Eighty-Three

The old Sherpa takes pride, in a manner that is altogether unjustified – it must be said – in his colleague’s professional performance. He feels at once like a factotum and a sentry overseeing the progress of his – protégé? adopted son? – on that path that leads to higher education.

That is why he allows himself, from time to time, to advise him on his future with sincerity. Like that time when the young Sherpa suggested the possibility of studying the History of Law. He could have been dismissive, let it go. But no: he accepted his role of mentor. He spoke to him of Proudhon, Bakunin, and inheritance; of Amazonian tribes, young Marx and Thomas More. He told him to look around him, to appreciate the immensity of the natural oeuvre, not to waste time dismantling the mechanisms of surplus value, told him not to look down on his own tradition, to appreciate his privileges. To think twice about it, and then a third time. To keep him posted.

Something of that conversation comes back now, when he hears the young man say:

‘It could have been the sun, a reflection.’

Because he understands that in that search for excuses there is also respect.