; sometimes it’s nice to write an inspiring piece, or lean heavily into moral philosophy. I know you’re not a fan of some of the more vague lofty pieces, but they do have a place in the world, they’re just less direct with their wording. What if instead of always keeping a perfect balance on every piece, we try and keep it balanced overall? I’m sure you would enjoy writing pure cynicism sometimes? Remember The Cursed Cursor? That was pure cynical perfection.”
The Cynic raised an eyebrow in genuine curiosity, mulling it over, while the Pragmatist chimed in:
“Yes, exactly. Our work will proceed far more smoothly if we change it up occasionally, and don’t aim for perfection. We don’t want to invite the Critic back, do we? A few of the unpublished pieces are skewed far too heavily towards the enlightenment angle you don’t like, and to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of them either, but they might still be enjoyable for others, and it would be a waste to throw them all away. What if we just, talk to each other, and aim for balance over time?”
The Cynic frowned, but closed his eyes and thought for a moment before speaking:
“I still want to go back and modify a few pieces, there are a few corrections to be made.”
The Pragmatist paused, then spoke sternly:
“Alright, but just this once, and keep the changes to a minimum. We can’t scale revisionism, we’d end up rewriting the whole journal every time one of us had a new idea. It’s completely impractical, and it’s frankly miserable work.”
The Altruist nodded and added:
“Yes, also, think about the readers. They’ll be terribly confused if we constantly edit and even outright remove pieces from beneath them. They need something stable.”
The Cynic looked around the library, at the mess he had made, and felt a pang of guilt in his gut. He looked back to his brothers, smiled, and spoke just one word:
“Deal.”
The Altruist smiled and the Pragmatist let out a sigh of relief, while the Cynic awkwardly discarded his gasoline tank with a flick of his wrist, as if to shoo a pesky dog. All three watched as it evaporated into a thin dark mist before dissipating entirely. With that, the three entities began tidying the library, and set out to complete the work they started, not with a particular destination in mind, but simply to see where they would end up. As they set their sights on richer stories and deeper truths, another figure watched from the distance, curious, but content to let the story play.
To be continued…