Tawdry

Look what we’ve reduced love to. This. Some … cuckoldry. Some affair.

 

What’s it supposed to Mean, philosopher? Does it mean anything at all? It just holds off the boredom, doesn’t it? It’s just some … novelty. A bit of time-off for you. A little holiday from working on the magnum opus.

And for me? What is it for me? I’m greedy, I admit that. I wanted it. I drove it. I started it. And you were just … passive. I think I wanted to disgust myself. I think I wanted to appal myself. Drive myself into some … debasement. Because I am debased. And you’re debased. And what’s worse is that we don’t mind being debased.

 

What we’re doing to him, my … husband. The way we’re humiliating him. And ourselves – what we’re doing to ourselves!

So greedy. So impulsive. Such animals. God, that should sound erotic, shouldn’t it. Fucking like animals. Thrusting and pumping. But doesn’t it just sound … tawdry. And disgusting. We’re disgusting.

Sin – we live in sin. That’s the only word for it: sin. We’ve sinned against who we should be. Against the Holy Ghost, or whatever. Is that what it’s called: the Holy Ghost?

 

It wouldn’t have happened if I was writing a magnum opus, like you. If I had something else going on … Children to look after, or whatever. But you know what? I don’t even believe that. I would have wanted it anyway, our affair. An affair. Any old affair. I would have wanted the experience. As a kind of self-debasement. That’s what this is, I think: self-debasement.

I want to humiliate myself. I seek out degradation. I wanted to turn myself into a … supervillain. I want the drama of feeling.

Do I really feel guilty? I feel the ghost of feeling guilty, that’s all. I feel that I’m supposed to feel guilty, even if I don’t feel guilty.

 

I’m searching for it, my guilt. I’m looking for it but not finding it, my sense of guilt. Some last shred of decency. Perhaps I’m a decent person after all. No – that’s going too far. Semi-decent. Not entirely indecent. Ha!

I think I wanted a bit of drama. I think all this is about drama. I wanted something to happen. I wanted to be caught up in some imbroglio. Is that the word for it: imbroglio?

 

And don’t think you’re innocent in all this. What do you think you’re doing to my husband? What do you think you’re putting him through?

He’s your husband.

You shook his hand.

I did shake his hand.

All this is your fault, too. You’re part of it.

 

We’re mockers. Despoilers. Isn’t it enjoyable: loathing ourselves? Aren’t we indulging in it: self-hatred? Just as a way of entertaining ourselves.

Twisting the knife. Turning it deeper. On ourselves. Just for the drama …

Do we really feel it? That we’re doing anything wrong? That we’re at fault. Just for the novelty.

What are we living out – what psychodrama? Where’s this supposed to be taking us? Hell, probably. Somewhere dreadful. But it won’t, will it? We don’t really feel that. We don’t fear that. This isn’t the fucking middle ages.

It’ll leave us exactly where we are: here, right here. It probably isn’t good for our souls, though. Do we have souls? Do philosophers think we have souls anymore? What’s the latest theory? … I think I have a soul. What are we without souls? Who’s stolen them, our souls? Where have they disappeared to?

 

Our variations on self-loathing. But we don’t even loathe ourselves, that’s the thing. We have the sense that we should do, but we don’t. We’re shameless – deeply shameless. There’s a gaping hole where our moral life should be.

Unless not loathing ourselves is what we loathe. We know what we ought to be. We know we ought to be appalled – simply appalled at ourselves. But we’re not. We don’t care, in the end. None of this means anything, in the end.