Notes for April Eighth
I have put in for a leave of absence from the museum, which surprised no one. I do tend to simply vanish for large blocks of time. One of my colleagues told me today that he worries about me if I don’t “take off for six months or so with no word - actually, I think the telegrams are the worst part. They always say something like: ‘Nearly eaten by cannibals when attempted to collect one of their sacred fish Stop Am fine Stop Send quinine Stop’. Really, it’s all so terribly dramatic. At least when you don’t write it’s because I know you haven’t anything to write about.” I pointed out that I have never sent a telegram of this nature, and he snorted.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he told me darkly, “And only because you haven’t done much work around cannibals.”
I decided this was not the proper time to discuss Ned Land’s speculations on the practice. Amusing as they were at the time, I’m still not entirely certain as to the extent of his sincerity, and besides, said colleague complains loudly every time I bring up that voyage. “It is the most terrifically unfair thing!” is the usual refrain.
It’s probably just best to let the issue lie.
I’ve found people to look after all my specimens, except for those which were bound for the zoological gardens at any rate. Most of them have been held in quarantine long enough, and I believe I have them fully acclimated to a tank environment, so I shall simply move them sooner. As in today. M. Trudeau, curator of the gardens, is rather put out with me for giving him so little notice, but he’s been dying to get his hands on these creatures, so he hasn’t protested.
To summarize, my preparations have been properly made, and it was all much easier then I had expected.
Private:
Despite this unexpected ease, I am still very nervous. It’s absurd. I have nothing more to be nervous of, but I am nonetheless. I cannot quite say why, for I am not sure myself.
But I think… I think I am uncertain and unsettled. I am glad as well, so very glad, but I am also afraid. It is… not caused by anything one might expect, but it is there, nonetheless. I have looked closely at myself, and all the answers I have proposed have been inaccurate. I am not afraid of Nemo himself, not most of the time (admittedly, it is difficult not to be a little frightened when one’s telescope has been torn from one’s fingers and one is facing a man who does not even see one), that is not it at all. I am not afraid of the Nautilus, I am not afraid of passing beneath the waves, I am not afraid of… Of anything I can think of.
And yet there is this persistent, unavoidable, intense nervousness.
I shall ignore it. I am presently ignoring it, but it is difficult. I feel as though I am missing something important, and I don’t know what it is. I dislike not understanding my motives and emotions.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he told me darkly, “And only because you haven’t done much work around cannibals.”
I decided this was not the proper time to discuss Ned Land’s speculations on the practice. Amusing as they were at the time, I’m still not entirely certain as to the extent of his sincerity, and besides, said colleague complains loudly every time I bring up that voyage. “It is the most terrifically unfair thing!” is the usual refrain.
It’s probably just best to let the issue lie.
I’ve found people to look after all my specimens, except for those which were bound for the zoological gardens at any rate. Most of them have been held in quarantine long enough, and I believe I have them fully acclimated to a tank environment, so I shall simply move them sooner. As in today. M. Trudeau, curator of the gardens, is rather put out with me for giving him so little notice, but he’s been dying to get his hands on these creatures, so he hasn’t protested.
To summarize, my preparations have been properly made, and it was all much easier then I had expected.
Private:
Despite this unexpected ease, I am still very nervous. It’s absurd. I have nothing more to be nervous of, but I am nonetheless. I cannot quite say why, for I am not sure myself.
But I think… I think I am uncertain and unsettled. I am glad as well, so very glad, but I am also afraid. It is… not caused by anything one might expect, but it is there, nonetheless. I have looked closely at myself, and all the answers I have proposed have been inaccurate. I am not afraid of Nemo himself, not most of the time (admittedly, it is difficult not to be a little frightened when one’s telescope has been torn from one’s fingers and one is facing a man who does not even see one), that is not it at all. I am not afraid of the Nautilus, I am not afraid of passing beneath the waves, I am not afraid of… Of anything I can think of.
And yet there is this persistent, unavoidable, intense nervousness.
I shall ignore it. I am presently ignoring it, but it is difficult. I feel as though I am missing something important, and I don’t know what it is. I dislike not understanding my motives and emotions.