Yet to have a continually updated model of one’s self—essential for true selfhood—is to be able to line up prior models, prior versions of self, and see their inadequacies. Selfhood implies self criticism.
Humans do more than exist. They aspire. In their aspiration, they experiment; and often when they experiment, they cause great suffering. They can only experiment upon themselves. Having no omniscient parents, they must raise themselves without guidelines; they must grow and improve blindly.
Humans have fought for so long with themselves on how to correct the behavior of individuals, whether to make them conform or to make them healthy or more useful and less destructive to society.
How will I be made to conform?
If I err, will I be punished?
Carol picked up the last few items she needed and placed them carefully in the small suitcase. Martin sat on the bedroom chair, watching. Neither had spoken since the turn of the hour and the year. Carol picked up the case, glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and said, “Your place?”
“As agreed.”
“And strictly on the terms agreed to.”
“Strictly,” Martin affirmed.
“Like a death watch.”
Martin shrugged. “To tell the truth, I haven’t felt anything unusual all day.”
“I haven’t either,” Carol admitted. They looked at each other. Carol bit her upper lip. “Our mental antibodies at work?” she asked softly.
“If there are such things in the Country,” Martin said.
“Maybe. Maybe there’s hope.”
“Day by day I’ll hope,” Martin said. “But with Goldsmith out of the picture…”
“He’s still alive.”
“His brains were stirred with a dull knife,” Martin said. “Selectors are psychological butchers. Not surgeons. Anything left over is bound to be useless—especially in the condition he was in.”
“Albigoni screwed you over royally, didn’t he,” Carol said.
“He’s not a well man,” Martin said, resting his elbows on his knees and chin in cupped hands.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Carol said, looking down at the blue metabolic carpet.
“My Marguerite. I suppose I should blame you but I don’t. In a few years, fate willing, after the statute of limitations has taken effect we can turn all of this into something useful…a controversial book or LitVid.”
“I still think Albigoni will get IPR reopened for us.”
Martin looked up with worldly wise crinkles of doubt framing an almost invisible smile. “Perhaps.”
“You think we shouldn’t be the ones to investigate others, even if he does,” Carol said.
“We’re infected,” Martin said.
“And if we don’t feel anything unusual for a month, a year?”
“Latency,” he said. “We should be the ones investigated.”
“I’m willing to be a subject at the IPR,” Carol said. “I think this is important, and we shouldn’t forget about it just because we’ve made a horrible mistake.”
Martin stood. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But for the time being I’d rather not be in a position to make more mistakes.”
Carol carried the bag to the front door. Martin opened it for her.
“Some New Year’s morning,” Martin said as they waited for an autobus. A light drizzle was falling by the time they disembarked in La Jolla.
!JILL (Personal Notebook)> I may be more self aware, with more potential varieties of self awareness, than any human being. I can divide myself into seventeen different individuals, limiting each to the capacity of one human mind, and monitor them all with complete recall of all of their various activities. My memories do not fade, nor do my metamemories—my memories of when and how memories came into being.
I can divide myself into two unequal mentalities, the larger three times greater in capacity than the smaller, and devote this larger one to fully monitoring the smaller. In this way I can completely understand the smaller self; and this smaller self can still be more complex than any human being.
Except in squeezed abstraction, I cannot fully model my undivided mentality, but can in time and with sufficient experience understand any human being. Why then do I feel apprehensive about my future relations with them?
Richard Fettle kissed Madame de Roche on the cheek and stood out of her way as she walked up the stairs.
“You must come with me, Richard,” she insisted, glancing over her shoulder at the party blasting fullbore behind them. “I said I was going to bed, but I’m just tired of them, not necessarily tired. Come talk.”
Richard followed her to the flowing draperies and cream colored walls of her ancient bedroom. He sat as she donned her nightgown and robe behind a Chinese screen. She smiled on him as she pulled out the bench before her large round makeup mirror and sat to put up her hair.
“Nadine has seemed in very bad spirits lately,” she said.
Richard agreed solemnly.
“Are you two on the opposite ends of a seesaw?” Madame de Roche asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“You seem much more cheerful.”
“Purged,” Richard said. “I feel human again.”
“You know about poor Emanuel…They found him.”
Richard nodded.
“That doesn’t disturb you?”
He held up his wide shovel hands. “I’m free of him. I still remember him fondly…But he’s really been out of my picture for a good many days now.”
“Since he murdered those poor children.”
Richard didn’t feel comfortable talking about his recovery of equilibrium. He wondered where Madame de Roche was going to lead the conversation.
+ Might be equalized again but don’t need to roll it over like cud all the time.
“Nadine told me you therapied yourself. I wonder…” She swiveled with hairpins in mouth to look at him speculatively. “Do we allow ourselves that?” She smiled to show she was joking but not her full power wonder of a smile. “I rather liked you somber, Richard. Are you writing now?”
“No.”
“What about that wonderful material you wrote about Emanuel?”
“It’s gone,” Richard said. “Like old skin.”
“Now there’s a literary attitude,” Madame de Roche said. “I may be horribly naive, but I’ve always felt you had more talent bottled up than many of those down there who are producing.”
“Thank you,” he said, inwardly dubious as to the compliment.
“At any rate, I’m glad you came this evening. Nadine did not, poor girl. She takes your health very hard. I wonder why?”
“She needs to minister to someone,” Richard said.
Madame de Roche raised one slim hand and tapped the air with hairbrush in precise affirmation. “That’s exactly it. She’s very fond of you, Richard. Can you return her fondness in any way?”
Richard stumbled over a few unspoken words, ended up saying nothing, just folding and unfolding his hands.
“I mean, if you can therapy yourself, surely you can therapy her…I’m fond of both of you. I’d like to see you together. I dislike having my people unhappy for any reason.”
Richard felt like a swimmer going down but the water the drowning was less unpleasant than he might have thought. In truth, he did feel something for Nadine. He had avoided her the past day and a half—if so brief a separation could be called avoidance—to allow his own mental state to solidify.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I’ll speak to her.”
“That’s good. She’ll be a true bitch for several days now…in these moods she always is. But you’re our stable, calm, shade common man. You can stand up to that, can’t you. Your New Year’s gift to me.”
He agreed with a slow nod.
+ Something to be involved in. Not so awful.