say: it is not what I am thinking but merely the closest I can get to it using the faulty reductive constraints of language. And so I often think it is better to say nothing than to express myself inexactly. This is what I was thinking when I realized that Dr. Adler was speaking. “What?” I said.
“You seem preoccupied. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She made a face indicating how lame she thought that was.
“Sometimes I resent having to express my thoughts,” I said. “I was thinking about that.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that they’re mine. People don’t go around sharing their blood or whatever. I don’t see why we should always be expected to share such intimate parts of ourselves.”
“People give blood,” she said.
“Yes, but not constantly. Just a little bit, like once a year.”
“So you’re saying you should only share your thoughts a little bit, once a year?”
“No,” I said. “Of course I wasn’t saying that. And if you honestly thought I was saying that, it only proves my point that talking is ridiculous because it’s impossible to communicate precisely what you think.”
“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Adler asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
She paused for a moment, as if she was considering this statement, and then she said, “Well, why don’t you tell me about what happened in Washington?”
I was shocked. She had never asked me a specific question like that or expressed interest in any particular event in my life. “What?” I asked.
“I said, Why don’t you tell me about what happened in Washington. I’ve realized we’ve never talked about it. I think it would be good if we did.”
“I really don’t want to talk about what happened in Washington,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I was—I couldn’t deal with it and I did something stupid. But it’s over, it’s in the past. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“What did you do?”
“You don’t know? My parents didn’t tell you?”
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I knew.”
I didn’t believe that for a moment.
“It was some sort of youth government seminar you attended?”
I could tell she was trying to trick me into talking about it by asking innocuous questions.
“Yes,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“It was this stupid supposedly nonpartisan program that brings two supposedly intelligent students from each state to Washington, D.C., for a week so they can be indoctrinated in how wonderful the American government is.”
“And so your problem had to do with the nature of the program?”
“Well, no. I mean, that was certainly a problem, but I could deal with that.”
“Yes, I think you’d be rather resistant to indoctrination.”
I chose not to respond to this blatant attempt at flattery, but Dr. Adler was not deterred. “So what was it, then?” she asked. “What was the problem?”
“That question presupposes many things,” I said.
She said nothing but made a motion with her hand, encouraging me to enumerate.
“It presupposes there was a ‘problem.’ It presupposes that I know what the problem was. It presupposes I know how to articulate the problem. It presupposes that I want, or am willing, to articulate the problem.”
“I wouldn’t argue with any of that,” said Dr. Adler. “But the question itself remains.”
“I hate this idea,” I said. “This idea that there’s a problem, that there is something as simple as a problem, and you can identify the problem, and then fix the problem, and then there isn’t any problem. I didn’t have a problem in Washington. I had a thousand problems, maybe. A million.”
“Well, what was the problem that led to your being arrested?”
“I wasn’t arrested. Did my parents tell you I was arrested?”
“No,” Dr. Adler said. “I’m sorry. They said there was some trouble with the police.”
“So you
“You seem preoccupied. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She made a face indicating how lame she thought that was.
“Sometimes I resent having to express my thoughts,” I said. “I was thinking about that.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that they’re mine. People don’t go around sharing their blood or whatever. I don’t see why we should always be expected to share such intimate parts of ourselves.”
“People give blood,” she said.
“Yes, but not constantly. Just a little bit, like once a year.”
“So you’re saying you should only share your thoughts a little bit, once a year?”
“No,” I said. “Of course I wasn’t saying that. And if you honestly thought I was saying that, it only proves my point that talking is ridiculous because it’s impossible to communicate precisely what you think.”
“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Adler asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
She paused for a moment, as if she was considering this statement, and then she said, “Well, why don’t you tell me about what happened in Washington?”
I was shocked. She had never asked me a specific question like that or expressed interest in any particular event in my life. “What?” I asked.
“I said, Why don’t you tell me about what happened in Washington. I’ve realized we’ve never talked about it. I think it would be good if we did.”
“I really don’t want to talk about what happened in Washington,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I was—I couldn’t deal with it and I did something stupid. But it’s over, it’s in the past. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“What did you do?”
“You don’t know? My parents didn’t tell you?”
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I knew.”
I didn’t believe that for a moment.
“It was some sort of youth government seminar you attended?”
I could tell she was trying to trick me into talking about it by asking innocuous questions.
“Yes,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“It was this stupid supposedly nonpartisan program that brings two supposedly intelligent students from each state to Washington, D.C., for a week so they can be indoctrinated in how wonderful the American government is.”
“And so your problem had to do with the nature of the program?”
“Well, no. I mean, that was certainly a problem, but I could deal with that.”
“Yes, I think you’d be rather resistant to indoctrination.”
I chose not to respond to this blatant attempt at flattery, but Dr. Adler was not deterred. “So what was it, then?” she asked. “What was the problem?”
“That question presupposes many things,” I said.
She said nothing but made a motion with her hand, encouraging me to enumerate.
“It presupposes there was a ‘problem.’ It presupposes that I know what the problem was. It presupposes I know how to articulate the problem. It presupposes that I want, or am willing, to articulate the problem.”
“I wouldn’t argue with any of that,” said Dr. Adler. “But the question itself remains.”
“I hate this idea,” I said. “This idea that there’s a problem, that there is something as simple as a problem, and you can identify the problem, and then fix the problem, and then there isn’t any problem. I didn’t have a problem in Washington. I had a thousand problems, maybe. A million.”
“Well, what was the problem that led to your being arrested?”
“I wasn’t arrested. Did my parents tell you I was arrested?”
“No,” Dr. Adler said. “I’m sorry. They said there was some trouble with the police.”
“So you
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