Songs of the Dead by Derrick Jensen Page B

true.”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    That single word— absolutely , and all it implies—makes me move closer still. The skin on the front of her thighs is soft against mine.
    She continues, “The problem is a disease that causes people to consume the souls of others, a spiritual illness with a physical vector.”
    I nod, push in closer still. My hand rests on her hip.
    â€œReading Forbes made the complete insanity of the dominant culture more comprehensible to me. I mean, saying that people are merely greedy just doesn’t cut it. What’s the use of retiring rich on a planet being killed?”
    â€œSo you’re saying the behavior makes more sense when you see it as a symptom of a disease.”
    â€œIf I have the flu and I cough, and the little germies float through the air and happen to land in your mouth, and if those germs survive and reproduce inside of you. . . .”
    â€œYou shouldn’t use the word inside around me. You’ll distract me.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t use the phrase around me around me. Besides, you’ll be there soon, if I have anything to say about it.”
    â€œYou do.”
    â€œIf those germs survive then you might get the flu. You might start coughing, get a fever, chills. Well, if I have the cannibal sickness and I cough and you pick up the germs, you might turn into a cannibal, too. You’ll begin to consume the souls of others.”
    â€œI’ll become a capitalist.”
    She catches her breath and smiles. She says, “I can’t believe. . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She puts her lips together for a moment before she says, “Bingo. You become a member of this culture.”
    Seriously now, is it even remotely possible for life to get better than to be lying next to a beautiful, intelligent woman who’s wearing nothing but a t-shirt that reads, “Every time a developer dies an angel gets her wings,” with whom you’re having a conversation about things that matter?
    Evidently it is, because she begins to read to me. She holds the book in her left hand, making certain to never let it come between our faces. “‘Many people have examined the subjects of aggression, violence, imperialism, rape, and so on. I propose to do something a little different: first, I propose to examine these things from a Native American perspective; and second, from a perspective as free as possible from assumptions created by the very disease being studied. Finally, I will look at these evils, not simply as “bad” choices that men make, but as a genuine, very real epidemic sickness. Imperialists, rapists, and exploiters are not just people who have strayed down a wrong path. They are insane (unclean) in the true sense of that word. They are mentally ill, and, tragically, the form of soul-sickness that they carry is catching.’”
    â€œSo it’s not a metaphor.”
    â€œNot on your life.”
    â€œAnd it strikes me,” I say, “that just like germs grow well in certain physical environments and not so well in others, that certain social environments will make conditions ripe for irruptions of the cannibal sickness, too.”
    Another sharp breath, another smile.
    â€œWhat?” I ask again.
    She blushes, looks at the book, blinks twice, flips through the pages, and reads again, sometimes pausing to look at me, not for emphasis, but just to look. “‘The wétiko disease, the sickness of exploitation, has been spreading as a contagion for the past several thousand years. And as a contagion unchecked by most vaccines it tends to become worse rather than better with time. More and more people catch it, in more and more places; they become the true teachers of the young.”
    I look into her eyes. “This is really good.”
    â€œDo you want me to keep going?”
    â€œGod, yes.”
    â€œDo you think I’m