There's an interesting theory going on in my comments section right now that Jacob's nemesis was Esau. This stems from the original biblical story of Jacob and Esau, and it's definitely a fun one (especially since Jacob's son was Benjamin in the Bible). A quick recap from memory (I know you'll correct me if I'm wrong) but Esau was the older brother, and Jacob was the younger. Jacob was cunning, and knew that their father, Isaac, was going to pass the birthright to the elder. Jacob had smooth skin, and Esau was hairy. So Jacob put an animal pelt over himself and went to the now-blind Isaac for his blessing, and Isaac, not knowing, gave it to Jacob. When Esau returned (from an errand Jacob had sent him on) he realized the birthright had been passed to the younger brother, and Isaac, distraught, knew he couldn't take it back. Jacob had taken everything from his brother.At the beginning of last night's episode, Maybesau is sitting next to Jacob and says that he really wants to kill him. Jacob is a good man, but smug, and one can't help but think he's tricked him out of some birthright... that Jacob gets to live in the statue, and Maybesau is relegated to a cabin.
I'm now thinking that the guy in the cabin was never Jacob, but his nemesis instead. The line of ash that had been put around the cabin was put there by Jacob to keep his brother/enemy (brenemy?) inside. So how did it become disturbed? Is it possible, in the scene where Locke walks everyone to see Jacob at the beginning of season 3 and then cannot find the cabin, that when he bends down and picks up the ash, he disturbs it to the point where he actually opens a spot where Maybesau can now escape? Or is it something bigger?
I wondered last night if Smokey is actually this guy, along with all of the apparitions on the island. In this case, Christian is no more alive than Locke, nor is Yemi. (So where does that leave Claire? Hm.)
This is me just thinking aloud. Leave your comments and thoughts here.
And in the meantime, it's time for Beyond the Fringe. I'm really hoping some of my readers know who this is. This was a fantastic comedy troupe that was the precursor to Monty Python. It consisted of Jonathan Miller, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett, and Peter Cook. My dad was a huge fan, so I grew up listening to their comedy stylings, and I adore them. Alan Bennett did one infamous sketch where he played a priest giving a crazy sermon, based on Jacob and Esau. Here is the text (but trust me, it's WAY funnier listening to him do it).
Take a Pew
First verse of the fourteenth chapter of the Second Book of Kings: 'And he said, "But my brother Esau is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man."' Perhaps I might say the same thing in a different way by quoting you the words of that grand old English poet, W.E. Henley, who said:
"When that One Great Scorer comes
To mark against your name
It matters not who won or lost,
But how you played the game."
'But how you played the game.' Words very meaningful and significant for us here, together, tonight. Words which we might do very much worse than to consider. And I use this word 'consider' advisedly. Because I am using it, you see, in its original sense of 'con-sid—er', of putting one's self in the way of thinking about something.
I want us here, together, tonight to put ourselves in the way of thinking about ... to put ourselves in the way of thinking about, ummh ... what we ought to be putting ourselves in the way of thinking about.
As I was on my way here tonight, I arrived at the station and by an oversight I happened to go out by the way one is supposed to come in. As I was going out, an employee of the railway company hailed me, 'Hey Jack!' he shouted, 'Where do you think you're going?' That, at any rate, was the gist of what he said! But you know, I was grateful to him because, you see, he put me in mind of the kind of question I felt I ought to be asking you here tonight: 'Where do you think you're going?'
Very many years ago, when I was about as old as some of you are now, I went mountain climbing in Scotland with a friend of mine. And there was this mountain, you see, and we decided to climb it. All day we climbed—up and up and up —higher and higher and higher—until the valley lay very small below us, and the mists of the evening began to come down, and the sun to set. And when we reached the summit, we sat down to watch this magnificent sight of the sun going down behind the mountains. And as we watched, my friend, very suddenly, and violently, vomited.
Some of us think life's a bit like that, don't we? But it isn't. Life, you know, is rather like opening a tin of sardines. We all of us are looking for the key. And I wonder how many of you here tonight have wasted years of your lives looking behind the kitchen dressers of this life for that key. I know I have. Others think they've found the key, don't they? They roll back the lid of the sardine tin of life. They reveal the sardines—the riches of life—therein, and they get them out, and they enjoy them. But, you know, there's always a little bit in the corner you can't get out. I wonder is there a little bit in the corner of your life? I know there is in mine!
And so now I draw to a close. I want you, when you go out into the world, in times of trouble and sorrow and hopelessness and despair, amid the hurley-burley of modern life. If ever you're tempted to say: 'Stuff this for a lark!', I want you, at such times, to cast your minds back to the words of my first text to you tonight: 'But my brother Esau is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man.'
