Page 26 of HER: A Psychological Thriller
A philosophy professor once stood before his class with a large empty mayonnaise jar. He filled the jar to the top with large rocks and asked his students if the jar was full.
The students said that yes, the jar was indeed full.
He then added small pebbles to the jar, and gave the jar a bit of a shake so the pebbles could disperse themselves among the larger rocks. Then he asked again, “Is the jar full now?”
The students agreed that the jar was still full.
The professor then poured sand into the jar to fill up any remaining empty space. The students agreed that the jar was now completely full.
The professor went on to explain that the jar represents everything that is in one's life. The rocks are equivalent to the most important stuff in life, such as spending time with your family and maintaining proper health. This means that if the pebbles and the sand were lost, the jar would still be full, and your life would still have meaning.
The pebbles represent the things in your life that matter, but that you could live without. The pebbles are certainly things that give your life meaning (such as your job, house, hobbies, and friendships
), but they are not critical for you to have a meaningful life. I don’t agree about the job part—something tells me Ann Banks has never known a life of unemployment. But I digress. Her point is, these things often come and go, and are not permanent or essential to your overall well-being. So, she’s partially correct. I’ll give her that.
Finally, the sand represents the remaining filler things in your life. This could be small things such as social media or fake friends or other people’s opinions. These things don't mean much to your life as a whole, and focusing on them is likely only done to waste time.
The metaphor here is that if you start with putting sand into the jar, you will not have room for rocks or pebbles. This holds true with the things you let into your life. If you spend all of your time on the small and insignificant things, you will run out of room for the things that are actually important.
It makes sense now why she got so angry before. Ann invited me because I’m important to her. She’s asking me to be her rock.
Now, she’s clearing her throat, and she’s asking me if I’m even listening. I am.
“You need to get out of the house…” she states. “Meet people.”
“It’s not as easy for some of us,” I reply, thinking of the sand, considering what she says about fillers. “I’m not good with people.”
“Now, Sadie…” Her tone is laced with warning. “Don’t confuse the truth with an excuse.”
“I’m not.”
“Good, so you’ll come, then?”
“Yes,” I answer. I can hear the smile in her voice.
And that is that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SADIE
Ann tricks me. We aren’t going to some literary luncheon, as I’d assumed. Nope. She takes me to a funeral. Her lighting guy’s to be exact. When I protest, Ann brushes it off. She says the experience will be good for us. She says we can do hard things together. It’s not in her book, that platitude. I checked. She says strong winds grow strong roots. She tells me she intends to tell the man’s widow this in person. I think she’s joking, but with her you never know.
Her good mood and her good looks wear on me. She looks amazing, in a made-up, sensational kind of way—a way that knows it will be looked at and appreciated. It’s the best I’ve seen her, actually. Her hair is down and it falls in waves around her pale and delicate face, past her shoulders, very nearly touching the small of her back. By the time most women reach Ann’s age, they’ve long since chopped their hair off. Usually into a neat little bob, or as they say, into something more manageable. But not her.
I ask her about it, and she tells me she’d rather die first—and that likely the cause would be boredom. Who wants something manageable, she asks. Where’s the fun in that?
Ann appreciates transcendence, she says, which is why she’s obsessed with funerals. She crashes them like weddings. Or at least, she tells me, she used to—when she had more time, by which she means before she was famous.
Already, I am not a fan. But then, no one I ever knew could afford to be buried properly, so Ann tells me it’s not like I can be sure.
“Lighting guy,” as she refers to him, has an open casket, which makes me pretty sure, pretty quick. His real name is Darryl, and his funeral is quiet and depressing. Family members and friends sit shoulder to shoulder, tight-lipped and tense, in rows divided by a long aisle. It’s like a wedding, only less joyous, a house divided with his and her families on either side.
Death brings out the worst in people.
Ann knows this, so I know this.
It’s amazing, what they can do with makeup, Ann says.