Losing Treeness

Perhaps they'll regrow, says Saint Roley.

The Scarabée looks up at Sartre.

No, I think not, says Sartre.

He thinks not, says Terence.

Not what? asks Baldy.

Perhaps they'll regrow, says Terence.

That would be good, says Baldy.

Except that's what he thinks not, says Terence. Weren't you listening?

Ask Gaius, says Belle. He's the natural historian.

I'm already checking, says Gaius. The legs will not regrow. The consensus seems to be that a beetle can manage with a minimum of three legs, but of course, will be disadvantaged. A beetle with no legs at all must be kept in confinement, on a soft low bed, fed and watered, and prevented from drowning......

CURSES! cries the Scarabée. This is not what I hoped for from life!

Think of the beetroot, says Sartre.

The Scarabée is surprised. He had not asked for advice. What does it mean, anyway?

He may never find out.

Because who should enter but Arthur and Sweezus and Irma.

Irma! cries Belle. What are you doing here?

Just happened to bump into these guys, says Irma. At the Hip Hop Répétition.

Are you here with your family? asks Belle.

No, says Irma. I'm here on my own. What's that on the table? Yuck. Who smashed the beetle?

Our cousin's Virgin, says Terence. Then she was sorry. Look at us, we're on a mission.

You look colourful, says Irma. Oh, hi Gaius!

Irma, says Gaius. How nice. And this is Jean Paul Sartre. He's travelling to Paris with us in the morning.

Jean Paul Sartre, says Irma. The philosopher?

Ahem. Sartre tries to look wise.

You wrote that book we had to read in year eleven, says Irma. The one where you stare at a tree and the tree turns all scary.

La Nauseé, says Belle. I read it too. It was good. Existential. Like he isn't really seeing the tree as a tree but as something terrifying, because it has lost all its treeness.

Yeah! says Irma. I remember. Lost its treeness. Hey, what's that perfume?

Japanese Rose, says Belle.

It's gorgeous, says Irma.

The point is, says Sartre, not liking the frivolous change of subject, everything is gratuitous. To exist is simply to be there. The tree and its roots are just there, each of its qualities being superfluous.

The Scarabée wonders if this sort of thinking might be helpful.

But Irma is offended. She has read What A Plant Knows.

Superfluous, says Irma. It's clear you know nothing of plants.

Enlighten me, says Sartre.

Don't worry. She is about to.