*This is a preview of Chapter One, Chasing Snails. The following content has not been professionally edited, nor is it guaranteed to be in the final version.

Chapter One: Beauty is Pain

It is entirely irrational to desire tragedy in order to produce creativity. Yet, every ‘great’ I can name off the top of my head were not rational, nor is their place in history the result of comforting experiences. Those who have not suffered through hardship are not as capable, or perhaps just willing, to produce art that consoles the disturbed and wounded. This I understand. The facts are set before me, scattered amongst several articles, academic journals, and glossy painting reprints. I am three weeks into the third year of my economics degree, a degree that might put me into a state of delirium that produces creativity. I’ve tried to avoid such a state by adding a minor in art history to my degree. This way, I can write two dissertations, one for economics and one for art history. The latter is the topic I long to study and all I have been thus far into the year. The beginning stages of research for my art history dissertation leave me without much to show, though hours have been poured into evaluating the necessity of tragedy for art. The connection is there. That part is the easiest to demonstrate. What is much harder to support with evidence is how suffering is linked to ineffaceable art. On paper, proving the greatness of an artwork has turned into a saga of popularity. I can either attempt to convince you that a painting is magnificent, or I can factually prove that it’s worthy of attention by the sheer number of eyes staring at it. 

An artist who serves me well in explaining this dilemma is Edvard Munch. His paintings The Scream and Ashes live in the same room, only a few feet away from each other, in the National Museum of Art in Norway. Over six thousand works of art reside there. The most popular one to see, far and away, is The Scream. Why? Not because it is the best work of art there or the best reflection of Munch’s creativity, but rather because in 1994, it was stolen, causing the painting to garner unfathomable attention. One cannot deny that The Scream is an excellent, chilling portrayal of Munch’s painful, natural suffering. Munch painted The Scream as a reflection of his extreme anxiety, which tormented him for much of his life. While The Scream portrays a walk along a pier, it is not the walk alone that created Munch’s anxiety; therefore, the emotion portrayed is innate. Whereas with Ashes, the emotion poured into each brush stroke was stirred by tragedy in Munch’s life—heartbreak. The painting came to fruition because of Munch’s relationship with a married woman. Heartbreak is not an inherent feeling. It must be created. That is what I cannot stop thinking about: can you make an artist by making tragedy? For today and for the tomorrows to come, in the name of academic assuredness, I will focus on tying tragedy to popular art. I slap a sticky tab on the page detailing the history of The Scream. I must include this famous work instead of Ashes in my dissertation. 

While more than enough detailed stories of tortured artists exist, I do not have a complete grasp of their existence. The disconnect is an impediment. I have never experienced tragedy. Perhaps small ones: the passing of my beloved dog, the occasional hit from my father in childhood, a peer overdosing on fentanyl. Yet, these are minor pains, bumps in the road, if you will. Did any of these memorable artists wish for misfortune to elevate their creativity? Am I wrong for desiring trauma to relate better to my dissertation topic? I do not want a major tragedy to strike me, but a bit more suffering may serve my dissertation well. I live in a position of privileged distance, yet I yearn to travel—to narrow the fortunate space between me and the horrors of many people’s reality. 

I close the book on Munch, leave it on the table, and return to the towering bookcases. For seven at night on a Thursday, the library is much busier than expected. It’s far too early in the semester for people to be cramming. Two libraries reside on campus; people refer to the largest one as The Library. The Library is modern, overcrowded, and has terrible, blue-toned lighting. Due to its concrete exterior, it appears closer to a Siberian lab than a place that holds books from the eighteen-hundreds. It is to be avoided at all costs. The second library, the one I stand in now, is a bit on the outskirts of town. Fewer people study here because it has a silent atmosphere that is strongly enforced by librarians and students alike. This library, if you just snapped a photograph of its interior, would be difficult to date. The lack of technology and haunting stained-glass windows confuses my sense of regency. It’s one large floor, with chandeliers spaced unevenly and bookcases that climb two stories tall. Many books are old enough that glass and metal caging locks them away. Admire, but do not dare read.

Carefully, I slide over one of the rustic ladders and climb. My fingers gravitate to a green leather-bound book on Francis Bacon. I tuck the book under my arm. Before I reach the last rung, two large hands clasp over my shoulders. It takes everything in me not to flinch and let the book fall. 

“Hello!” a voice, ecstatically coated by a Russian accent, chimes. Alcohol hides in his breath. “You will never believe how amazing I am! I mean, you already know, but you assumed I could not get better! Surprise, I did!” 

