Peter Hoeg
I quasi adatti

Sometimes certain books choose you.

It's that, when I saw that title, "I quasi adatti," all the bells in the world rang. Not to make it personal, but "almost suitable" is exactly how I feel.

Then, since instinct never fails, I ended up reading the book in one breath. An almost physical sensation...

Meanwhile, starting in jest, we might ask ourselves: if only the fittest survive, what are we doing here?

Okay, let's raise the curtain...

...

They put me in the Biehl institution, a model school. Biehl is the principal and he is also God. After hitting you, he adjusts his clothes as if he'd just been to the bathroom or with a prostitute.

The hit always brings a kind of relief, everything is finally settled, although, to be honest, the hit is nothing. What really counts is the before and after, when there's like a solid fog in the air, a weight, something that foretells physical pain and then transfigures it into something much worse.

Anyway, here at Biehl, I met Katarina, she’s a wisp of 16, but her brain is a diamond, her words a razor blade. The first time we talked about those whole days that disappear and also certain moments that become eternity.

Then together we met August, who's little more than a child. At night, August walks along the walls of his room, then at some point the meds kick in and he lays on the bed. Sometimes that's not enough, though, so he goes to the kitchen and puts his head on the gas stovetop.

Ah, I'd like to tell you that I am damaged too and maybe would even give up. But the fact is, when you meet someone who helps you understand, well you're not alone anymore and you stop giving up...

And then, as I told you, August is just a child. And children must be protected.

...

If there's no code to prove one thing is better than another, then why is everyone so sure? Once, in the lab, Katarina said, "there are no better things, just things that fit better into a plan."

She was only 16, how did she know that?

Maybe there are things you understand better when you're at the limit, or "almost suitable." Because those who are suitable generally don't ask questions, at least not the essential ones.

Then, well, I have a problem with time. I have trouble waking up and I'm late, which is quite a serious matter here at the institution. Katarina is late too, but she does it on purpose, hers is an experiment, a lab experiment.

And the lab is where you ask questions, not the school ones, but those that come from the edge, things like "why is everyone so damn precise?" "why is time so rigid?"

Or: "why did Axel try to cut his tongue with a razor blade?"

...

Imagine being in your room and suddenly you've gone blind. So you stumble over chairs, bump into tables, crash into the wardrobe.

The fact is that when you can see, you don't notice the furniture. They're there, sure, but it's as if they weren't. And we only notice things when they become a problem.

That's it, I crash into time.

Because time is a marked road in a glass tunnel, if you see and have no problems you go straight and nothing happens. If instead you go crooked, you crash. And you alone hear the crash of the glass.

Katarina also has a problem with time, so does August.

Once I saw a fox in a cage, it moved frantically and if you stood in front of it, it wouldn't see you, oh no...

Its empty gaze went right through you.

Well, August is like that fox.

…

Then there are hidden truths.

An ancient law says that when gilding a surface, it's not advisable to cover it entirely in gold; you get a better effect with much less, about sixty percent. It's a variant of the golden ratio. Similarly, a law I learned here at the institution says that when punishing proven violations, it's not advisable to punish them all, you get a better effect with much less, about fifty percent. A kind of golden section of violence.

I remember the music teacher, she said music is perfect timing. She also said the best pieces contain all their development right from the start. They proceed according to the law of time. Then, I thought, it's like our days. You get up, wash, dress, enter the hall, stay silent, intone the greeting to God and in that beginning is already our entire day and perhaps, in a sense, our whole life.

Then I remember Oscar, when we were together at the school of crusts, well Oscar had a strategy. He sometimes ate a live frog, and if you eat a live frog, it's possible that others will leave you alone. I told August about it, he listened to me and then said, "If you shut down completely, is that a good strategy?"

...

The frog wasn't Oscar's only strategy. At some point, he stopped talking, then when he resumed, he began to play at estrangement.

When you stop talking–he said–or when you estrange yourself time becomes different. Well, of this thing, when we're in the lab, Katarina and I always talk.

We have a problem with time, but I've already told you that.

Okay, stop.

This is Peter's stream of consciousness, the almost suitable one.

Peter who remembers his fourteen years, Peter who next to him now is a child, Peter who even the child's time is a different time...

Peter who still enters the lab every day.

...

First of all, don't worry. I haven't told you much about the plot, after all, this is a thriller.

It might remind you of Robert Pirsig, same emotional waves, same intertwining of philosophy and narration. There the concept was Good (or quality), here it's the concept of time.

But, if this is a philosophical thriller. we need to specify immediately what kind of philosophy we're dealing with.

So, instinctively, the first flash could be the opening of "The Myth of Sisyphus" where it is argued that the only truly serious question is that of suicide. There is only one question, really, and the question is this: "is life worth living?" Everything else doesn't count...

Then okay, I admit it, I got to page 30 of the Myth of Sisyphus. For me, Camus is "The Stranger," the one of "The Fall." But the concept matters to me, philosophy must revolve around essential things.

But Camus is not enough, there's something else and it hurts a little more.

Years have passed, but I remember it well.

I was talking to Y about X, a mutual friend. X did, or rather didn't do, a whole series of things, or, more simply, X was just alone. And we all kept saying "but why?" "come on!" We didn't understand, of course.

But Y, that day, told me: what X is doing is escaping from a burning house and what you are asking him is to go back inside. But I say, in case of fire, wouldn't you also run away? It's a matter of survival, friend...

Ding ding ding...

Here, perhaps we've found the point: the philosophy in this book is a matter of survival.

Trallallà...