words.”
“An illusion?”
“Yes.” I watch a fly bang against the window screen trying to get outside. The noise is like that of a poorly resonating harp string. Does it crash against the screen eye first? Is it trying to break through to the outside? Does it see the screen? I walk over for a closer look. Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I raise the screen. The fly sails out.
“An illusion is something that isn’t there, but you think it is.”
“Okay.”
“That all?”
“Go on if you like.”
“Who are you?”
“Horace.”
“Horace who?”
“Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”
“Very funny. Why did you call me?”
“To ask you a question. That’s all.”
“You don’t think it’s a little weird?”
“Weird?”
“Yes. Calling up complete strangers and asking what illusion means.”
“I ask other questions too.”
“How broad-minded of you.”
“And I didn’t ask what illusion means. I asked what you
think
an illusion is.”
“And I just told you. Something you think is there and isn’t. Wait a minute, I’ll go get the dictionary.”
I lower the screen and stand looking out the window into the back woods. The woman returns to the phone. “Here. It says, ‘illusion: (a) an erroneous perception of reality; (b) an erroneous concept or belief; 2. The condition of being deceived by a false perception or belief.’ Just like I said.”
“How can a belief be false?”
“What’s that?”
“A belief. How can it be false?”
“That’s a pretty dumb question.”
“Then tell me what a false belief is.”
“Something you think is true but isn’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like ghosts. You can believe in them all you want, but it doesn’t mean there are such things.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there just aren’t. Everybody knows there aren’t.”
“But if you believe in them and, say, something wakes you up in the middle of the night and you believe it was a ghost. What woke you up?”
“A noise. The cat maybe.”
“It wasn’t a noise. It was just a feeling. I was scared. Can a feeling be false?”
“Are you saying that if you believe in ghosts, then ghosts exist?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m just wondering what a false belief is. Or a false feeling.”
“It’s an illusion. A false belief is an illusion.”
“A false feeling too?”
Sure.
“Is a dream an illusion?”
“Of course. They only exist in your head.”
“So an illusion is something that can only exist in your head?”
“Yes. And an illusion of
yours
sure can’t exist in
my
head.”
“Says who?”
“Listen, who’d you say you were again?”
“Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Horace.”
“Listen, whoever you are. Don’t you think you should get a little help?”
“Help?”
“Yes. You sound disturbed, bothered. Maybe you should go talk to somebody.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t mean calling people up and asking them stupid questions. I mean professional help.”
“Did I ask a stupid question?”
“No, it was a very interesting question. But I think you might have a problem.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Why else would you call up a perfect stranger?”
“You’re right about that. I do have a lot on my mind.”
“So you agree.”
“Agree to what?”
“That it’s a little weird calling people up to ask what an illusion is.”
“Sure it’s weird. But it’s interesting. Ever hear of the Oracle of Delphi?”
“What?”
“The Delphic Oracle.”
“No.”
“The ancient Greeks used to go to Delphi and ask the oracle questions.”
“And I’m the oracle?”
“No. The telephone is.”
“Oh, how fun. You’re weird, Horace. Get help, and good luck. I have a tennis game. Bye.”
She hangs up before I can ask what number I’d dialed. Too bad. I would have called her back. Despite the cheerful optimism that put her squarely in the camp of those sunny positivists I so despise, I would have liked to talk to her some more.
I
“An illusion?”
“Yes.” I watch a fly bang against the window screen trying to get outside. The noise is like that of a poorly resonating harp string. Does it crash against the screen eye first? Is it trying to break through to the outside? Does it see the screen? I walk over for a closer look. Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I raise the screen. The fly sails out.
“An illusion is something that isn’t there, but you think it is.”
“Okay.”
“That all?”
“Go on if you like.”
“Who are you?”
“Horace.”
“Horace who?”
“Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”
“Very funny. Why did you call me?”
“To ask you a question. That’s all.”
“You don’t think it’s a little weird?”
“Weird?”
“Yes. Calling up complete strangers and asking what illusion means.”
“I ask other questions too.”
“How broad-minded of you.”
“And I didn’t ask what illusion means. I asked what you
think
an illusion is.”
“And I just told you. Something you think is there and isn’t. Wait a minute, I’ll go get the dictionary.”
I lower the screen and stand looking out the window into the back woods. The woman returns to the phone. “Here. It says, ‘illusion: (a) an erroneous perception of reality; (b) an erroneous concept or belief; 2. The condition of being deceived by a false perception or belief.’ Just like I said.”
“How can a belief be false?”
“What’s that?”
“A belief. How can it be false?”
“That’s a pretty dumb question.”
“Then tell me what a false belief is.”
“Something you think is true but isn’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like ghosts. You can believe in them all you want, but it doesn’t mean there are such things.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there just aren’t. Everybody knows there aren’t.”
“But if you believe in them and, say, something wakes you up in the middle of the night and you believe it was a ghost. What woke you up?”
“A noise. The cat maybe.”
“It wasn’t a noise. It was just a feeling. I was scared. Can a feeling be false?”
“Are you saying that if you believe in ghosts, then ghosts exist?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m just wondering what a false belief is. Or a false feeling.”
“It’s an illusion. A false belief is an illusion.”
“A false feeling too?”
Sure.
“Is a dream an illusion?”
“Of course. They only exist in your head.”
“So an illusion is something that can only exist in your head?”
“Yes. And an illusion of
yours
sure can’t exist in
my
head.”
“Says who?”
“Listen, who’d you say you were again?”
“Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Horace.”
“Listen, whoever you are. Don’t you think you should get a little help?”
“Help?”
“Yes. You sound disturbed, bothered. Maybe you should go talk to somebody.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t mean calling people up and asking them stupid questions. I mean professional help.”
“Did I ask a stupid question?”
“No, it was a very interesting question. But I think you might have a problem.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Why else would you call up a perfect stranger?”
“You’re right about that. I do have a lot on my mind.”
“So you agree.”
“Agree to what?”
“That it’s a little weird calling people up to ask what an illusion is.”
“Sure it’s weird. But it’s interesting. Ever hear of the Oracle of Delphi?”
“What?”
“The Delphic Oracle.”
“No.”
“The ancient Greeks used to go to Delphi and ask the oracle questions.”
“And I’m the oracle?”
“No. The telephone is.”
“Oh, how fun. You’re weird, Horace. Get help, and good luck. I have a tennis game. Bye.”
She hangs up before I can ask what number I’d dialed. Too bad. I would have called her back. Despite the cheerful optimism that put her squarely in the camp of those sunny positivists I so despise, I would have liked to talk to her some more.
I
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