Yegor, my housemate, holds a cocky beam. I aggressively grab his forearm, lowering his excitement. Every single head in the library turns to us. Several glowers of disgust propel a gut-wrenching sensation of embarrassment into my stomach. I shove my pointer finger toward Yegor’s face and gesture to my things. My hands fumble while shoving my belongings away. One of the books falls onto the floor. Its loud slap against the wood floor echoes through the library. Fuck me. Yegor throws his hands up as if held at gunpoint and wordlessly addresses the library. He shrugs, apologizing without care. Before the librarians or anyone else can further noiselessly convey their desire to kill us, I get my laptop, and we leave. 

Yegor leads me away from the library with feverish haste, passing by houses on the street that serve as university buildings. The sky is faintly lit by cloud-covered, setting sun rays. The university, founded earlier than my home country of Canada, is intertwined with the town. It is unlike the bustling city of London, but not quite like a countryside village. The town is comprised of three main streets. During the winter holidays, it’s a ghost town. However, amid the school calendar, when the student population inhabits it, there’s enough life that any tourist passing through year will have a good time. The location is relatively easy to explain, on the coast of the United Kingdom countryside. The atmosphere, however, is much harder for outsiders to grasp. Ruins from the protestant reformation and medieval stones stand between wannabe dive bars and a singular gas station. The student accommodations are repurposed 1920s hotels or newly constructed apartment complexes. The town often feels like it exists in another dimension with unreal mythical elements that will galvanize the writing of fantasy novels and over-exerted modern routines to the point that working on Wall Street seems manageable. It is a place that raises question about the very definition of a town: fantastical, dangerously wealthy, overwhelmingly academic. 

Yegor swiftly hits me on the chest. It stings for a second—he’s a rather muscular man and is taller than our fridge. His round face is dusted by a patchy beard, although it looks this way because it’s the same ashy blonde-brown colour as his hair. His hazel eyes, which naturally narrow inwards, make him a mysterious wonder that attracts ladies but fends off interactions with other men. If not for the fact that we were randomly assigned as roommates during our first year of university, I would have never approached him.

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but my jaw clenches. Yelling about how he acted in the library will do nothing. Yegor shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Do you want to hear what I have done?” 

With a defeated nod, I comply. 

“I have gotten a perfect score on my first exam.” 

“You came running into the library to tell me that?” I respond, perhaps too harshly. 

Yegor does not mind. “It was on my way. Now, I can go celebrate. Will you come with?” His head jolts, possessed by a rush of energy. “Oh! We need to celebrate you too!” 

“What?” I ask hoarsely.

“Come on. Do not be so humble.” 

“Honest to God, Yegor, I haven’t the faintest clue what I should be celebrating.” 

“You are big art history major now! That is not possible for many.” 

It’s far more surprising that he remembers than that he wants to celebrate it. Mostly because I’ve nearly forgotten about the change. Managing art history classes so intently for the last two years made it always feel like a part of my major. Yegor is right, though. What I’ve done is impossible for many. This is not because getting accepted into art history at this university is particularly hard, but because adding a minor in the third year, regardless of whether one has the credits, takes a miracle. 

Beforehand, I proficiently and solely studied economics. It took everything in me to do such. While applying to university, I did not see the opportunity to flee the adept multigenerational cycle that constructs youth into stagnant, profitable adults. Thus, I applied to this, unfortunately, high-ranking university as an economics major. It surprised me and everyone who knew me in secondary school that I got into this university and that I achieved first marks during my two years thus far. Although I do not consider the study of economics to be in the same category as maths or science, it is the closest I’ve ever come to grasping factual concepts. I enjoyed being good at economics, but not economics itself. At the core, I am a humanist, feverishly interested in studying strokes of creativity and indulging in trying to understand the minds of artists. It took two meetings with the head of academic advising to add my artistry minor. She strongly warned me that switching my focus to include art history in my third year would be a mistake, a statement I fully expected from her. She studied economics at Oxford and taught the subject there for several years. It was right for her to try to stop me. Knowing that made her warnings all the easier to ignore.

“See, we need to celebrate your change of heart and the dedication in mine!” Yegor cheers. It begins to lightly mist; undoubtedly, the rain will pour soon. “What do you say?”

If it were anyone else, I would say no. But Yegor, I’ve realized, is my only friend here. My two best friends, who got me through my first two years, have graduated. Yegor and I have never been on bad terms as such, but that’s not to say we have ever been best friends. We are roommate soulmates, if such a thing exists. While randomly paired together for the first year, we still live with each other. On sober nights, we want little to do with each other but have enough mutual respect to co-exist in perfect harmony. I cannot tell you what Yegor’s middle name is, but I can tell you that he loves, more than anything, the map of Tajikistan. Yegor is a geography major. So, of course, he is interested in maps. But I mean, this man really loves maps. Late at night, when I’m coming home from the pub, I often find him at the kitchen counter, lost in topographical rabbit holes. I kid you not when I say his most used app is Google Maps. 

