Dear Diary,
It is interesting to speculate about the true meaning of insanity. Is it, as many believe, the loss of comprehension and understanding of one's surroundings to the point where a person cannot interact appropriately with the world to the satisfaction of those around them? If so, then I am clearly insane. Is it instead the lack of awareness of the surroundings or of one's actions? In this instance, I am not insane. I can very clearly see what is going on around me. I know how I am acting and what I am doing - true, my actions would not appear logical to anyone but myself, but I am at least aware of this fact. It would be easy to snap back to normality - to act as others expect me to. However, in doing this I would be denying myself the right to act as I please in a society whose norms clearly were not designed to accommodate me.
Genius too, is misunderstood in our own petty, self-indulgent world. Does a genius really understand what he is doing when he first observes the flight of birds or the level of water in his bathtub? Could Einstein have ever supposed as he stared out of the window instead of paying attention in class that his eccentric and irrational behaviour masked an intellect unsurpassed in the twentieth century? No doubt his impulsive nature would have been cleverly controlled today by ritellin, the parents' nightmare and teachers' helper in the cases of all disruptive children. A genius - refusing to conform to society's norms and therefore reaching beyond his potential at birth, and beyond his wildest dreams.
At what point does genius become insanity? I am no genius - above average intelligence certainly, I would not be where I am today if I lacked some kind of cognitive ability that was well above that of the common or garden working man, but nevertheless, I am no genius. Perhaps it is because of this fact that I am not entitled to dub my actions eccentric, but merely insane. Insanity seems too all-encompassing a term however - I am no crackpot, I do not belong in an institution. Yet, clearly, I am far from normal.
At no point was this more evident than in an incident which occurred twenty-three years ago. I can add little to this brief description of the events as reported in the Evening Standard, so will simply enclose the article I found earlier today for my future perusal.
Dentist missing - believed dead
Dr Wilbur Wonka, D.D.S., 58, of Kronos Street, London, is reported missing after a series of as yet unexplained circumstances. Neighbours of the Kronos Street practice where Wonka has worked for the last ten years reported hearing an argument at a little after four o'clock this afternoon. A young boy was seen to leave the premises shortly afterwards. The child - allegedly a Wilhelm Wonka, the son of Wonka senior - had clearly packed his bags and was last seen heading in the direction of the local train station.
Shortly afterwards, there was a series of explosions from number 13, Kronos Street and the house collapsed in on itself. Mrs Brown of number 15 said that "there was an almighty crash and the walls started shaking. I hardly had time to get out before my crockery fell from the cupboards and the whole of next door was reduced to rubble."
Police are appealing for any witnesses to this tragedy, which is believed to have claimed the life of Wonka. No body has as yet been recovered. The public are also asked to keep a lookout for young Wilhelm Wonka, a child of fifteen, short for his age, with brown hair and brown eyes. He is distinctive because of the heavy brace fitted around his head and to his lower jaw. Wonka senior leaves no other living relatives.
Dead. Interesting how the press, even twenty-three years ago, could get something so very wrong. How very typical of the paparazzi to take a small thing such as a simple accident and turn it into sensationalist claptrap. Yes, the house was destroyed. Yes, Wilhelm Wonka did head off to the train station. No, Wilbur Wonka did not die in the wreckage of his dental practice - rather I was knocked out and staggered to Malcolm Granger's house, a local doctor, for treatment. Malcolm Granger - a brilliant man with connections in the construction industry. The imagination of a lump of lard, but nevertheless, a keen intellect. He would later be important in reconstructing the dental practice at a site far out of town, but was destined to die in a car accident before the project was completed.
The press did not publish this of course. Once it was discovered that the renowned Dr Wonka had escaped death, the story ceased to be interesting enough to print. Even Wilhelm Wonka, the innocent child, was forgotten in the endless clamour for stories that would encourage Joe Public to buy newspapers. Pah. Even Malcolm Granger's death barely merited a mention - although the family's tribute to him in the obituaries section was touching.
Wilhelm was safe, although it was no thanks to the press. Somehow, the lost little boy from the south of London was forgotten over the years in favour of the reclusive, brilliant chocolatier. The chocolatier who would revolutionise the world of candy before being brought down by Slugworth and the others, only to rise triumphant.
Meanwhile I languished here in this reconstruction of a life I had destroyed. I had salvaged most of my dental records and searched diligently for Willy's small collection of toys and personal possessions. I remember cuddling a stuffed animal - a lamb - that Willy had loved as a child. It was battered and torn, but it was his and what I wouldn't have given to take him into my arms on that cold autumn night, to have held him close in that enveloping gloom. He had been warned that I wouldn't be there when he returned - who was to say what he thought when he came back and found the house missing? If only I hadn't been so distracted when he had stormed out. I'd had an emergency patient and left the laughing gas on. I went into the living room, struck a match and… woke up an hour later bleeding from the head.
