'The truth is the more my daughter reads about Tragics, the more I identify with them'

Friday night, and my eldest daughter is home before leaving soon to do a master’s in cognitive neuropsychology at Edinburgh.

“I’m terrified,” she says, “bit of a leap from an undergrad in languages. And even more of a bloody leap from waitressing for a year. My brain isn’t ready for it.”

“You’re just knackered,” I say, “from doing evening-shifts full-time. You and psychology is a natural fit. You’ll be fine.”

“But most of the people on the course will already have degrees in psychology,” she says.

“You’re lying on the sofa reading, Man’s Search for Meaning, my husband says, “I mean who in their right minds would read something like that for fun?”

“Lots of people,” she says.

“Who?” he says.

“Mum,” she says, “she gave it to me.”

“Mum’s not in her right mind either,” he says, “who’s it by?”

“Viktor Frankl,” I say, “psychiatrist.”

“Holocaust survivor,” my daughter says, “I’ve nearly finished it.”

“Cheerful stuff then,” he says.

“There’s nothing wrong with thinking, Dad,” she says.

“There is with too much of it,” he says.

“As there is with too little,” she says.

“Shit,” he says, “I’m not sure about having a psychologist in the family. I think I’d rather have an ordinary old doctor.”

“I’m looking forward to you doing psychology,” I say.

Saturday night.

“What are you reading now?” my husband says.

“I’m not sure yet,” my daughter says, “I’ve only just started it. Ask Mum, it’s her book. But it’s about social control.”

My daughter turns her book over and reads from the back cover. “The psychology of social control,” she says.

“What sort of social control?” he says.

“The social control of women,” she reads, “by the use of commercial images of beauty. So it’s about the control of women.”

“By men,” I say, “loosely-speaking.”

My husband looks from me to my daughter, then back at me again. “Christ,” he says, “even if you wanted to, who’d be ******* able?”

“You want to then, Dad?” my daughter says.

“Want to what?” he says.

“Fancy a bit of social control do ya then, Dad?” my daughter continues, “after all these years, you feeling the lack?”

“You doing psychology is really, really fun,” I say.

Sunday evening.

“I’m reading this weird thing,” my daughter says, entering the sitting room with a book.

My husband looks up from the sofa.

“Over to you,” he says, looking at me, “it’s your turn.”

“What really interesting thing?” I say.

“About sensibilities,” she says, sitting down. “Oceanic, tragic and trivial, they’re called. Different types of consciousness. I don’t know much about it…”

“Are these different sensibilities innate?”

“Not sure,” she says, “probably a mix of nurture and nature..”

“So what exactly are these sensibilities then?” I say.

“The oceanic sensibility,” my daughter reads, “is an intimate sensation of identity with your surroundings, of sublime connection to other people, to one’s entire self, to nature, and to the universe as an indivisible whole.”

“Like when you score a goal,” my husband says.

“From what I read,” my daughter says, “the oceanic thing is more about the higher spiritual realm.”

“Oh,” my husband says disappointedly, “what are the other sensibilities again?”

“The ‘Trivial’, my daughter says, “which kind of speaks for itself and then the ‘Tragic’, which isn’t quite like it sounds.

“The Tragic, she continues, “is someone who’s sensitised to the sadness underneath things. Someone who’s both happy and sad at the same time. Bit more complex than that but that’s the idea.”

“Oh,” my husband says dispiritedly, “that must mean I’m a Trivial then.

“Though I’d rather be a Trivial than a Tragic,” he adds, perking up, “but then again, who wants to go through life as a Trivial when they could go through life as an....”

“Oceanic”, I interrupt, “like me!” For I’ve become attached all of a sudden to the idea of myself as an Oceanic, if only because I don’t like the idea of being a Tragic at all.

“Says here that a lot of insane people are Oceanics,” my daughter says, “stands to reason. I mean who goes around feeling at one with the universe all the time?”

But the truth is, the more my daughter reads about Tragics, the more I identify with them. And the more I identify with them, the more I don’t want to be one.

“I’m a sane Oceanic,” I say.

My daughter gives me a funny look.

“I’d say you’re a good solid Tragic, Mum,” she says, “no two ways about it.”

“Told you it was your turn,” my husband says, “now put the kettle on, Tragic.”

The truth is the more my daughter reads about Tragics, the more I identify with them. And the more I identify with them, the more I want to be one