39.

The oarsman in the front of the boat, whom Joshua faced as he gazed over the water into the direction in which they were headed, was an old grizzled man with a beard so close-trimmed one would think he'd just neglected to shave for a handful of days. He was facing Joshua as Joshua faced him, pushing the boat forward with his labored drawing of the oars to his chest again and again.

"What lake is this?" asked Joshua.

"River," said the oarsman through crackling old man's phlegm.

"What?"

"River. What river is this." But he did not say the name of the river, and Joshua was astounded, as he looked about, that there could be a river wherein on a somewhat clear day one may not see either shore. There was a little fog to be seen in the distance, certainly; but Joshua was sure he could see over half a mile, when he combined the view both front and back, probably more--and neither shore met his eyes. He supposed he'd heard of rivers as large as that--the Ganges came to mind--though it had never quite sunk in that a river could ever be indistinguishable from a sea.

"Art," the old oarsman was saying now. "It does not imitate life. Does not ever express an age, a consciousness. What balderdash!"

"What?" said Joshua, unsure what this man was going on about. He couldn't hear him well at all, and the man seemed to be talking more to himself than anyone.

"Art--the art of an age is not what that age is, feels--it is what that age needs. Art compensates a people's consciousness--it does not express it. A society is constantly missing things here and there--voids come into their psychology--gaps break out like cracks in pavement turn to potholes. What becomes a classic novel, classic painting, classic music for them is what fills those gaps. And religions spring up to fill gaps also--not from what is abundant in people's minds; rather, from what is needful. Religions fill a need--they do not express a people's spirit--certainly that, if anything, is clear. How many people go to church that they may express something? Many more go because they lack something that the religion provides. All Man's greatest achievements come down to this: that there was a corresponding need somewhere in society's mental or physical life that the work, invention, novel provided for. Art compensates for us--it expresses nothing, imitates nothing. The great artist knows just what the people lack, not what they need to express."

Joshua gazed out across the water. Rivers have a current. One like this, so vast and deep--perhaps that makes it hard to discern its direction of flow. In any case, Joshua did not know in what direction this grand river was flowing. The black water could not be penetrated by the eyes so much as an inch. In the distance a fish struck up at some bug or scrap of food on the surface, little ripples spreading out in circles, the effects of the strike much more visible than the actual fish had been when it stuck its face into the air so briefly.

How deep was this river? Hundreds of feet? Could it be? Was any river? He seemed to remember reading of lakes thousands of feet deep--deeper than possible for a man to scuba dive--as deep as only the strongest submarine vessels can go--lakes this deep, not seas. Were there creatures unknown to man not only in the vast frontiers of ocean trenches, but even in the bottoms of freshwater lakes, which man has never seen? Deep. There was hardly a more beautiful word to Joshua than "deep", though he did not stop to consider many rivals. But it reminded him of snow, snow when it was deep being more lovely; and water when it was deep was pure with all the weight of its body and volume. But happiness that was light was not true happiness, but only giddiness; while deep happiness was genuine joy, lasting and eternal and true. Anguish though, when it was deep, was hard anguish, and was filled with pangs far worse than a shallow anguish; but then shallow anguish was worse, for it was merely play-act anguish, whining, self-pity; while deep anguish held the value of being authentic and real. And so he found himself in love with the word "deep"--and the word seemed to thank him, not from above in some Platonic heaven, but embedded within the heavy substance of the water they ploughed across, its essence being utterly concrete and solid and material.

"What river is this?" said Joshua.

"Yes," said the oarsman.

Joshua assumed the man was hard of hearing. He did not say anything more, nor did he care whether the oarsman said another word.