Jostein Gaarder - Sophie's World - A Novel About the History of Philosophy

“Well, I’ve never ...” exclaimed Mrs. Ingebrigtsen.

“Not on the table, children,” was Mrs. Amundsen’s only comment.

“Why not?” asked Alberto, turning toward her.

“That was an odd question.”

“It’s never wrong for a real philosopher to ask questions.”

A couple of the other boys who had not been kissed started to throw chicken bones up on the roof. This, too, elicited only a mild comment from Sophie’s mother:

“Would you mind not doing that. It’s such a nuisance when there are chicken bones in the gutter.”

“Sorry,” said one of the boys, whereupon they started throwing chicken bones over the garden hedge instead.

“I think it’s time to clear the plates away and serve the cake,” said Mrs. Amundsen finally. “Sophie and Joanna, will you give me a hand?”

On their way to the kitchen there was only time for a brief discussion.

“What made you kiss him?” Sophie said to Joanna.

“I sat looking at his mouth and couldn’t resist it. He is so cute!”

“How did it taste?”

“Not exactly like I’d imagined, but. . .”

“It was the first time, then?”

“But not the last!”

Coffee and cake were soon on the table. Alberto had started giving the boys some of his firecrackers when Sophie’s mother tapped on her coffee cup.

“I am not going to make a long speech,” she began, “but I only have this one daughter, and it is only this once that exactly one week and a day ago she reached the age of fifteen. As you see, we have spared no expense. There are twenty-four almond rings on the birthday cake, so there’s at least one whole ring for each of you. Those who help themselves first can take two rings, because we start from the top and the rings get bigger and bigger as you go. That’s the way it is in life too. When Sophie was a little girl, she went tripping around in tiny little rings. But as the years went by, the rings got bigger and bigger. Now they reach right over to the Old Town and back. And what is more, with a father who is at sea so much, she makes calls to all parts of the world. We congratulate you on your fifteenth birthday, Sophie!”

“Delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Ingebrigtsen.

Sophie was not sure whether she was referring to her mother, the speech, the birthday cake, or Sophie herself.

The guests applauded, and one of the boys threw a firecracker up into the pear tree. Joanna left the table and pulled Jeremy up off his chair. They lay down on the grass and started kissing each other again. After a while they rolled in under the red-currant bushes.

“Nowadays it’s the girl who takes the initiative,” said Mr. Ingebrigtsen.

Having said that, he got up and went over to the red-currant bushes where he stood observing the phenomenon at close quarters. The rest of the guests followed suit. Only Sophie and Alberto remained sitting at the table. The other guests now stood in a semicircle around Joanna and Jeremy.

“They can’t be stopped,” said Mrs. Ingebrigtsen, not without a certain pride.

“No, generation follows generation,” said her husband.

He looked around, expecting applause for his well-chosen words. When the only response was a few silent nods, he added: “It can’t be helped.”

Sophie saw from a distance that Jeremy was trying to unbutton Joanna’s white shirt, which was already covered with green stains from the grass. She was fumbling with his belt.

“Don’t catch cold!” said Mrs. Ingebrigtsen.

Sophie looked despairingly at Alberto.

“It’s happening more quickly than I thought,” he said. “We have to get away from here as soon as possible. I just have to make a short speech.”

Sophie clapped her hands loudly.

“Could everyone please come back and sit down again? Alberto is going to make a speech.”

Everyone except Joanna and Jeremy came drifting back to their places at the table.

“Are you really going to make a speech?” asked He-lene Amundsen. “How charming!”

“Thank you.”

“And you like going for walks, I know. It is so important to stay in shape. And it’s so much nicer when you have a dog to keep you company. Hermes, isn’t that its name?”

Alberto stood up. “Dear Sophie,” he began. “Since this is a philosophical garden party, I will make a philosophical speech.”

This was greeted by a burst of applause.

“In this riotous company, a dose of reason might not be out of place. But whatever happens, let us not forget to congratulate Sophie on her fifteenth birthday.”

He had hardly finished these sentences when they heard the drone of an approaching sports plane. It flew in low over the garden. Behind it streamed a long tail banner saying: “Happy 15th birthday!”

This led to renewed applause, even louder than before.

“There, you see?” Mrs. Amundsen cried joyfully. “This man can do more than set off fireworks!”

“Thank you. It was a mere bagatelle. During the past few weeks, Sophie and I have carried out a major philosophical investigation. We shall here and now reveal our findings. We shall reveal the innermost secrets of our existence.”

The little gathering was now so quiet that the only sounds were the twittering of the birds and a few subdued noises from the red-currant bushes. “Go on,” said Sophie.

“After a thorough philosophical study—which has led from the first Greek philosophers to the present day—we have discovered that we are living our lives in the mind of a major who is at this moment serving as a UN observer in Lebanon. He has also written a book about us for his daughter back in Lillesand. Her name is Hilde Mailer Knag, and she was fifteen years old on the same day as Sophie. The book about us lay on her bedside table when she woke up early on the morning of June 15. To be more precise, it was in the form of a ring binder. Even as we speak, she can feel the final pages of the ring binder under her index finger.”

A feeling of apprehension had begun to spread around the table.

“Our existence is therefore neither more nor less than a kind of birthday diversion for Hilde Mailer Knag. We have all been invented as a framework for the major’s philosophical education of his daughter. This means, for example, that the white Mercedes at the gate is not worth a cent. It’s just a bagatelle. It’s worth no more than the white Mercedes that drives around and around inside the head of a poor UN major, who has just this minute sat down in the shade of a palm tree to avoid getting sunstroke. The days are hot in Lebanon, my friends.”

“Garbage!” exclaimed the financial adviser. “This is absolutely pure nonsense.”

“You are welcome to your opinion,” Alberto continued unabashed, “but the truth is that it is this garden party which is absolutely pure nonsense. The only dose of reason in the whole party is this speech.”

At that, the financial adviser got up and said:

“Here we are, trying our best to run a business, and to make sure we have insurance coverage against every kind of risk. Then along comes this know-it-all who tries to destroy it all with his ‘philosophical’ allegations.”

Alberto nodded in agreement.

“There is indeed no insurance to cover this kind of philosophical insight. We are talking of something worse than a natural catastrophe, sir. But as you are probably aware, insurance doesn’t cover those either.”

“This is not a natural catastrophe.”

“No, it is an existential catastrophe. For example, just take a look under the currant bushes and you will see what I mean. You cannot insure yourself against the collapse of your whole life. Neither can you insure yourself against the sun going out.”

“Do we have to put up with this?” asked Joanna’s father, looking at his wife.