Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI have been studying how I may compareThis prison where I live unto the world. – Richard II

If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away,Hamlet is of the faction that is wronged. – Hamlet

Both Shakespeare (duh)

Identity is the human defect.

Adorable Jane says I’ve chewed this subject to the bone so should es-chew it, but for once she’s wrong. Jane, unlike Carll, is seldom wrong. Carll’s overwrought prose froths with abstractions, have you noticed? Beauty, grace, truth, who talks like that? Jane’s lingo is fact-based and without all those lilting alliterations and curvaceous clauses. There’s too much poetry in Carll. Poetry is another human defect.

I keep barking, grrr-ing, yipping about identity because it’s what makes humans weird and sad. Where do they get off feeling special, unique, one-of-a-kind, all nine billion of them? Dogs are less numerous, only nine hundred million or so, according to this alleged assistant Carll calls Alistair, but we’re much better adjusted. No wars, murders, mopes, shrinks, lamentatious missives, funeral directors, bibles – no lies, that’s a big one – and nary a tear or hankie to daub it with. Taking life as it comes, we’re glad to be alive (if fed), and welcomed (if behaved) – and if unwelcome, why would we want to be there anyway? Chill, mellow, laid back, fearless of death, glad – isn’t that, for any creature, the cat’s pajamas? (A Roaring Twenties idiom, “cat’s pajamas,” insufferable, IMO. See also, “bee’s knees.”)

I can’t let this subject alone because that’s what I see and Carll begs me to sub for him, which I wouldn’t bother with only he’s needy. I wouldn’t because I’ve no identity, that is, no need to differentiate myself from the other eight-hundred ninety-nine million ninety-nine thousand nine-hundred-ninety-nine of my tribe. Writers write to exhibit their difference. There’s nothing different about me except I’ve this proprietor who can’t quit jawing. All dogs would sound like me with Carll translating.

Identity didn’t always mean what it means today, that is (in OED’s unmistakably frolicsome style), “The sameness of a person or thing at all times or in all circumstances; the condition of being a single individual; the fact that a person or thing is itself and not something else; individuality, personality.” It used to mean sort of the opposite: that two entities were the same, identical, and not different. During the Renaissance it developed this sense of individuality, which stands to reason, because before then, humans sensibly considered themselves immutable facts, not works in progress. (Harold Bloom wrote a book about Shakespeare called The Invention of the Human – a head-scratcher, no?)

As soon as two of a species view themselves as different, they compare, and as soon as they compare, they contrast, then compete, elaborating their differences instead of emphasizing all they hold in common. No dog is better than, worthier than, preferable to any other, in a dog’s ethos. If I think I’m handsomer than other dogs, it’s because Carll and Jane have drummed this into my self-perception and now I do think so, as you would, if we met.

Absent identity, there’s no call for humility. Dogs aren’t humble (though, IMO, some should be) – facts are facts. Humans require humility to coexist – and they sorely lack it. The Sermon on the Mount and Golden Rule are correctives for the defect of identity, moral straightjackets to forestall self-mutilation. Humans, unlike dogs, must learn to get along, and they’re slow learners, very, check the headlines if you doubt it. Wouldn’t existence be a sweeter ride if humans behaved like dogs? No Shakespeare or smart phones, true, but you can’t have everything.