The Thanatos Syndrome

mightily. “Yes,” he says at last in his musing voice. “Oh yes.”
    â€œCould you preach?”
    â€œPreach.” Again the cocked head, the sly near-smile. “No no.”
    â€œNo? Why not?”
    â€œWhy not? A good question. Because—it doesn’t signify.”
    â€œWhat doesn’t signify?”
    â€œThe words.”
    â€œThe words of the sermon, of the Mass, don’t signify?”
    â€œThat’s well put, Tom,” he says, not ironically. “But the action does.”
    â€œWhy don’t the words signify?”
    â€œLet me ask you a question as a scientist and a student of human nature,” he says, almost in his old priest-friend-colleague voice.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œDo you think it is possible that words could be deprived of their meaning?”
    â€œDeprived of their meaning. What words?”
    â€œName it! Any words. Tom, U.S.A., God, Simon, prayer, sin, heaven, world.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”
    â€œHere’s the question,” he says in a brisk rehearsed voice. Again, for some reason, he reminds me of a caller calling in to a radio talk show. He almost raises his eyes. “If it is a fact that words are deprived of their meaning, does it not follow that there is a depriver?”
    â€œA depriver. I’m afraid—”
    â€œWhat other explanation is there?” he asks in a rush, as if he already knew what I would say.
    I always answer patients honestly. “One explanation, if I understand you correctly, is that a person can stop believing in the things the words signify.”
    â€œAh ha,” he says at once, smiling as if I had taken the bait. “But that’s the point, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhat’s the point?”
    â€œDon’t you see?” he asks in a stronger voice, eyes still lowered, but hitching closer over the azimuth.
    â€œNot quite.”
    â€œIt is not a question of belief or unbelief. Even if such things were all proved, if the existence of God, heaven, hell, sin were all proved as certainly as the distance to the sun is proved, it would make no difference, would it?”
    â€œTo whom?”
    â€œTo people! To unbelievers and to so-called believers.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it?”
    â€œBecause the words no longer signify.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œBecause the words have been deprived of their meaning.”
    â€œBy a depriver.”
    â€œRight. Once, everyone admits, such signs signified. Now they do not.”
    â€œHow do you mean, once such signs signified?”
    Again he smiles. Again it seems I have fallen into his trap. He rises, stands to one side, hands in pockets making fists. “I’ll show you. Do you see that?” He nods to the horizon.
    I look. There is nothing but the shaggy sea of bluish pines. My nose has started running. The air is yellow with pollen.
    â€œRight there.” He nods, hands still in pockets.
    I look again. There is a straight wisp of smoke in the middle distance, as insignificant-looking as a pile of leaves burning in a gutter.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, would you help me report it? My hands are a bit unsteady.”
    Perhaps that is why he keeps his hands in his pockets, to hide a tremor.
    â€œSure. What do I do?”
    â€œLine up the sights on the smoke.”
    I rotate the azimuth and sight along the upright posts to the wisp of smoke. “I make it eighty-two degrees.”
    â€œVery good. Wouldn’t you agree that there is no question , about what the smoke is a sign of?”
    â€œYes, I would.”
    â€œWhat is it a sign of?”
    â€œFire.”
    â€œRight!”—triumphantly. “Now would you hang up the reading?”
    I turn to the wall map, which is encircled by pins like the Wheel of Fortune. I pick up a weighted string and hang it over pin number 82.
    â€œVery good!” says the priest. He’s looking over my shoulder. “Now what do we have here?”
    â€œWe have the direction of—”
    â€œRight! We have one coordinate, don’t we?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut that’s not enough to locate the fire, is it?”
    â€œNo, it isn’t.”
    â€œWhat else do we need?”
    â€œWe need another coordinate.”
    â€œAll right ! And how do you suppose we get it?”
    All at once I know what he reminds me of. He’s the patient