Other People's Stories

Robert Merrick "The Elephant Man"

A friend of mine sent an email that opened: "I am not a deep thinker.  That I had never had the thought expressed in this metaphor proves that."  He was referring to an accompanying passage from a book entitled "Identity Theory."  I do not know the author.  My friend is full of shit, though, when he says this.  He is well-educated.  He thinks, he reads, he writes.  Once after a divorce, he spent his considerable savings on art and travel.  Went "broke," if we are talking about money.  Started over again.

"The thought made him uneasy.  Perhaps it was better to be without the memories.  What did it matter?  What did holes, gaps, matter?  Life didn't make any sense, it wasn't a story, it wasn't a journey.  It was just short films by different directors. The only link was you.  You were in all of them. You missed a plane and your life changed.  You misheard a place name, went to the wrong bar and then you spent two years with a woman you met there.  You were leaving for Europe and the agency rang and instead you went to Columbia."


I like the first part, that life doesn't make sense.  But that is what we try to do, make a story out of it so that it does.  It just isn't a true story any more than the history we read and write is true.  It is not life that torments me so much as other people's stories.  I keep believing in them and comparing them to my own pitiful account.  This morning, at least, I believe the root of unhappiness lies in other people's stories.  Especially the ones that want to tell you about yourself.  Oh boy, that's can be the hardest one to bear.