Or, how I read egocentrically. No matter what I read, a quick glance shows that it is actually about me. No, it’s true. Be it an autobiographical memoir from post-colonial French Africa, or a melodrama set in early 20th century New England, I am sure that whoever wrote it is writing about me. Why wouldn’t they be? As for those themes and narratives that don’t readily apply to my life? The author’s intent, naturally, was for them to recede into the background! Never mind that the main character is a tortured, nihilist homosexual. Or that she (I’m all for breaking down gender identities) suffered the traumatic loss of a parent at an early age. It’s not important to note that my own, personal tragedies culminated in moving to Oregon — not that nice coastal part, mind you, but EASTERN Oregon — in middle school. The real core of any literary work, once we look past the superfluous adornments of setting and plot, resides in a discussion of my personal issues.

French Literature class discussions are no exception. Nostalgia hits the moment I meet the impressionable Arab boy in Le Gone du Châaba, who writes too well and studies too hard to fit in with his peers, who is Algerian and not French enough, then is French and not Algerian enough. He uses his favorite word and emotion, honte (“shame”), to portray his mother, his neighborhood (the Arab Châaba), and everything that he comes from. He overanalyzes, he wallows in the reader’s pity, and he has none of the ignorant strength and willful pride of his peers, those qualities expected of any self-respecting, socially aware minority.

Wow. Azouz Begag must have been living in Vancouver 7 years ago and telepathically took notes on all my thoughts whenever I walked to school in 4th grade. He must have also changed the main character’s country of origin from Chinese to Algerian to protect the innocent — me.

Simone Schwarz-Bart must have been similarly using me as a case study. Her character Wilnor in the play Ton Beau Capitaine is who I would be if I were a Haitian laborer who emigrated to Guadeloupe and became separated from my wife in order to earn more money so that we could enjoy a better life together. Imagine what my disappointment would be if, as in the script, my wife cheats on me with the cute young hunk of messenger meat that I send, to deliver the sweets and gifts that I bought her, with the money I earned through my newfound loneliness, social marginalization, and endless toil?

The point is not, however, that Wilnor’s wife is to be judged — some even think that the play is overtly feminist in its thorough (and emotionally real) justification for her actions. To me, however, the message of the play is not that simple either, although it is simple enough. Forget about gender roles and trying to draw a moral line between the husband and wife — the most moving and meaningful sensation that the script conveys is that of isolation, as felt by both characters. The emotional isolation of the woman in the absence of her husband, the economic and social isolation of Haitians with respect to their more prosperous Caribbean neighbors, and the ultimate, metaphysical isolation of both individuals in a union that they don’t — and never did — comprehend.

Wilnor is betrayed by his wife, perhaps, but more importantly, he is betrayed by an illusion — that he loved Marie-Ange and that this love would make her understandable, controllable. He loved Marie-Ange as someone who wasn’t completely human, and when she was humanized, he no longer knew her, even though he still believed himself in love.

If I ever lack empathy, this explains it all. There’s nothing like the unmitigated isolation of emotional closeness with another human being. On the off chance that we get far enough to see our lover’s soul laid bare, we probably wouldn’t recognize it for what it is. Recognizing their humanity, on the other hand, does seem possible, though certainly not easy. Hopefully, though, that’ll be all we need.