Eveybody's Got Everybody eles's number; no one gas got their own.

From: P Settli (petsett@ONLINE.NO)
Date: Wed Sep 12 2001 - 18:16:14 EDT


I'm amazed at the volume of posts to the group in the last day.
thought I'd add something of my own. Was reminded by the Corn
Dance chapter in _Lost in the Cosmos_, with Percy's cast of
characters and his deconstruction of them.

Everyone has everyone else's number but no one has their own, or
has Percy said, everyone can immediately *place* everyone else but
no one can place themselves.

Am nauseated and ashamed of my own first response, which was
definitely a "War is better than Monday morning" one. When I first
got the news, thought of Percy.

A mid level civil servant in a Scandinavian social democracy who
is so efficient at my job that much of the time I haven't got much
to do, my first thought when hearing the news at about three
fifteen pm local time (9:15 EDT) Bin Laden, high five the guy who
informed me, and blurt out something like "That guy really plays
hardball."
Some excitement to alleviate the boredom of my existence.
Something to divert me from another tedious day.
Then thought of Percy.

In my defense I could say that the news I got was that a plane had
hit the World Trade Center and that I immediately thought of a
Cessna or something of that size. Had no idea of the reach and
extent of the damage.

Still, I am ashamed of my response.
I am ashamed of myself.
The perversity of my heart.
What does my response say about my life?

One of you wrote about your students response upon seeing the
images of the destruction. Was it something like "wow, awesome,
Independence Day" followed by thoughts of what it must be like to
jump from eighty stories to escape burning alive? If not, pretend
for a minute that it was.

The first response is a Buberian "I-it", the second "I-Thou."
Different perspectives, transcendent and immanent, objectifying,
subjectifying....
Back and forth, back and forth.

Random facts:

We rent out a house to an Afghan family of eleven who fled the
Taliban. The patriarch was a former Minister of something or other
and rich land owner. Fluent in English, an educated man in his
early sixties, his life, culture, country has been destroyed. Came
to Norway through the auspices other UN, from a refugee camp in
Pakistan. One of his sons served five years in a Russian prison,
tortured, the whole nine yards.

My wife grew up in NYC. Her parents are dead. Father a survivor of
the Bataan Death March. Her sister was born at St. Vincent's and
the last of the family she's in touch with in the City, her aunt,
still lives on the Lower East Side on Avenue A in the same
rent-controlled apartment she's had for over forty years. My wife
got word through her sister (from Texas) who had been in contact
with her aunt and learned that she was OK. My wife has done a lot
of business in the World Trade Center. The place is filled with
memories. She says that for her New York will never be the same
ever again. Not only is most of the family gone, but even the
place where she used to do business is no longer.

My son 13 (dual citizen, American-Norwegian, five years in Norway)
said that his class talked about it today, kids were crying..he
didn't want to talk about it all. Won't watch the TV. Says
"America thinks they're so great, they think they know everything,
what did they expect? I thought there was supposed to be peace.
What's the US going to do now...bomb a lot of innocent people? You
hurt me so I'll hurt you back. When does it end?"
I never knew he felt this way.

I have a daughter in Chicago and it was her birthday yesterday. I
called her to congratulate her but obviously it was sort of
mixed.. She was at her boyfriend's, an independent bond trader.
Talked to him. He'd been on the phone to a colleague at the Center
when it happened.

My wife and daughter (another one, 15) asked me why I was so glum
this afternoon. Told them about my reflections to my first
response and my shame.

To end:
Fill in the approriate lines from Eliott's "The Hollow Men."
Or Yeats.
Or Mathew Arnold.

And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
- "Dover Beach" (1867), Matthew Arnold.

Petter Settli



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