There was a time when you didn’t know even the things you’ve always just known…

I remember the first time I saw the Beatles on television. It was a studio performance of “We Can Work It Out”, which the Wikipedia tells me was filmed on 23 November 1965, so presumably I saw it shortly after that date. The Wikipedia piece also tells me that in the film John Lennon was seated at a harmonium, but I don’t need to be reminded. I recall that clearly, because part and parcel of the memory, for me, is my father announcing that the Beatles had “gone a bit weird”. No doubt he was thinking, not just of one of the fab four swapping his guitar for a harmonium, but of their increasing hair length and the stirrings of that transition from loveable moptops to drug-dabbling counterculture icons. Soon enough it would become apparent that, as Bernard Levin said, and as I can imagine my father echoing, and as I never tire of quoting, “there is nothing wrong with [John Lennon] that could not be cured by standing him upside down and shaking him gently until whatever is inside his head falls out”.

Though that is my earliest Beatle memory, aged six, the point I wish to explore here is that I was already aware of them at this time. My father’s observation made sense, I recall, in a way it would not had they been completely new to me. That is, I understood that they had indeed “gone a bit weird”. With two older sisters who were teenagers in 1965, and who were in possession of a Dansette record player and a batch of Beatles 45s (among other happening grooves), I would have learned about John, Paul, George and Rudyard Ringo at some point before that remembered television show. But when?

Everything we learn, everything we encounter, happens on a particular day. The day before, its existence, whatever it is, is completely unknown to us. And then, one day, we hear about it, see it, read about it. Even those things which seem so much part of the fabric of our world – the Beatles. Shakespeare, cornflakes, cats, tractors, Lembit Opik, lobsters, Ranters, the Great Dismal Swamp, Googie Withers, the First World War, the Second World War, Evelyn Waugh, Auberon Waugh, Springheeled Jack, marzipan, Austria, Orson Welles, fugues, fogous, geometry, spinal fluid, Agamemnon, Potters Bar, Tony Blair, the Munich Air Disaster, haversacks, rucksacks, knapsacks, Dirk Bogarde, the eurozone, synchronised swimming, raspberry jam, “And is there honey still for tea?”, Blodwyn Pig, “per ardua ad astra”, Molesworth 2, Peason, Homburg hats, vinegar, junk bonds, crinkle-cut oven chips, the Titanic, Kierkegaard, Savonarola, Henry Cow, Werner Herzog, lavender shovels, egg nog, Ozymandias, jugged hare, Tinie Tempah, filbert nuts, ectoplasm, squeegee merchants, suicide bombers, mad cow disease, Desperate Dan, Little Plum, Jack Hulbert and Cicely Courtneidge, Brancusi, the Bible, blasphemy, Buggins’ turn, Botany Bay, Bellerophon, the Bosphorus, Papa Doc Duvalier, creosote, Dagmar Krause, invisible ink, Old Holborn, semolina, toffee, pictures of Jap girls in synthesis, and so on, and on, forever and ever… there was, for all of us, one day, we could pinpoint on the calendar if only we knew, or remembered, when we learned of these people and places and events and things and breakfast cereals for the very first time. There was a day when you had never, ever come across jugged hare before. Then, one day, you read about it, or heard about it, or otherwise learned of it. But how often do we ever remember those first encounters?

I do remember – though I cannot say what the exact date was – when I first heard the word “internet”, in conversation with a geeky computer person. I did not quite understand what it was, nor that it would ever have much relevance to me, certainly not that it was something that would change the world I lived in. I suppose that is the reason we rarely remember, that we rarely if ever recognise that the new information we have just learned will have any significance.

The miraculous thing, in a sense, is that today there is a distinct possibility I have encountered something, learned of something, that will in future seem to me commonplace, obvious, everyday, something I cannot imagine the world without. But I have no idea what it is, so I cannot record it.


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What if all that we see or seem takes place in a sea beneath a sea, beneath a sea…?

Fans and devotees of Spongebob Squarepants (yes, I’m raising my hand) will recall that while the town of Bikini Bottom itself is located underwater it nevertheless borders a sort of sea-under-the-sea. At the underwater beach Larry Lobster pumps iron and Spongebob and Patrick play inanely in the surf when the mood catches them. One of the more convolutedly comical images you’ll see on Spongebob is Sandy the Squirrel, a terrestrial ex-pat, lying out to tan here while wearing a glass oxygen globe to keep from drowning.

Not long ago I learned that such deeps-under-the-deep actually exist. Pools of denser or more saline water may collect at the bottom of the sea, filling in the cavities and contours of the ocean floor and creating subaquatic beaches at their margins. Who knows but maybe these sub-seas themselves contain smaller sub-sub-seas hemmed in by their own delicate necklaces of sand. Moving downwards, each successive body of water is denser and heavier than the one above it. Moving upwards, each layer is thinner and lighter until you reach the surface where the liquid ocean is separated from the gassy atmosphere.