A bottle of whisky pokes out from his jacket pocket. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s been drinking already that he wants me to join him or that he’s also realized my friends have graduated. It’s not like I don’t have other people to talk to in town. It’s just that those relations are more cordial acquaintances. “I’ll go for a drink.” 

I turn towards the street that hosts our favourite pub, but Yegor stops. “Not yet. It’s too early. There’s a Russian poetry reading at a friend’s house. There will be drinks.” 

Off we go, passing the three main streets until we reach a cul-de-sac empty of life except for one elderly lady sitting on her porch. Despite the discouraging glare she throws me as I walk into the house, an immediate desire to let myself go besmirches my mind. It’s one of those nights, one where before a drop of alcohol even touches your lips, you know you’re going to drink more than you should. I take refuge on a couch in the corner of some random fourth-year’s basement. The room is lightly clouded with foreigners who do not glance twice in my direction. It’s easy to fade happily into the background and just observe. As the commotion of small talk settles, Yegor plops beside me, a bottle of vodka secure in his hand. We switch control of the bottle between sips. I do my best to match his pace, but Yegor is bigger than me and has always been better at handling alcohol, especially vodka. Poetry slips off a tongue thickly coated with smoke. When Yegor said we were going to a Russian poetry night, I had not thought of the possibility that the poetry would be in Russian, not just written by Russians. Still, I enjoy the rhythm and aggression in the strangers’ voices. I take a shot every time the word krasota is read. By the end of the hour, I happily feel like a newcomer in this familiar town and am expectedly drunk. Thankfully, so is Yegor. Instead of taking the main road home, we twist through quaint back pathways with dim street lighting. I remember the idea of stopping by a pub but do not bring it up. Our walk that should take ten minutes is stalled by stumbling, laughing, and the freedom to bask in the spoils of our lives. 

“Do you ever think things are too good?” Yegor takes a blissful spin forward.

“I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

“Right?” His accent is more potent than usual tonight. Being surrounded by other Russians first drew it out, but the drinking makes it stay. “It is so odd for so much to be so good. What did we do to deserve such a thing? Why us? Why not others?” 

Something in my chest dies. For a second, I thought Yegor was on the same page as me. If he desires something tragic to happen to him, maybe my wishes are not so ignorantly morbid. 

“What?” Yegor asks. “Is this not what you think?” 

“No, I understand what you’re saying. I just—never mind.” We round the corner of the narrow path, being spit out onto our street.

“No, you must say it. Rules are rules.” 

He’s right. We’ve had a rule ever since we first lived together. If you start a thought, you must finish it. Sometimes, it’s easy to come up with something else to say. At present, the alcohol is making me focus on walking, and I’m unable to think of a lie.

“I’ve been wanting to know what it’s like to have something…” My brain is terribly jumpy. “Something bad happen. I’m not wishing for a life-altering accident, just a bit of pain.” 

“What, you like pain, now?” Yegor slurs. “Having a kink is nothing new; people are into all sorts of things.” 

“Not like that, Yegor,” I respond swiftly. “You remember my dissertation topic about how trauma makes great artists? Things in my life, possibly, have been too good for me to understand the argument I want to make.” 

For each second Yegor does not speak, the fear running through my veins heightens. This may be too far out of line to tell him. A few feet of silence pass.

“That is a silly thing to want.”

“I know. Trust me, I know it’s an awful thing to think. But do you understand, even just a little bit, what I mean?” Suddenly, we are standing at the door of our house, as if we have teleported those last meters.

“No,” Yegor answers immediately. He shuffles through his jacket pocket. “You have foolish thoughts.” 

“Thanks,” I jeer. I find my key first. 

“Do you know how to fight?” 

I stiffen. A rush surges through my body. 

Yegor waves a hand. “No, no, I do not mean for us to fight. Not now, at least. Surely, sometime later, hopefully over something better, we will. But I may have a solution to stop your thoughts.” He opens the front door. 

“Well, I’m all ears.” Faultily, I stumble through the dark kitchen after Yegor and slug my jacket off. 

“Tomorrow, you will fight. Not only will you get beat a bit bloody, but you will get paid. If you would like.” 

My legs almost give out as I knock into the corner of our kitchen table. I over-exaggeratedly tilt my head, hoping to prompt a further explanation. Yegor doesn’t respond. Instead, he checks his phone. The glow of the screen softly hits his face. Absent-mindedly, he flips on the lights in our kitchen. He puts on some slow, sultry Russian song before looking at me as if his suggestion was ordinary. 

“Yegor? What do you mean?” 

He towers over me with a fresh bottle of vodka in his hand. I didn’t see him grab the bottle. I do not mind the idea that he made it come into matter out of thin air. 

“We talk more about it tomorrow.” He walks, with harsh steps, to his bedroom. “Goodnight.” 

His door shuts with a slight rattle. I am left unable to find words and without ears to hear them, even if I could.