Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(114)
> You speak English better than me.
> “Better than I do.”
> Right.
> Anyway, I wanted to tell you whatever is the genuine version of “I am sorry for your loss.”
> I don’t believe in genuine versions.
> I wish you less sadness. How about that?
> How did you find me?
> The same way you would have found me if you were looking. Not hard.
> I didn’t know you were in Other Life.
> I used to spend most of every day here. But I’ve never been in this grove before.
> I’ve never been in this grove before, either.
> Do you like it when people unnecessarily repeat bits of speech? Like you just did? You could have said, “Me, neither,” but you took what I said and made it your own. I said, “I’ve never been in this grove before,” and you said, “I’ve never been in this grove before, either.”
> I do like it when people unnecessarily repeat bits of speech.
> If I used emoticons, I would have used one here.
> I’m glad you don’t.
> There isn’t time for Other Life in the army.
> Too much real life?
> I don’t believe in real life.
> ;)
> I really let myself go. Look at my nails.
> Look at you? Look at me! I still have placenta on my face.
> ???
> My dad committed avataricide.
> Why?
> He accidentally sniffed a Bouquet of Fatality.
> Why?
> Because he wears his sphincter like a necklace, and it choked blood flow to his brain. Anyway, I’m in the process of rebuilding myself, and I’m not exactly satisfied with my progress.
> You look…old.
> Yeah. I kinda became my great-grandfather.
> Why?
> Same reason I will in real life, I guess? I mean, this life.
> Do you need some resilience fruit?
> A few hundred thousand wouldn’t hurt.
> I can give you mine.
> I was kidding.
> I wasn’t.
> Why would you do that?
> Because you need them and I don’t. Do you want 250,000?
> 250,000!
> Stop shouting.
> That must have taken you a year.
> Or three.
> I can’t accept that.
> Sure you can. A bar mitzvah present.
> I don’t even know if I’m having one.
> A bar mitzvah isn’t something you have. It’s something you become.
> I don’t even know if I’m becoming one.
> Do babies know they’re born?
> They cry.
> So cry.
> Where are you?
> At home for another couple of hours.
> I thought you were somewhere dangerous.
> You’ve met my mother.
> Your dad said you were in the West Bank.
> I was. But I came back the day before the earthquake.
> Shit, I can’t believe we’ve talked for this long and I haven’t yet asked how you’re doing. I suck. I’m sorry.
> It’s OK. Remember, I found you.
> I suck.
> I’m safe. We’re all safe.
> What would have happened if you’d still been in the West Bank?
> I really don’t know.
> Guess.
> Why?
> Because I’m curious.
> Well, if we’d been stuck there during the earthquake, I suppose we would have had to create a temporary base of some kind and wait to be rescued.
> What kind of base?
> Whatever kind we could put together. Maybe occupy a building.
> Surrounded by people who want to kill you?
> What else is new?
> They would have lobbed shit at you?
> Shit?
> Grenades or whatever.
> There is no “grenades or whatever.” Weapons are precise.
> Right.
> Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they would have been preoccupied with their own problems.
> It wouldn’t have been good.
> There is no scenario in which it would have been good.
> What scenario would have been worst?
Like his dad, Sam was drawn to worst-case scenarios. It was obvious why they thrilled him, but hard to explain the comfort they offered. Perhaps they mapped a distance from his own safe life. Or perhaps coming to terms with the most horrible outcomes allowed for a kind of mental preparation and resignation. Maybe they were just more sharp objects—like the videos he hated and needed—to allow his insides out.
When he was in sixth grade, his Hebrew school class was made to watch a documentary about the concentration camps. It was never clear to him if this was because his teacher was lazy (an acceptable way to get rid of a couple of hours), or unable or unwilling to teach the material, or felt the impossibility of teaching it in any way other than simply showing it. Even at the time, Sam felt that he was too young to be seeing such a thing.
They sat at chipboard desks for righties, and the teacher—whose name they will all be able to remember for the rest of their lives—muttered a few unmemorable words of context and inspiration and disclaimer, and pressed Play. They watched lines of naked women, many pressing children to their chests. They were crying—the mothers and the children—but why were they only crying? Why were they so orderly? So good? Why didn’t the mothers run? Why didn’t they try to save their children’s lives? Why didn’t they protect their children? Better to get shot running away than simply walk to one’s death. A minuscule chance is infinitely greater than no chance.