A tedium came over me and cast its shadow. That was when my ordeal began. At the entrance to the company there are always volunteers who smile at you, wearing that pathetic expression of people who love every living creature. In those days, such treacly displays still offered me some comfort. On the way home I could always stop at the bookshop, where they would give me a coffee and a pretentious chat about cosmic consciousness.
But this tedium was not ordinary tiredness, nor sadness, nor boredom. Who doesn’t go through such things? Life brings them along, and fortunately, we are told, we live in the age of ultimate happiness. It is not that suffering has ended or that we have defeated death — inner and outer enemies remain — but among ourselves we love one another and help one another. No one is alone. No one can fall. That is what they tell you.
Of course, I was free to leave. But go where? The world here repeats itself everywhere: vast pedestrianised cities with their lush gardens, their museums overflowing with culture, their nightlife, their monuments… All of that. Or perhaps the countryside, to watch a sunset beyond the wheatfields.
Yes — but they never leave you alone. Their company was the source of my exhaustion. If you decided to stay at home, they would send someone to visit. In the end, all your acquaintances seemed to have been informed of your low spirits, and they all acted to make you feel the centre of the world, the most beloved being, the anointed one come down from the heavens to save humanity. Who can resist that? Naturally you were expected to reciprocate, and you did so even when you didn’t want to. There is a remedy for everyone: recreational activities with pleasant people, or with gurus of unparalleled wisdom.
I said I wanted to leave my job and they gave me a stipend. And what are you going to do? they asked. Write, I replied, with minimal enthusiasm, just to get rid of them. Wonderful! That same relentless enthusiasm as always, and immediately that excessive interest in what I was supposedly going to do. Deep down, they didn’t care. If you feel like writing, write. If you feel like painting, paint. If you feel like lying in the sun, lie there. The important thing is that you’re happy! One thing is as good as another, and naturally it doesn’t matter who does what or with what talent. That is what books are like now.
Then they flood you with the obligatory thousand comments and pieces of advice. I know a creative writing course… You could publish on such-and-such a site… Do send me whatever you write… My cousin has written a poetry book, she’s posted it on such-and-such…
I must have said something inappropriate, too blunt. I caused some sort of trauma to someone, I don’t know. The world is full of delicate souls — delicate men, delicate women — with skin like silk and nerves like thermometers. Insufferable.
Some of my more valued friends began speaking to me with sincere concern. What did they imagine? What had they been told about me? It was as though they believed I was sinking into the worst of vices. They found me incomprehensible. Why are you so sullen? I’m not sullen, I just don’t want to watch those stupid films you recommended. Stupid? But they’re beautiful…
I went to visit my parents and it was obvious they had been briefed. They treated me like a child who has been bullied at school and let me retreat to my old bedroom. Lying there, I knew they were waiting on the other side of the door, unsure whether to come in or not, to have one of those family-support conversations — one of those talks they teach at community centres and that are repeated endlessly in series and films. But I only wanted to be left in peace.
Nothing is wrong with me, I’m serious. I said as much to the social worker when she came to visit. She arrived openly, without the disguise of friendship. She came directly from the health centre because she had been informed that I was sad. Good heavens, a sad citizen! The State cannot allow it.
I understand, she said, the world is full of unhappiness. What is this person talking about, I thought. Why is she here? She knew everything about me — I had been studied, they had a clinical report on my supposed sadness. I was, in their eyes, a restless subject. It was perfectly natural for me to feel this way; I needed new challenges.
Why don’t you travel? Climb Everest. Spend some time in a Buddhist monastery — you can book a place at buddhistretreat.com. Go down the Nile by canoe, there are no crocodiles anymore, no terrorists, nothing to fear. And what about a trip to the moon? It’s a little expensive, but we can help you get a second-class ticket on the monthly shuttle — my sister went, it’s a mind-blowing experience, you land, you walk on the moon, you do a little jump and come back… She never stopped proposing plans in her warm, flowing voice. I heard her from a great distance and nothing interested me. She was an attractive woman, I began to think, and driven by my tedium I said, simply: I’d like to fuck you. I had a stupidly sincere hope that she would say yes, but she fell silent with the severe expression of an inquisitor.
Love is free, but one cannot be so abrupt — a minimum of respect is required, and a certain protocol. If one knows how to go about it, one can fuck almost anyone.
She smiled at me. My case was starting to look serious. I was on the verge of a criminal offence.
They sent me a summons. I was required to appear at the social court, in the community centre. Everything there is social, right down to masturbation. A tribunal of warm-hearted people wanted to hear from me; they watched me with that expression of attentive listening — the professional face: furrowed brow, measured smile. They accused me of harassment for a single sentence, a stumble on the step of tedium. The penalty? Community service, naturally — something for the good of the community. A community that included countless beings — humans, dogs, cats, monkeys, mice, bulls, penguins, polar bears, and who knows what else — the vast majority as remote from me as the fish of the deep-sea trenches, but for whom I was required to work, because they are life, that sacred gift that gives itself its own law. What was once God is now an undefined principle of earthly harmony.
I told them to go to hell, and felt pleasure.
The presiding judge’s smile disappeared and he said: “Sonny…”
Sonny? What kind of rebuke was that? I burst out laughing, and through my tears I saw on their faces a look of dopey satisfaction. Perhaps they thought my laughter was my cure. But no — it was mockery, it was scorn.
The judge tried to admonish me, but I raised my voice and said:
“I think I know what’s wrong with me! I’ve found the meaning of my life!”
Everyone cried out: Wonderful! And what is it you want to do? We will support you and rejoice together as your marvellous life unfolds.
And I told them:
“I want to spend my life making fun of you! Laughing at this world of happy idiots!”
They stared at me, dumbfounded, but I went on:
“I also want to commit murder! I want to be a virtuous and joyful murderer!”
And I continued hurling even greater outrages at them. But they knew I was incapable of killing anyone, and they looked at me with complete composure — and it was then that I understood they had defeated me. Theirs was a look of triumph: the triumph of good, of society. They had seen in me the destiny of my own happiness, and I myself had revealed it to them through my actions and my words.
Since then, I have been a jester. They allow me to say whatever I like — the greatest nonsense, however crude, at any moment and to any person. I appear on television and shout whatever comes into my head. Everyone hears it and everyone laughs in the end. At first some are scandalised, but then they understand that it is necessary, for the common good, to permit that purging through the mouth of the marvellous comic — the marvellous man of astonishing wit who is content with nothing and looks at everything askance.