The carrion-eaters

It'll probably never happen to you. Maybe I should pretend it will: try to grab you by the self-interest and say, look, consider that this weapon you're playing around with might one day be pointed at you—but it won't. You will never be Ardayed. You will never have to sit helplessly while your entire life is systematically disassembled in front of you. You will never be on the front page of every newspaper in the country. There will never be huge crowds delightedly rummaging around in your entrails, the chirp and titter of a million sparrows pecking at the flesh of a dead elephant: you're safe from all that. Not because you're innocent. You're every bit as guilty as he is. Nobody makes it through life without swaddling themselves in a thick coating of lies. You lie about yourself so often and so automatically that you almost start to believe it. The only difference is that when Jason Arday lied he went big. Huge, rough-hewn, monumental fictions, like 'I couldn't read or write until I was 18' and 'I ran nine marathons with a broken leg' and 'I had a brain tumour removed two weeks before my viva and had to relearn everything I'd written in my dissertation' and 'a mysterious South American shaman woman prophesied that I was destined for great deeds.' You don't lie like that. All your delusions are tiny, minuscule things. 'I'm a good person.' 'I am satisfactory in bed.' 'The people who dislike me are just jealous.' It takes a greatness of soul to build fabulations the way Jason Arday did. You need a Promethean spirit to decide to create yourself again out of nothing, and real courage to bet your entire being on lies that can so easily be disproven. But you are small and cowardly and you will spend all your life scurrying around in the undergrowth of the world, never poking out your head to look at the sky, and the thing that happened to Professor Jason Arday will never, ever happen to you.