“I guess so.”
“Why should we enter the fortune-teller’s tent or the backyards of academe in search of something exciting or transcendental?”
“Are you saying that the people who write these books are just phonies and liars?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. But here, too, we are talking about a Darwinian system.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“Think of all the different things that can happen in a single day. You can even take a day in your own life. Think of all the things you see and experience.”
“Yes?”
“Now and then you experience a strange coincidence. You might go into a store and buy something for 28 crowns. Later on that day Joanna comes along and gives you the 28 crowns she owes you. You both decide to go to the movies—and you get seat number 28.”
“Yes, that would be a mysterious coincidence.”
“It would be a coincidence, anyway. The point is, people collect coincidences like these. They collect strange— or inexplicable—experiences When such experiences— taken from the lives of billions of people—are assembled into books, it begins to look like genuine data. And the amount of it increases all the time. But once again we are looking at a lottery in which only the winning numbers are visible.”
“But there are clairvoyants and mediums, aren’t there, who are constantly experiencing things like that?”
“Indeed there are, and if we exclude the phonies, we find another explanation for these so-called mysterious experiences.”
“And that is?”
“You remember we talked about Freud’s theory of the unconscious . . .”
“Of course.”
“Freud showed that we can often serve as ‘mediums’ for our own unconscious. We might suddenly find ourselves thinking or doing something without really knowing why. The reason is that we have a whole lot of experiences, thoughts, and memories inside us that we are not aware of.”
“So?”
“People sometimes talk or walk in their sleep. We could call this a sort of ‘mental automatism.’ Also under hypnosis, people can say and do things ‘not of their own volition.’ And remember the surrealists trying to produce so-called automatic writing. They were just trying to serve as mediums for their own unconscious.”
“I remember.”
“From time to time during this century there have been what are called ‘spiritualist revivals,’ the idea being that a medium could get into contact with a deceased person. Either by speaking in the voice of the deceased, or by using automatic writing, the medium would receive a message from someone who had lived five or fifty or many hundreds of years ago. This has been taken as evidence either that there is life after death or that we live many lives.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m not saying that all mediums have been fakes. Some have clearly been in good faith. They really have been mediums, but they have only been mediums for their own unconscious. There have been several cases of mediums being closely studied while in a trance, and revealing knowledge and abilities that neither they nor others understand how they can have acquired. In one case, a woman who had no knowledge of Hebrew passed on messages in that language. So she must have either lived before or been in contact with a deceased spirit.”
“Which do you think?”
“It turned out that she had had a Jewish nanny when she was little.”
“Ah.”
“Does that disappoint you? It just shows what an incredible capacity some people have to store experience in their unconscious.”
“I see what you mean.”
“A lot of curious everyday happenings can be explained by Freud’s theory of the unconscious. I might suddenly get a call from a friend I haven’t heard from for many years just as I had begun to look for his telephone number “
“It gives me goose bumps.”
“But the explanation could be that we both heard the same old song on the radio, a song we heard the last time we were together. The point is, we are not aware of the underlying connection.”
“So it’s either humbug, or the winning number effect, or else it’s the unconscious. Right?”
“Well, in any case, it’s healthier to approach such books with a decent portion of skepticism. Not least if one is a philosopher. There is an association in England for skeptics. Many years ago they offered a large reward to the first person who could provide even the slightest proof of something supernatural. It didn’t need to be a great miracle, a tiny example of telepathy would do. So far, nobody has come forward “
“Hmm.”
“On the other hand, there is a lot we humans don’t understand. Maybe we don’t understand the laws of nature either. During the last century there were a lot of people who thought that phenomena such as magnetism and electricity were a kind of magic. I’ll bet my own great-grandmother would have been wide-eyed with amazement if I told her about TV or computers.”
“So you don’t believe in anything supernatural then.”
“We’ve already talked about that. Even the term ‘supernatural’ is a curious one. No, I suppose I believe that there is only one nature. But that, on the other hand, is absolutely astonishing.”
“But the sort of mysterious things in those books you just showed me?”
“All true philosophers should keep their eyes open. Even if we have never seen a white crow, we should never stop looking for it. And one day, even a skeptic like me could be obliged to accept a phenomenon I did not believe in before. If I did not keep this possibility open I would be dogmatic, and not a true philosopher.”
Alberto and Sophie remained seated on the bench without saying anything. The pigeons craned their necks and cooed, now and then being startled by a bicycle or a sudden movement.
“I have to go home and prepare for the party,” said Sophie at last.
“But before we part, I’ll show you a white crow. It is nearer than we think, you see.”
Alberto got up and led the way back into the bookstore. This time they walked past all the books on supernatural phenomena and stopped by a flimsy shelf at the very back of the store. Above the shelf hung a very small card. PHILOSOPHY, it read.
Alberto pointed down at a particular book, and Sophie gasped as she read the title: Sophie’s World.
“Would you like me to buy it for you?”
“I don’t know if I dare.”
Shortly afterward, however, she was on her way home with the book in one hand and a little bag of things for the garden party in the other.
The Garden Party
... a white crow…
Hilde sat on the bed, transfixed. She felt her arms and her hands tremble, as they gripped the heavy ring binder.
It was almost eleven o’clock. She had been reading for over two hours. From time to time she had raised her eyes from the text and laughed aloud, but she had also turned over on her side and gasped. It was a good thing she was alone in the house.
And what she had been through these last two hours! It started with Sophie trying to attract the major’s attention on the way home from the cabin in the woods. She had finally climbed a tree and been rescued by Morten Goose, who had arrived like a guardian angel from Lebanon.
Although it was a long, long time ago, Hilde had never forgotten how her father had read The Wonderful Adventures of Nils to her. For many years after that, she and her father had had a secret language together that was connected with the book. Now he had dragged the old goose out again.
Then Sophie had her first experience as a lone customer in a cafe. Hilde had been especially taken with what