Really, if you consider it, the atmosphere itself is just another sea (of air) less dense than the watery ocean below it. What if we too, like Spongebob and friends, live without realizing it at the bottom of a sea? It’s an idea with a surprisingly long pedigree. For hundreds of years, certain people with too much mental leisure have suspected that human beings might in fact be a species of bottom-feeding fish, and wondered about the life of the upper world at the surface above.

For example, there’s a passage in Bernard de Fontenelle’s A Plurality of Worlds in which the narrator speculates on the difficulties that visitors from that higher world might face here below. Quoting John Glanville’s 1688 translation: “We find our Air consists of thicker and grosser Vapours than the Air of the Moon. So that one of her Inhabitants arriving at the Confines of our World, as soon as he enters our Air will inevitably drown himself.”

Fontenelle’s fictional interlocutor, the Countess, hopes aloud that lunar sailors might suffer shipwreck so that their bodies would sink down to earth for her inspection. “How pleasant would it be,” she says, “to see ‘em lie scattered on the ground, where we might consider at our ease their extraordinary Figures!”

Fontenelle continues:

But what, said I, if they could swim on the outward surface of our Air, and be as curious to see us, as you are to see them; should they Angle or cast a Net for us, as for so many Fish, would that please you? Why not? said the Countess; For my part I would go into their Nets of mine own accord, were it but for the pleasure to see such strange Fishermen.

It goes without saying that any salmon or tuna curious enough to swim into our nets just for the pleasure of seeing such strange (human) fisherman is likely to meet an unpleasant doom. But Fontenelle’s Countess is willing to risk being rendered into sashimi for the sheer transcendence of the experience, and there are plenty like her today who would happily board the first flying saucer that parked itself at their door.

Speaking of alien visitors (and moving back in time almost five hundred years to circa 1210), Gervase of Tilbury in his Otia Imperialia tells a similar story which has been quoted with perfect credulity by every UFO enthusiast on the internet. In Ireland, he writes,

there happened in the borough of Cloera, one Sunday, while the people were at Mass, a marvel. In this town is a church dedicated to St. Kinarus. It befell that an anchor was dropped from the sky, with a rope attached to it, and one of the flukes caught in the arch above the church door. The people rushed out of the church and saw in the sky a ship with men on board, floating before the anchor cable, and they saw a man leap overboard and jump down to the anchor, as if to release it. He looked as if he were swimming in water. The folk rushed up and tried to seize him; but the Bishop forbade the people to hold the man, for it might kill him, he said. The man was freed, and hurried up to the ship, where the crew cut the rope and the ship sailed out of sight.

Thank goodness for considerate bishops. “It might kill him” because, as Fontenelle agrees above, such sailors-on-the-ether would presumably drown if they attempted to inhale our dense, suffocating atmosphere. Gervase of Tilbury goes on to say that the anchor left behind by the sky ship was still, in his own day, displayed at the church of St Kinarus – but the intervening centuries seem to have misplaced it.

The earliest suggestion I can find that humans live and breathe unknowingly at the bottom of a sea comes from the Phaedo. After describing how the Greeks and other peoples of the Mediterranean live like colonies of frogs or ants round a pond, Socrates goes on to say that in fact the world as men know it is only a cavity in the true earth, and that the air and water we know are merely the denser dregs of ether that have settled down from the pure ocean above us.

“Imagine someone living in the depths of the sea,” says Socrates….

He might think that he was living on the surface, and seeing the sun and the heavenly bodies through the water, he might think that the sea was the sky… Although we live in a hollow of the earth, we assume that we are living on the surface, and we call the air heaven, as though it were the same heaven through which the stars move… [But] if someone could reach to the summit, or put on wings and fly aloft, when he put up his head he would see the world above just as fishes see our world when they put up their heads out of the sea.

On the shores of that higher, truer world above us, Socrates says, the blessed dwell in celestial cities, they worship in celestial temples, they enjoy celestial pleasures and entertainments. He says that if a mortal were actually to make his way to the top of the sea of ether and gaze into that upper realm, the glorious vision would probably kill him. This judgment is perhaps seconded in parable by events which occurred in the 2004 Spongebob Squarepants Movie, when Spongebob and Patrick, having left behind the base entertainments of Bikini Bottom, find themselves plucked from the shallows by a human seashell collector and nearly scorched to death under a heat lamp.

Douglas Dalrymple lives near San Francisco and blogs about books and life at The New Psalmanazar.
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