The Statue

In Kint, greatness tends to look too ordinary for a statue.

---

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Welcome to Dispatches from Kint. Conditions remain inconclusive. This week's report concerns a statue. Statues, as you may know, are usually built to remember someone important. A conqueror, a founder, occasionally a poet whose relatives were particularly persuasive. But the statue in question has presented the citizens of Kent with a slightly more complicated question. Who exactly deserves to be remembered? The matter began innocently enough. During a routine meeting of the Ministry of Cultural Memory, a clerk named Halran Pebb observed that Kent possessed remarkably few statues for a town of its historical significance. We have the statue of Founder Talpin, he said, consulting a dusty ledger. Yes, replied the minister, and we have the statue of Talpin's horse. Yes. And we have the statue commemorating the committee that built the first two statues. Indeed, Halloran paused. That's all. The room felt quiet in the thoughtful way government rooms often do when someone has noticed something obvious. It was soon agreed that Kent should build a new statue, a statue honoring the most important citizen in the town's history. The proposal was greeted with enthusiastic approval. Unfortunately, the question of who that citizen might be proved slightly difficult. The bakeries nominated Lysa Tor, whose bread had nourished generations. The lamplighters nominated Albin Rowe, whose work ensured that no citizen had ever walked home in darkness unless they preferred it. The fishermen nominated old Barvin, who once rescued three strangers from the river, and afterward refused to discuss it. The poets nominated themselves. The ministry formed a committee. Committees are excellent tools for examining problems from multiple angles. They are less efficient at reaching conclusions. Weeks passed. The committee produced lists. Long lists. Lists so long that several citizens appeared twice. The king attended one particularly energetic session. He listened to arguments with great patience. One delegate insisted the statue should honor the town's greatest hero. Another insisted it should honor the town's greatest thinker. A third argued for honoring the citizen who had baked the most pies. The king stroked his chin thoughtfully. All of these sound admirable, he said, but how shall we choose? The debate continued. One evening, as the committee was preparing to adjourn without progress, a quiet voice spoke from the back of the room. It belonged to a woman named Sarah Kelm. Sarah had been invited accidentally when someone misread the guest list. She had remained silent for most of the meeting, as people often do when surrounded by scholars. But now she raised a hand. May I ask a question? she said. The committee, exhausted from arguing, agreed. Sarah gestured toward the long list of nominees. These are all good people, she said. But aren't there many others just like them? The room considered this. Yes, said the baker. Certainly, said the lamplighter. Quite a few, admitted the poets. Sarah nodded. Then perhaps the statue should honor all of them. The committee looked puzzled. How would we build such a statue? Someone asked. She thought for a moment. Maybe we don't give it a face. This suggestion produced a silence of rare quality, the kind of silence reserved for ideas that seem strange at first, but gradually become difficult to argue with. The statue was commissioned the following month. It stands now in the center of Kint's main square. It depicts a person in an ordinary coat, an ordinary hat, hands resting calmly at their sides. The face, however, is smooth and uncarved. A plaque rests at the base. It reads simply, Someone visitors. Often ask who the statue represents. Kintians answer in the same way. Someone who helped. Over time, the statue has become one of the most beloved landmarks in the town. Children leave flowers. Workers tip their hats while passing. No one argues about whether the statue represents the right person, because in a quiet way, everyone suspects it might represent them. A philosophical aside, history has always been fond of extraordinary individuals. Kings, generals, inventors with magnificent beards. But most of the work required to keep the world functioning is performed by people whose names never appear in books. They repair roofs, they deliver letters, they sweep streets before dawn. Their statues are rarely built, their stories are seldom told. And yet, without them, even the grandest civilizations would become remarkably untidy. The citizens of Kent appear to have understood this rather early, which may explain why their newest statue honors a person no one can quite identify. From the land of Kent, where greatness is often anonymous and monuments occasionally represent everyone, this has been your correspondent. Conditions remain inconclusive.