“Do we have time?” I asked. He smiled sadly. “If only,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. He nodded back in the direction of the hotel.
We walked in silence, Augustus a half step in front of me. I was too scared to ask if I had reason to be scared.
So there is this thing called Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
Basically, this guy Abraham Maslow became famous for his theory that certain needs must be met before you can even have other kinds of needs.
It looks like this: Once your needs for food and water are fulfilled, you move up to the next set of needs, security,
and then the next and the next, but the important thing is that, according to Maslow,
until your physiological needs are satisfied, you can’t even worry about security or social needs,
let alone “self-actualization,” which is when you start to, like, make art and think about morality and quantum physics and stuff.
According to Maslow, I was stuck on the second level of the pyramid, unable to feel secure in my health
and therefore unable to reach for love and respect and art and whatever else, which is, of course, utter horseshit:
The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.
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