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Meanwhile, in a nondescript house on Równa Street in the suburbs of Olsztyn—neither very near, nor very far away—an ordinary woman, so ordinary she could be counted as a statistic, was sinking into unhappy thoughts about herself. She had just reached the conclusion that she’d been wretched and worthless from the moment she was born. She must have spent the
nine months before birth drifting away from her perfect self. That’s how she imagined it—at the moment of conception, the needle on the pressure gauge of God’s control panel was in the middle of the green field, then suddenly it shifted in completely the wrong direction. Not enough to mean she was sick, disabled, or stupid—nothing of the kind. The needle had simply shifted from green to orange. And when the first cell—who knows, it could have been a really great one—divided into two, those were the first two parts of her imperfect self. After that, things just continued downhill, and by the
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King of the Stuffed Shirts and the Prince of the Starched Collars,
She was reveling in being alone. Some people take advantage of solitude to listen to loud music, dance around the room, or watch TV at full volume.
Was it Camus who said the toughest challenge in life is to call things by their proper name?
