The Possession of Mr Cave by Matt Haig Read Free Book Online

equivalent of a Michelangelo but
there is no need for one. They accept their existence in a way
we never will. They do not try to build artistic mirrors –
books, paintings, orchestral symphonies – by which to capture
and reflect their own nature. Even if they could, they wouldn't.
They have that understanding in-built. All these human things,
all these arts, these religions, these sciences, what are they really
but ways of trying to make up that difference? If we could
accept like animals then there would be no Sistine Ceiling,
no Madame Bovary , no Fantasy and Fugue. Out of our
mistakes, out of our pain, arrives everything we love in this
world. All that humans create serves solely to lessen the terror
of existence. The terror that Beethoven and Keats and Van
Gogh and every supreme artist has ever felt, the collective
terror of a humanity that still stumbles around, looking at
dark and untrustworthy shadows rather than true reflections.
    If we found a perfect art, a perfect mirror to reflect our
plight, one which helped us see ourselves from every angle,
then it would mean the end of all creative endeavour. Art
would have killed itself. Or it would live on in the way it
lives in horses and cats and sheep. The art of living, and
letting live, that our human souls have yet to learn.

It was a week after Rome that I first met Imogen. I say 'met'
although I realise this is somewhat of an overstatement. It would
be more accurate to say that I spotted her in various locations
around my house, the way a birdwatcher might spot a chaffinch
in his garden. Every time I got closer, trying to identify her
chief characteristics, you both immediately took flight.
    Now I was close-up, I didn't like what I saw. What had
happened to your other friends? What had happened to Holly,
for instance? I used to enjoy hearing your mini string section
when you practised together. Or what about that girl from
the stables? Abigail, was it? That good old-fashioned hearty
girl, who loved looking around the shop. I always thought
she was lovely.
    These were studious, freshly aired girls. The type of friends
that justified your school fees.
    Imogen was something different. How different, I couldn't
quite tell, but I needed to find out.
    'You must be Imogen,' I said, to the face behind the fringe,
when I cornered you both on the stairs.
    'I must,' she told the carpet, and then you gave me that
unforgiving stare you had recently cultivated, as if I had
violated some secret pact simply by identifying your friend.
    Did she know about what had happened in Rome? I have
no idea what you had told her about me or what you said
to each other in your room. Your music drowned out your
voices, and that was probably its point.
    Did you ever read the book on philosophy I bought you
for your birthday? If you did you might remember the section
on Plato's cave. Well, let me tell you that to be a parent is
to be permanently confined to that cave, forever trying to
understand shadows on the wall. Shadows that only half
make sense, and may be easily and disastrously misunderstood.
You can never understand what really goes on in the
world your child keeps from view. The reports you hear from
her mouth are the shadows against the rocks, shadows that
can't be interpreted without stepping outside, into the light.
    'Terence?' Cynthia was calling me from the shop. 'Terence?
Terence?'
    You see, that is what I had decided to do. Ever since Rome
I had decided to stop trusting your mouth and start trusting
my eyes.
    'We're going out,' you told me, that Wednesday afternoon.
    'Oh?' I said. 'May I ask where?'
    'Terence?' called Cynthia, her voice rising now to a
theatrical pitch.
    'In a minute,' I called back. Then softer to you: 'Where?'
    'Around the shops', you said, in the minimalist fashion I
was becoming used to.
    'Fine,' I said. 'Fine.'
    You expected more, I could see that. Some kind of obstruction.
    But I gave you nothing.
    'We'll be back,' you said. 'Later.'
    'What time?' you