The Philosophy of Doctor Justice: A Very Short Introduction

Occasionally  readers write in, complaining that my essays are abstruse.  This is certainly not my intention, the difficulty lying  rather  in the matter at hand.   And this, being deep, must not  in any way  be “dumbed down”.

Nevertheless:  Propaedeutics, Prolegomena to any future Pataphysics, Einführungen of every sort,  are more than welcome.

Accordingly, I conceived the plan of simply linking to the classic ditty “Where is Thumbkin?” on YouTube.  We learned said song in kindergarten (there in Ridgewood, New Jersey, back in 1955), and it pretty much determined the later course of my life and thought.  And so I searched on this, and it brought up several videos, but -- none of these served the purpose!  In the worst, most horrible instantiations, only some of the five fingers were treated, thus maiming the children for life and no doubt engendering that modern scourge, Amputee Identity Disorder.   Others treated all five, but -- under different names from those we had so painstakingly learned, back under nice Mister Eisenhower -- us trusting, sitting on the floor, as Mrs. M. doggedly played the piano  and the sun shone yellowly beyond the windowpane (much as it had shone upon King Alfred, though we children did not know that at the time).  For instance -- instead of “pinky”, one YouTube version called the little-finger “baby” -- Tilt !!!

I failed to find a single video  fit to link to.  Hence, no quick ‘n’ easy intro to Doc J’s Philosophy  after all.  Our mood-ring today reads:  Towering Rage.

Now, this is a reasonably big deal.  You are familiar with the concept “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”.  Well, about all I learned in kindergarten, apart from “Oh Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone” (a tuneful ode, but one which, in later life, I have seldom or rather never  been called upon to perform at parties) was the names of the fingers.   And even this precious ladleful of knowledge  seems to have been spilt by history  and lost to the world.

We have strayed into sensitive territory here.  For, proud as I was of the detailed lore that had been vouchsafed to us as five-year-olds, it was a trauma as severe as any that affected Little Hans  when I eventually came to learn that the generality of mankind  does not, in fact, refer to the index finger as “pointer”,  nor the medius or digitus impudicus as “tall man”.  Indeed, the only denomination that survived into adulthood was “pinky” -- and as noted above, even that has been discarded in the bastardized latterday lyrics of the song.

And so, as a public service,

we here present the OFFICIAL LYRICS  of  “Where is Thumbkin”,

as recorded in Mrs. Macguire’s kindergarten class,

wa-ay  back   …..   in     1955

[As you start, both hands behind your back]

Where is Thumbkin?  [bring out right hand, with closed fist]

Where is Thumbkin?  [bring out left hand, with closed fist]

-- From the standpoint of philosophy, we cannot forbear to observe:  What an excellent question that is!  Where, after all, is Thumbkin?  At this point, does he lie latent, perdu  within the fist -- subsisting rather than existing (to adopt the terminology of our later teacher Mister Meinong).

Ahem;  to resume.

Here I am! [right thumb pops up]

Here I am! [left thumb pops up]

This time, the literary critic in me  simply must interrupt.

Such freshness of expression, such right-on-target minimalism,  was never seen by the world until “Sumer is icumen in”;  and never equalled since, until this poem.

Mmmyess;  we return to the topic.

-- “How are you today, sir!”  [right thumb repeatedly bows]

-- “Very well I thank you.” [left thumb repeatedly bows]

Again, the homme de lettres  cannot restrain himself.   How splendid!  How purely Elizabethan!   On tire sa révérence, for all the world like  Click and Clack    or the Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Truly, for our youth, this simple scene is an exemplar of manners.

Run   a-   way.  [right hand whisks back out of sight]

Run   a-   way.  [left hand whisks back out of sight]

Truly, at this point, the critic is left speechless:  Eulogy, beggared, hobbles kneeling, and praises mute.

This superficially comedic, and underlyingly tragic  passage,  unites the childish love of “hiding”, with the memento mori, and the mystery of Death.

Directions to the teacher:

Repeat as above, but now with the names  pointer; tall-man; lame-man; pinky.

Philological observation:

One can well understand how, in later and degraded versions, lame-man should have been replaced by the more readily understandable (though not necessarily so to a preschooler) “ring-man”.    But lame-man, in the spirit of the Bard, penetrates to the essence of our incarnated being, whereas ring-man is a purely contingent Eurocentric datapoint.