his opponent was many times better than him. And when he thought about it, he came to the conclusion that there are three levels of skill: the actual, the real, and the amplified. The actual skill is the game as one plays it normally: it is apparent. The real skill emerges in the negative spaces of the game: it is one’s potential. Amplified skill, superior to the others, is akin to perpetual inspiration. It is when a player is possessed by a higher force. To have all three levels consistently high is what makes a master. But genius plays the infinite game.
Then there is the game of reality, and the reality of the game.
These were some nebulous fruits of Lao’s meditations on his victories and defeats.
8
For the first time in his life, inspired by an Arcadia growing in him, Lao played with no sense of limitation. He played with an enchanted freedom. It was as though he had left behind all his complicated baggage. It was curious that the new bud of tranquillity in him had found something so ordinary as a game of pool to reveal its powers.
He went round the green baize table, potting balls leisurely, inspired by the click of contact. He didn’t soar, or experience an epiphany; he was no different from normal. He was just more himself than normal. He felt himself to be a truer Lao; and some mysterious picture he had of himself was clearer.
As he played he was dimly aware of the faces watching them, of the smell of beer, and the pop song on the jukebox. With clean shots he potted a blue ball, then a red, then a yellow. The balls dropped into the pocket with a maternal sound.
For a moment he was aware also of the mountains around them. He glimpsed the dream that lurked in the heart of reality. He felt both in the present and eternal. For a moment, he was his fact and his fantasy. He had already decided the outcome of the game, and was merely toying with the route by which to get there.
By then, the atmosphere in the pub was electric, presided over by the stag’s head. Bruno kept twirling his cue stick between his palms. Lao kept on winning. Mistletoe noticed the unusual gleam in one of his eyes and included it in the sketch she had been making of the two of them. She had never drawn people playing pool before, and this was a unique opportunity. She drew the faces round the table, hinted at the smoky atmosphere; even the stag’s head found a place in her drawing.
While pondering a shot Lao found himself staring at that head. He had a sudden vision of a magnificent stag high on a rock in the dark mountain. His mind wandered for a second. When he took the shot he missed the pocket and found he had lost his Arcadian mood. He began to play badly. He lost game after game. Then Bruno, prancing round the table, put the balls away with a vengeance, and caught up with him in the scores.
It occurred to Lao that, on the whole, people don’t change. He hadn’t changed. He had the same bad habits of mind. We are like layers of rock, he thought, and our true self is covered over with strata of experience, habit, education, ideology. The true person is in there, somewhere. Can it be awoken? I was once a magnificent stag high up on the mountaintop. Can I be that stag again?
This thought came as a shock to Lao, but he didn’t have time to think it through. The game was coming to an end and he was losing. To make matters worse, Bruno had him snookered.
9
At that moment Lao also had a premonition of Malasso. He sensed his presence in the night, and it made him shiver. Then it occurred to him, as he got ready to take the shot from his snookered position, that a tincture of evil aids excellence. The evil faces from history rose up in his mind. He allowed them to summon a force of opposition in him. From the air he stole the power of heroes. He succeeded in his shot, and played with a new concentration. A gem-like toughness compacted itself in him.
It was at this point that Bruno made his gravest error. He sidled across to Mistletoe
Then there is the game of reality, and the reality of the game.
These were some nebulous fruits of Lao’s meditations on his victories and defeats.
8
For the first time in his life, inspired by an Arcadia growing in him, Lao played with no sense of limitation. He played with an enchanted freedom. It was as though he had left behind all his complicated baggage. It was curious that the new bud of tranquillity in him had found something so ordinary as a game of pool to reveal its powers.
He went round the green baize table, potting balls leisurely, inspired by the click of contact. He didn’t soar, or experience an epiphany; he was no different from normal. He was just more himself than normal. He felt himself to be a truer Lao; and some mysterious picture he had of himself was clearer.
As he played he was dimly aware of the faces watching them, of the smell of beer, and the pop song on the jukebox. With clean shots he potted a blue ball, then a red, then a yellow. The balls dropped into the pocket with a maternal sound.
For a moment he was aware also of the mountains around them. He glimpsed the dream that lurked in the heart of reality. He felt both in the present and eternal. For a moment, he was his fact and his fantasy. He had already decided the outcome of the game, and was merely toying with the route by which to get there.
By then, the atmosphere in the pub was electric, presided over by the stag’s head. Bruno kept twirling his cue stick between his palms. Lao kept on winning. Mistletoe noticed the unusual gleam in one of his eyes and included it in the sketch she had been making of the two of them. She had never drawn people playing pool before, and this was a unique opportunity. She drew the faces round the table, hinted at the smoky atmosphere; even the stag’s head found a place in her drawing.
While pondering a shot Lao found himself staring at that head. He had a sudden vision of a magnificent stag high on a rock in the dark mountain. His mind wandered for a second. When he took the shot he missed the pocket and found he had lost his Arcadian mood. He began to play badly. He lost game after game. Then Bruno, prancing round the table, put the balls away with a vengeance, and caught up with him in the scores.
It occurred to Lao that, on the whole, people don’t change. He hadn’t changed. He had the same bad habits of mind. We are like layers of rock, he thought, and our true self is covered over with strata of experience, habit, education, ideology. The true person is in there, somewhere. Can it be awoken? I was once a magnificent stag high up on the mountaintop. Can I be that stag again?
This thought came as a shock to Lao, but he didn’t have time to think it through. The game was coming to an end and he was losing. To make matters worse, Bruno had him snookered.
9
At that moment Lao also had a premonition of Malasso. He sensed his presence in the night, and it made him shiver. Then it occurred to him, as he got ready to take the shot from his snookered position, that a tincture of evil aids excellence. The evil faces from history rose up in his mind. He allowed them to summon a force of opposition in him. From the air he stole the power of heroes. He succeeded in his shot, and played with a new concentration. A gem-like toughness compacted itself in him.
It was at this point that Bruno made his gravest error. He sidled across to Mistletoe
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