AN ALUMNI HALL STORY
JULY 2004
“It is imperative, as Mr.
Sabato has a live interview with CNN at 3:00 PM, that the meal be totally
finished by 12:30 PM .The Vichyoissoise should be served no latter than 11:45
AM.”
A quarter century ago.
Cultural anthropologist. Pulitzer Prize winner.
“You did such a great job at
our last event; I hate to rush such a special meal.”
For a time, during the
primacy of Freud, it was huge. Central thesis is one of the most disturbing
analyses of human behavior ever set in print.
“Mr. Sabato, strangely
enough, will probably eat at Subway at Newcomb Hall. But we do have some
vegetarians.”
Everything we are, our
personalities, our attitudes, our personalities, our very being, is an
elaborate lie, a carefully constructed self-delusion constructed to avoid
having to face a fact so terrifying it would drive us mad:
“Attention everyone, ‘slowly
pour the ice out of the cups, pour in the Vichyoissoise, using these pitchers,
and carefully wipe the edges’.”
Not only are we certain to die,
but death could come at any moment, followed by an eternity of nothingness.
“Okay, eight cups per tray….
let’s go!”
Lower animals, blessedly
unaware of their mortality, plod thoughtlessly through their lives on instinct
alone.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you
think the last election was close…hold on to your seats.”
Lacking their ignorance, we
compensate by making ourselves stupid. We tranquilize ourselves with the
trivial; we make friends, raise families, drink liquor, follow the Cavaliers,
find comfort in religions promising eternal life, all which takes our mind off
the potentially paralyzing truth.
“If I may draw your attention
to the red and blue states on the screen behind me.”
We deceive ourselves, not
literally, but emotionally, that we are immortal.
“Melvin on lobster salad,
Mary on asparagus, Fernando on wild rice salad, Mario on garnish, Shelly, you
wipe the plates, please.”
Paranoiacs and depressives
are in some ways the sanest among us; because their layer of denial is so
fragile it fractures.
“Eight plates per tray!”
Most of us, though, are
able to retain our sanity so long as our anxiety is held at bay, and our
anxiety is held at bay so long as our bold illusion remains manageable.
“Looking at the red
states…shall I dare mention Al Gore?”
On some level, we attempt to
smother our elemental fear of death with a grand lie.
“Move! Eight Chocolate Tortes
per tray. Mario on Raspberry Sauce, Shelly, wipe please.”
This is not exactly the
anthem of romantic poets or motivational speakers.
“For George Bush, if Iraq
goes bad? Does anyone remember Jimmy Carter?”
But no one has ever
successfully challenged the central thesis.
“Perfect Ted, we are off to
the Rotunda; we will see you at Thanksgiving.”
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