Make Somewhere

“I was raised badly,” remarked the young lady of refined sensibilities. She was holding a cup of tea quite properly with her little finger bent outwards, which belied her contention. It was obvious to anyone that she had the very best of manners.

Mr. Gurdjieff sat across from her at the little round table they often shared in the Gardens of Purgatory. Godflies, which deliver irritating little bites of conscience when they are present, fluttered around in small swarms, as is common in the cool of morning. Later in the day, the heat and intensity of the events of the day often drive them into hiding and one automatically forgets themselves.

Mr. Gurdjieff was holding an old-fashioned little crowquill pen, the kind that has to be dipped in an ink bottle over and over again when writing, which he tapped on the table for gentle emphasis as he spoke.

The crowquill is a tiny thing, and a very precise and demanding writing instrument. It allows no mistakes.

"Everyone was raised badly," he pointed out. "My nursemaid sucked on cocaine lozenges. How much worse can childhood get? It doesn't matter how you were raised."