Hvorfor være lærer når man ikke liker barn ?

De har så mye makt, og du er så alene mot overleger og psykiatere. Og de kan bare stemple deg.

Det er rundt 10 - 15000 ME pasienter i Norge. Forskning viser at sykdommen er like invalidiserende som multippel sklerose, aids og cellegiftbehandling av kreftpasienter, og det finnes en lang rekke medisinske funn, gjort av anerkjente forskere. Så hvorfor sendes ME pasientene hjem fra sykehus og leger, nærmest uten å ha blitt undersøkt, og ofte kun med bryske oppfordringer om å ta seg sammen ?

Nonfiction has crept closer to fiction in our time in ways that are not flattering to fiction, in part because too many writers cannot come to terms with the ways in which the past, like the future, is dark. There is so much we don't know, and to write truthfully about a life, your own or your mother's, or a celebrated figure's, an event, a crisis, another culture is to engage repeatedly with those patches of darkness, those nights of history, those places of unknowing. They tell us that there are limits to knowledge, that there are essential mysteries, starting with the notion that we know just what someone thought or felt in the absence of exact information.

Often enough, we don't know such things even when it comes to ourselves, let alone someone who perished in an epoch whose very textures and reflexes were unlike ours. Filling in the blanks replaces the truth that we don't entirely know with the false sense that we do. We know less when we erroneously think we know than when we recognize that we don't. Sometimes I think these pretenses at authoritative knowledge are failures of language: the language of bold assertion is simpler, less taxing, than the language of nuance and ambiguity and speculation.

I think a lot about that obliteration. Or rather that obliteration keeps showing up. I have a friend whose family tree has been traced back a thousand years, but no women exist on it. She just discovered that she herself did not exist, but her brothers did. Her mother did not exist, and nor did her father's mother. Or her mother's father. There were no grandmothers. Fathers have sons and grandsons and so the lineage goes, with the name passed on; the tree branches, and the longer it goes on the more people are missing: sisters, aunts, mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, a vast population made to disappear on paper and in history. Her family is from India, but this version of lineage is familiar to those of us in the West from the Bible where long lists of begats link fathers to sons. The crazy fourteen-generation genealogy given in the New Testament's Gospel According to Matthew goes from Abraham to Joseph (without noting that God and not Joseph is supposed to be the father of Jesus). The Tree of Jesse—a sort of totem pole of Jesus's patrilineage as given in Matthew—was represented in stained glass and other medieval art and is said to be the ancestor of the family tree. Thus coherence—of patriarchy, of ancestry, of narrative—is made by erasure and exclusion.

Er det ikke slik at desperate tider krever desperate tiltak ?

Alt kan tas fra et menneske, bortsett fra en ting: Den siste av de menneskelige friheter, nemlig til å velge sin egen holdning overfor enhver omstendighet, å velge sin egen måte å forholde seg på.

Bevisstheten er tilstede fra fødselsøyeblikket og er noe som karakteriserer oss som mennesker. Vi trenger bare å gjøre oss til venns med denne evnen og ta den i bruk.

I nybegynnerens sinn er det mange muligheter, men i ekspertens sinn er det få.