What Sapìa showed me was thus twofold: 1. Others don’t necessarily understand the strangeness of our predicament. This sounds simple, but when you live with it, that’s not so obvious, and 2. Envy, not pride, might best explain how we feel. The desire to be loved, coupled with (admittedly unwelcome, even within ourselves) smugness might seem confusing to those who do not suffer it, but, from within the diagnosis of envy makes perfect sense.
I am not merely prideful, perhaps not even primarily prideful. I am envious. Not of others’ wealth, not of their sex lives or something tangible, but of their relationships, their bonds, those intangible things that manifest themselves as good ideas, well-written pieces, or even family pets.
One other thing struck me. The editor glosses this passage: “Her account […] is tinged throughout with a lively self-mockery. This, since few sins take themselves with such savage seriousness as jealousy, is in itself a sign of her change of heart.”
Oh boy. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
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