Page 117 of Katabasis
“I’m suresomewomen are virtuous angels.” Professor Bent sniffed. “I won’t make sloppy generalizations. I only mean to saythiswoman, in her specific case, exemplified all the foibles of her sex. Not all women are jealous and aggravating and empty-headed. Butthiswoman—”
“Yes, blah, blah, the Eve to your Adam, the source of all evil,” another Shade interjected. “It’s a boring interpretation, don’t you think? You minimize your own agency and demonize your wife—”
“What am I supposed to do?” demanded Professor Bent. “All I’ve written is the truth, no more, no less. I cannot fabricate arguments just to please an audience who is interested only in feminist interpretations. I refuse. It would be bad scholarship.”
“But this isn’t at all a confession,” said the monocled Shade. “This is just a manifesto.”
“Well, I’ve nothing to confess.”
“Oh, why do you think you’re inHellthen, you idiot?”
“Now, now,” said the chairman. “Let us remain professional.”
“The concept of the confession is so Victorian,” said Professor Bent. “Have you not read Foucault?Science sexualis.The confession is a repressive discursive form, through which no true knowledge can be produced. The confession is about hidden shame, guilt, extraction. But I will not be a prisoner on the rack, do you understand? I will not lie for freedom.”
“I’m not sure the Furies have read Foucault,” said the chairman. “You must consider your audience.”
Professor Bent sniffed. “Well, if the gods are perfect and all-knowing, then they should be amenable to reason. The gods should understand this mode of dissertation is antiquated, and that we gain nothing from self-flagellation. The gods should wish us to break free of our repression—”
“Why do we speak of the gods at all?”
A woman Shade sat at the opposite end of the table, her chair pulled slightly back so that she was half-hidden behind her peers. She wore her dark hair tied tightly in a bun, and when she leaned forward, Alice saw she had a severe, foxlike face. She had put much more effort into distinguishing her clothes than her peers. She wore a high-necked black dress, her white collar starched very clean, each pleat of her skirt pressed with precision.
“Ah, Gertrude,” said the chairman. “You wish to contribute? Speak up.”
Gertrude scraped her chair back and stood. “My question is, who wants reincarnation anyhow?”
“Not this again,” said Professor Brown. “Everyone wants rebirth, that’s why we’re here.”
“Have you not readTheRepublic?” Gertrude demanded. “Know you not the myth of Er? Ajax becomes a lion. Odysseus becomes an ordinary citizen. But the wicked have no right to choose. The wicked suffer in the next life.”
“We’ve been over this,” said the chairman. “We have no evidence that karma affects rebirth—”
“Yes, you’re right, all we have is a priori reason. But do you think our little punishments are enough? Do you really think, once our papers are polished and turned in, that the powers that be will see fit to reincarnate us as lords and ladies?”
“Now, we know there’s no guarantee—” began the chairman.
“Who wants to be an earthworm?” Gertrude demanded. “Who wants to be a dung beetle? Or worse—to be born with human cognition but have no opportunity to exercise it. On balance human suffering vastly outweighs the pleasures of human life, and we were all just lucky enough to end up where we did in our past lives. But who among you could go from college housing to the streets?”
“It makes no difference to the reincarnated,” said Professor Bent. “You would forget, you’d have no basis of comparison—”
“Not to mention forgetting!” Gertrude cried in triumph. “Why should we want our memories stripped clean? How is the Lethe different from death? Better to exist as we are,here, andnow. We follow the example of the Morning Star. We make our own paradise in Hell—”
“All right, Milton,” said Professor Mansfield.
“God has no hold on us,” said Gertrude. “Morality is for the weak.”
“All right, Raskolnikov,” said Professor Bent.
“You may mock me all you like,” said Gertrude. “But I believe Raskolnikov didn’t take things far enough. His resolve wavers at the end. His mistake is that he falters, he gets paranoid, he lets the policeman get in his mind. But imagine if he held on to his convictions! Imagine if the idiot Sonya, and all her Christian moralizing, never entered the picture—yes, imagine ifguiltnever got in his way...”
“Yes, we know, we’ve all read Nietzsche, God is dead and so forth,” said the chairman. “But unfortunately,somehigher power decided we deserve some punishment, so here we are—”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way!” Gertrude slammed her palms on the table. “Why do we accept the courts of Hell? Why are we so comfortable in our situation? Don’t you see, if God is not already dead, then we mustkill God. We must rebuild Hell to our own liking. We must make Dis our own paradise.”
“Why is she here?” Professor Bent demanded to the chairman. “This has nothing to do with my dissertation.”
“Impact has everything to do with a dissertation,” said Gertrude. “Why put out a piece of work, if you don’t know what you want it to accomplish?”
