"A great philosopher once said that the reason for all disagreement is confusion, and that if we only agreed on what was happening, we could change it." My uncle steeples his long, pale fingers. Oddly, while his digits are bony, the rest of his body is swathed in corpulent fat, ending at the bulbous wrists and ankles. His smile is meant to be reassuring, but I'm having trouble watching it. Instead, my eyes are following his tapping fingertips. At least I'm not staring at his skull again. (I can't help but ask myself why a judge needs a skull. Perspective, or curiosity? How he got it is a mystery I'm not quite ready to explore.)
"Oh?" I reply. It's almost certainly the wrong answer. For one thing, it has no argument, no bearing on that which preceded it. For another, it isn't really an answer.
Accordingly, he frowns, irritated creases accentuating the furrows in his brow. A moment later, the creases are gone. I can't help it: I'm impressed. It isn't often that Roger Harrison restrains himself to a gesture when an argument is at hand. He obviously wants to stay focused.
"Do you know what he was talking about?" he asks, again forcing his features into a cheerful smile. 'There are wrong answers, but we'll let them slide,' says his expression.
"Truth?" I ask, leaning back a little in case I've said something foolish.
"Yes, that's right. Truth." He sinks into his plush office chair, looking up at the ceiling. I can see his eyes beginning to glaze over as he prepares for his favorite activity: lecturing. "But not just any truth. The philosopher was talking about internal truth.
"You see, we can verify external truth. If you say it's black, and I say it's white, and we can't both be right, we merely need to look. However, human disagreements come about because we can't always check. Hence the confusion. Are you following me?"
I nod. What other option do I have? (Of course, if I didn't nod, he'd only note his irritation at my slowness and re-explain.) He continues, satisfied:
"There are two particularly sticky kinds of truth in classical philosophy: truths of the universe, and truths of the soul. The former are now primarily worked upon by scientists. Good for them, I suppose, although it does narrow the range of philosophical debate. The other kind are more difficult to reconcile.
"Let us say, for instance, that a man steals a bag, filled with enough food to feed twenty for a day, from Abnegation, who were planning to give it to the Factionless. Would you call that a moral action?"
"No?"
"Ah!" he replies, suddenly leaping to his feet and knocking his chair to the ground. (I wonder if it happens often. Maybe I can get a look at the chair later to check for scuffs.) One of his fingers is suddenly in my face, wagging cheerfully. "But what if I told you that he knew of five starving Factionless children who weren't on the list, and that he needed to feed them for a week? Then would it be moral?"
"Yes?"
"Not necessarily." Seeming to only then notice his chair, he picks it up and rearranges it behind his desk. "Who's to say that the children's lives are worth more than those of the other Factionless? Or that he should be taking care of them when he can't support them? Or that he has any right to take food meant for others, for any reason?
"My point is," he continues, seating himself again, "that the right thing to do depends on where you're standing and what you value. That's why it's important that we have more than one faction. Each one has a different view of reality, and it's only together that we can determine anything close to objective morality." He confidently pulls a pipe out of his desk, certain that I've understood him. I watch him light it, trying to determine his meaning. Finally, I admit to myself that I have to ask.
"Um, Mr. Harrison? Uncle?" I ask. He gives me an indulgent glance across the pipe.
"Yes?"
"Why am I here?"
"I just told you."
"No, you didn't. I thought that the point of being in Candor was to be clear. You're not being clear."
"True. I am, however, being honest." He holds up a finger to stay my next question. "Watch this. I love showing people this one." He sucks deeply on his pipe and purses his lips. A moment later, a perfect ring of smoke drifts into the air above me. He grins.
"That never gets old. Now, as to your problem. I don't think that you're being as honest with me as I am with you. Is that true?" He leans forward, suddenly menacing.
This is something I could really get in trouble for. Ironically, lying about lying would get me out of it. But that wasn't how I was raised. The answer tumbles out before I can think of it.
"I'm not sure I want to be in Candor."
"That's fine, that's fine." He waves a cloud of smoke away casually, somehow suggesting with the gesture that my concerns are just as immaterial.
"It is? But I'm not sure. It's just, I didn't get Candor on the test."
"Let me ask you something: why didn't you tell your parents, or me, that you were thinking about this? Or what you did get on the test?"
"I didn't want to disappoint you." I realize my mistake the moment after I speak.
"And to avoid disappointing us, you deliberately concealed the truth?"
"… Yes, only I didn't think of it like that. I didn't want to – "
"Hurt our feelings? That's politeness, you know. Not very Candor of you."
"No, it's not."
We sit in silence for another moment. With nothing better to do, I lift his skull and study it, testing its surprising weight and poking my fingers into the eye holes, almost expecting them to recoil from my touch. They don't.
"Uncle?" I say without looking up.
"Yes?" He might be watching me; he might not. It depends purely on whether he's interested in what I'm saying.
"What if I'd told you? Would you think I should be in Candor then?"
He sighs. "Ephraim, you've missed my point. It doesn't matter what I think. What matters is where you think you belong. Only you can tell what your intentions are, how you see the world, and how best to apply that to your decision."
"… Oh." It's probably the wrong answer, but for once, he doesn't seem to mind.
"Do you understand now? I wouldn't want you making a mistake here that could affect the rest of your life." As he says it, I realize what he's not saying: my parents know about this, too. If he realized it, he wouldn't have kept it from them. Even if he were the type to spare people's feelings (which, obviously, he isn't), he would've considered it important that they not unintentionally put pressure on me to stay with them.
"That's… kind of you," I say.
"No, it's honest of me. It would degrade the faction system if people didn't select on the basis of their thoughts and inclinations as opposed to family ties."
"Ah, but wouldn't an attachment to family imply an attachment to their values system?" I counter. It feels natural, normal, unlike the rest of this conversation. I've been arguing my entire life.
"Perhaps, but consider this: if you're still having doubts, even when attached to your family, doesn't that suggest that those doubts should be taken seriously?"
He's right, and he knows it. That's why he's a judge. He's thought about it, and he's determined that this is the logical conclusion.
"So tell me," he continues, leaning forward with open curiosity, "Do you think you belong here?"
"… No."
"Do you know where you do belong?"
"Yes."
"So wouldn't a refusal to go where you belong imply not only a betrayal of self, but a betrayal of the values your parents raised you with?"
"Yes." It comes out as an annoyed groan, although I'm not feeling annoyed. I'm feeling panicky.
He rises, and out of habit, I rise with him. (I can almost hear the words " – for the Honorable Judge Harrison.") "Then you know what to do."
It isn't a question.
…
"Harrison, Ephraim."
I walk forward without hesitation. I don't look behind me, but somehow, I'm certain that my parents are smiling. They don't care where I end up, so long as it's where I belong. And they know that while my new faction will change me, I'll remember what they've taught me. I'll remember truth.
Moral reality is what is right to us. When my blood hits the earth, it feels right.
It feels real.