Arcadia

61

Sadness, is a disease. Sometimes it is contagious. But almost always, it is persistent, very difficult to rid yourself of. The only certain cure of it is Time. And perhaps a good sleep, as in my case, but then sleep will cure anything in my case, except perhaps death. Which, to reflect, is kind of ironic. However, I being the only isolated evidence, the merits of sleep in curing the affliction of sadness cannot be ascertained.

You might, if you are one of the cynical types, curl a lip and think, she’s using big words, that snob. Showing of her education. But I am a snob, you see, I was born a snob. Snobbishness is a disease too. The cause, predominantly, is education, taken in a quantity a tad less than the prescribed dose. I unfortunately do not know the cure.

What do you know of diseases, you say. You are not a doctor. No, I’m not. And it’s one of the very few remaining am nots that I am still proud of. Like many other rebels (it’s a hackneyed revolution, much tried and tired out by now) I denounced the medical profession to study literature. That is the only time I took hold of my life and ‘applied my agency’, to use feminist slang. But I’d rather not scavenge a premature feminist out of my meagre 19-year-old self. Let me finish my story first.

But there is no story. What did you expect? There are many who had rewritten histories by the time they were 19 (I think of that very young and very handsome poet who died at an agonizingly early age, who knows what he would have done if alive. But dying young has its advantages. Or of that young nawab whose defeat became greater than his victory, or even his life. Or Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein. I absolutely refuse to think of Alexander the Great. Let him be alone with his Greatness) but I, obviously, am not one of them. (a am not that I am not proud of) If you are a optimist and an idiot like I was, you may think it’s rather audacious of me to be recounting history under the circumstances where I have no history under my name to speak of. You may think it is a rash and foolish move, if you are a pessimist like my father, and I will inevitably end up with a snobby degree and without a job as is the inevitable stereotype of the fate of literature graduates. But there is some truth in stereotypes, I have to concede, and chances are that I will have to relinquish my one proud ‘am not’ by the end of this year. And if you are the cynical type and already curling a lip at this, your lip might have to lose its shape by the time I finish, so you better stop reading now. But then the cynical types don’t care much for looks.

I don’t know how it came to my story. I don’t even have one. We were talking of diseases, and you raised an objection to my credibility to speak on the subject. It was me, you say? Very well. But you see I have been speaking in a language not my own, I don’t know how to proceed further. You were right to doubt my credibility. What do you say? Oh, yes of course, it was me who had doubts. It is rather unfair of me to pass on the burden of my insincerities to you. But I might only be fishing for compliments, the curl-lipped cynical says. But honestly, I am not. Having done with my story I am only dallying and trying to prolong this a little more. I would speak a little more about myself, but I already do that a great deal and I run a great risk of being alled a narcissist by the cynical which I am rather keen to avoid.

Let’s talk about politics, then. But I know very little of political theory to speak confidently on the subject, and care about none. There now, what snob would admit that? But the cynical’s lips curl further in more cynicsm. I find him rather hard to please, and I give up. Politics, I have discovered, is a man’s opinion, and men seem to be talking of politics when really they are talking of women. It’s a seamless illusion. This is a postmodern world, Truth has been dismantled, God has been assassinated, political theories are rather foolish in this conjecture and stand to no reason. Oh, curl your lip all you will. I know what you will say of privilege. You can’t escape your privilege, especially if you are born with it. I have tried to, and you, being a cynic, should know. It takes privilege to be cynical, not everyone can afford it.

But here I am, losing my temper. I beg your pardon. Discussing politics always gets me this way. But we didn’t discuss politics, you say. Oh, but we did! Because you thought of women, because you have thought of me as a woman already. Woman etymologically, derives from, ‘wife of man’. It’s a loose derivation, and a loose definition too, because most women are not married, and strangely enough I got to know this from a 11-year-old girl, not yet a woman herself. What’s so strange about it? you quirk an eyebrow. Strange how we are already recruiting potential warriors on our ranks. These half-recruits are the most dangerous, the marks from men’s eyes tattooed fresh on the not-yet-woman body.

But I am rambling. We have been talking of sadness. For a long time I was convinced that sadness was something that could only be experienced by a woman. But lately, I have been forced to concede that sadness is after all, a construct, and thereby anyone can be sad if they believe themselves to be sad. Then what of your talk about diseases? Is sadness not a disease then? Oh, of course it is a disease. But you can only be afflicted if you believe yourself to be afflicted. Doesn’t that count for something. Oh, will you please stop curling that lip, mister. Honestly, what did you expect to come of this?