i love myself
I was recently introduced to the French expression “l’esprit de l’escalier”, which refers to the all too common phenomenon of coming up with the perfect retort just when it’s no longer relevant or useful. In the case of my Friday night, I didn’t miss a retort, but I did miss the perfect costume opportunity for Night at the Library.
Harriet M. Welsch, the protagonist of my all-time favorite children’s book, Harriet the Spy, would have provided the perfect costume for Friday night’s festivities: oversized sweatshirt, baggy pants, spy tool belt. Easy to recreate. I’d have an excuse to walk around with a notebook and write down observations about the people and decor.
Let’s be honest: from the first time I read the novel, I wanted to be Harriet. Having completed it many times since then, it’s become increasingly apparent to me that Harriet isn’t actually too likable a character — but to this day, she remains one of my greatest inspirations. She’s a force of nature. She likes to take in the world from afar, which renders her a generally detached but secretly dynamic observer. There are layers to Harriet: she stomps through the kitchen demanding cake at the top of her lungs while her cook is preparing a delicate souffle, but she isn’t afraid to address some of the most fundamental existential questions of humanity. Above all, she feels deeply and in a very real way. I read Harriet the Spy for the first time when I was six years old, and I remember plodding into the kitchen, defeated, when I was only halfway through to explain to my dad that I couldn’t see the page anymore because there were too many tears in my eyes. He hugged me, and I made it the rest of the way through for the first time. I’ve cried at the same point every time since.
“…you are going to have to do two things, and you don’t like either one of them:
2) You have to lie.
Otherwise you are going to lose a friend. Little lies that make people feel better are not bad, like thanking someone for a meal they made even if you hated it, or telling a sick person they look better when they don’t, or someone with a hideous new hat that it’s lovely. Remember that writing is to put love in the world, not to use against your friends. But to yourself you must always tell the truth.
Another thing. If you’re missing me I want you to know I’m not missing you. Gone is gone. I never miss anything or anyone because it all becomes a lovely memory. I guard my memories and love them, but I don’t get in them and lie down. You can even make stories from yours, but remember, they don’t come back. Just think how awful it would be if they did. You don’t need me now. You’re eleven years old which is old enough to get busy at growing up to be the person you want to be.
No more nonsense.”
