David Philips

Young Benson

There we were, young Benson and I. It was the end of another long night working on our book, Crossroads of Infinity—Dialogues on the 4th Dimension. I made the cappuccinos especially strong that evening, especially strong. We had worked well.

Young Benson possessed an uncompromising reticence far deeper than any person I have ever known. I, who have known Kings and Queens of reticence.

He would talk, argue, cajole the shit out of you if the topic struck him as ontologically favorable. Otherwise not a word. We had shared many hours in silence.

He never spoke of his personal life. I knew he had advanced degrees in Comparative Metaphysics, Physics and Astronomy. Years at Eslen. Intensely devoted to the Gurdjieff work.

Winding down, as they say, from a most successful night. We had reached Chapter 7, Welcome to the Superworld. Now it was time for our little ritual spot of Glenlivit.

"I never had any friends at primary," Young Benson said.

A rare, unguarded moment from the most guarded of men.

"Neither did I," I admitted.

"A toast, then," he said.

"To primary."

"To primary."

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