A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [151]
Even if I was condemned to solitary confinement in the dark, I was not alarmed. I would lower the cover of the toilet, sit myself on it, and conduct all my wars and journeys with empty hands. Without any soap or combs or hairpins, without stirring from my place. I sat there with my eyes closed and switched on all the light I wanted inside my head, leaving all the darkness outside.
You might even say I loved my punishment of solitary confinement. "Whoever doesn't need other human beings," Father quoted Aristotle, "must be a god or an animal." For hours on end, I enjoyed being both. I didn't mind.
When Father mockingly called me Your Highness or Your Excellency, I didn't take offense. On the contrary: I inwardly agreed with him. I adopted these titles and made them my own. But I said nothing. I gave him no hint of my enjoyment. Like an exiled king who has managed to slip back across the border and walks around his city disguised as an ordinary person. Every now and again one of his startled subjects recognizes him and bows down before him and calls him Your Majesty, in the line for the bus or in the crowd in the main square, but I simply ignore the bow and the title. I give no sign. Maybe the reason I decided to behave in this way was that Mother had taught me that you can tell real kings and nobles by the fact that they despise their titles and know full well that true nobility consists in behaving toward the simplest people with humility, like an ordinary human being.
And not just like any ordinary human being, but like a good-natured, benevolent ruler, who always tries to do whatever his subjects want. They seem to enjoy dressing me and putting my shoes on: so let them. I gladly extend all four limbs. After some time they suddenly change their mind and prefer me to dress myself and put on my own shoes: I am only too pleased to slip into my clothes all by myself, enjoying the sight of their beaming delight, occasionally getting the buttons wrong, or sweetly asking them to help me tie my shoelaces.
They almost fall over each other as they claim the privilege of kneeling down in front of the little prince and tying his shoelaces, as he is in the habit of rewarding his subjects with a hug. No other child is as good at thanking them regally and politely for their services. Once he even promises his parents (who look at each other with eyes misting over with pride and joy, patting him as they inwardly melt with pleasure) that when they are very old, like Mr. Lemberg next door, he will do up their buttons and shoelaces. For all the goodnesses they're always doing for him.
Do they enjoy brushing my hair? Explaining to me how the moon moves? Teaching me to count to a hundred? Putting one sweater on me on top of another? Even making me swallow a teaspoon of revolting cod liver oil every day. I happily let them do whatever they want to me, I enjoy the constant pleasure that my tiny existence affords them. So even if the cod liver oil makes me want to throw up, I gladly overcome my disgust and swallow the whole spoonful at one go, and even thank them for making me grow up healthy and strong. At the same time I also enjoy their amazement: it's clear this is no ordinary child—this child is so special!
And so for me the expression "ordinary child" became a term of utter contempt. It was better to grow up to be a stray dog, better to be a cripple or a mental retard, better to be a girl even, provided I didn't become an "ordinary child" like the rest of them, provided I could go on being "so very special!" or "really out of the ordinary!"
So there I was, from the age of three or four, if not earlier, already a one-child show. A nonstop performance. A lonely stage star, constantly compelled to improvise, and to fascinate, excite, amaze, and entertain his public. I had to steal the show from morning to evening. For example, we