I cannot honestly remember when I decided to rebuild the house. Or why I chose to do so far out of town and as removed from my previous life as possible. I can only surmise that it was a combination of guilt at having failed my son, remorse at having been so harsh towards him, and mild concussion. Nevertheless, with the help of Malcolm's connections the house was rebuilt exactly as it had appeared in Kronos Street. I sent cards to my ex-patients, informing them of my new premises. Most returned, although I did lose some of the lazier patients who were not prepared to travel. Over the years, less and less patients came to my door until finally I was forced to start drawing my pension.
I am now a broken man. I accept this fully. Rarely, someone will knock on my door in need of a dentist in an emergency. Other dentists are of course too busy with their regular appointments to accommodate them. I greet, treat and dismiss each potential new client with the usual blend of dry dentist humour (which even I have ceased to find amusing) and politeness. Perhaps one day they will stop coming. Alone in the long intervals between patients, I pace this isolated prison of my own building and stop in front of a wall of scraps of paper and chocolate bar wrappers. Willy. He's alive. He's well. And he didn't need me after all. How ridiculous it all seems now - the stupid argument over whether he was allowed to be a chocolatier. His storming out with naught but his wallet and a few spare clothes. How on Earth he'd survived, let alone flourished, was and is still beyond my comprehension. My failure as a father to run after my son. My failure as a human being when I did not turn the world upside down to find him again.
He was the genius. I can recognise it now. But I can also recognise that other family trait. The awareness that the Wonkas don't fit into society. That we are somehow - odd. Strange. Eccentric. Weird. Insane. Or perhaps simply very, very sane. Sane enough to recognise all the faults in the world. Sane enough to see how cruel and unjust the world was. Sane enough to want no part in that world any longer. He had his factory - I had my office. He was a reclusive chocolatier - I was an equally lonely dentist. People loved him for his chocolate - and hated me for my profession. Both of us took their money. Both detested every last one of them.
And now here we are. He at the peak of his career and I… well, let us be frank. I am at the end of mine. No patients. Not really. And no friends or relatives. If I died tomorrow, there would be no-one to shed a tear. I wouldn't be surprised if Willy believed the newspapers that prematurely reported my death. Any tears he might have wept on my behalf were no doubt spent years ago.
He's rich, famous and powerful. Therefore he is allowed to be a genius and an eccentric one at that. The press love him - often, reports of strange music and tiny silhouettes dancing in the windows of the factory appear, then fade as quickly as they surfaced. Wonka has a new chocolate bar. Wonka is losing money. Wonka is being stolen from. Wonka closes factory. Wonka reopens. Wonka, Wonka, Wonka…
I should have told him to follow his dream. It's what his mother would have wanted. I should have run after him. Should have spent every last penny on finding him. But now it is too late and I see that all too clearly. All too well. And yet I continue in this prideful, ridiculous rut. Get up. Get ready for work. Go downstairs. Wait for a patient. Do not try to contact Willy - he clearly doesn't want to know you. My one exception was Christmas. Every year for the first five years Willy went missing, I would cook a Christmas dinner and wait, hoping that he would turn up on the doorstep. He never did. But the hope took a long time to fade. Of course, it did eventually.
It's too late. I can never change the past and there is very little future. No sense in worrying about it now. And therein lies the clue that I am not normal. I can quite dispassionately acknowledge that my son is lost to me forever. I haven't cried about that fact for years. Which cannot be sane. Which cannot be crazy, because I recognise the fault.
Today's newspapers have announced another one of Willy's madcap schemes. He's giving away tours to children. How strange. Part of me resents the fact I am excluded because of my age. What I wouldn't give to see inside that factory, to be near him again.
Dreams. Willy had always had better dreams than me. Dreams to be more than the fate I would have chosen for him. Dreams to be the best, to be loved, to do what he wanted and what was right. My only dream was to turn him into a copy of myself. Now, it is to see him again. Yet I cannot allow myself to act and make this dream a reality. How very, Wonka, of me.
I close now. Perhaps I will not write again. Perhaps some day I will have the courage to go to that factory and stare at the window hopefully. Maybe he'd look out and see me and he'd… What would he do? Run out and weep with joy? Or laugh at the ridiculousness of my going to see him now after all these years? Would he hate me or forgive me?
Some questions are best left unanswered. Until next time, goodnight.