Judith's take on life's intricacies

Judith's reaction to Bon's letter begs an existential question to her tirade: are people truly independent and acting on free will or are we simply an insignificant cog in a much larger, chaotic system? Judith takes the latter position, asserting that while we are all weavers on the same loom intent on making our own pattern. We are forced to react to the jerks and pulls on the strings that connect us to others. In her mind, this controlled chaos has little to do with personal choice but instead is perpetuated by causality--one reaction merely begetting another without foresight or consideration.

In addition, she also believes that any action we take, any scratch we can leave on the marble, will ultimately be devoid of purpose: the person that mark was meant for will either pass away, ignore, or completely disregard it altogether. In her own words, the stone can never be a was, the mark will never retain the impact it once had because the stone is permanent while the message perishers with the messenger.

Our flawed memories are inherent--the mind can only retain so much before something important gets bumped off. We can tell ourselves we will never forget, that the memory--tragic or triumphant--will be etched in our minds and hearts and can recalled on demand with crystalline clarity. But we don't.

In fact much of what we do remember is often the trivial, random, non-nonsensical tidbits. Some important memories might stick, but like the tapestry in the loom, the memory is perverted; it's existence the result of outside suggestion and selective recall. Our entire history is recalled this way: aggrandized recollection and faulty retelling soon replace any semblance of objectivity.

Judith recognizes the fallacy of history. For all our judgment--whether it's Thomas Sutpen, the Civil War, or contemporary America--we are helplessly attached to the chaos of our world and hopelessly disconnected from each other. We can only react to invisible tugs on our strings while we nudge and jostle for a spot on the loom. And for what? As soon as we are gone, the message we tried to convey dissipates like vapor from a steam room.  All that remains is the same stone, scratched all to hell for reasons unknown.