DIFFICULT PROBLEM OF CHOICE

Jonathan Swift once described a faraway kingdom torn apart by internecine fighting. There were two court parties in a state of irreconcilable feud. One of them comprised a caste supporting the king and the traditional way of doing things, the other consisted of those wanting a change of power and supporting the young heir. But that was only an external ploy to pool the wool over people's eyes: in reality, they were divided by fundamental and uncompromising ideological differences. One party belonged to the Ancient Order of High Heel Devotees, while the other vehemently touted low heels and also incorporated a faction of pedestrians with no heels at all.

Everyone who found himself at court for the first time could easily tell who was who, for one part of high society strutted majestically down the halls almost on tiptoe — wearing extremely high- heeled shoes, while the rest freely and adroitly strode the parquet on comfortable low-heels. When a stranger entered the hall, all those present first of all looked at his feet and heels and then either greeted the newcomer with joy or turned contemptuously away. However, it was quite difficult to identify a friend in the darkness, on a muddy road, at a masquerade ball, or at public baths. It could also happen that people took a stranger for one of their own, conducted soul-searching conversations all night long, and only then noticed the wrong heel under the cloak. This was considered a mortal insult for both parties.

As a result of continuous court intrigues and schemes (it was called politics there), both parties came to power by turns. The ruling heels would sometimes change so often that puzzled courtiers failed to change footwear in time and thus lost their cushy sinecures (the word, office, was used there). In the long run, a solution of genius was found: the citizens loyal to all wore special footwear, with the left heel very high and with no right heel at all. Of course, there were occupational injuries, such as broken legs, but it was cheaper to cure them than to change footwear every day or dismiss the officeholders. (As we see, court life is not so cloudless as it may seem from below.)

It is self-evident that each party attempted to win over the people of their country. By day and by night, there were town criers on every street corner, touting either low or high heels at the top of their voice until they were hoarse. The town shops (even bakeries) exclusively dealt in heels and also demonstrated how one could replace a heel by an opposite one under home conditions. The shopkeepers often began ideological disputes, in which the heels became very convenient missiles. A hitherto unknown art of heel imitation flourished. Buildings, crockery, toilet seats, and earrings were manufactured in the various shapes of heels; the latter were also worn as rosettes on lapels. Heel coats-of-arms were printed on endless rolls of toilet paper. (The latter was referred to as newspapers in this kingdom. For the two main technological stages in paper usage exchanged places there: first for the toilet, and then for the newspaper.) Each party generously sponsored new artistic trends.

And what about the people of that country? The party of which heels did they lean to? The question is all the more pressing because every common man was provided — and, take note, absolutely free of charge — with such a quantity of heels that could suffice to shoe a whole army. This might seem the life of Riley, but it is common knowledge that the common folk is hard to please, no matter how hard you try. You give them a swell set of heels, but they impertinently demand bread. The problem of choosing these or those heels by the broad masses was further complicated by a circumstance that neither the high-heel nor low-heel advocates noticed during the political face-off. You see, the common folk walked barefoot.