CHAPTER 30. ALL-CRUSHING CREATIVITY.

January 30, 1841.

The incessantly growing flames, truly, with the insatiability of Gargantua and Pantagruel, swiftly consumed the very peculiar nature of one of the houses of the now extraordinarily suffering Mayagüez—due to the fire that reigned with absolute power within the limits of that city, even though this fire was the most direct source of all kinds of disasters and misfortunes, it was unable at this moment not to awaken in every truly sensitive soul the most sincere kind of admiration: at times, in exceptional moments, even evil is capable of arousing not only the most sincere admiration but also, what is important, no less sincere respect—greatness, regardless of whether it resides in a positive or negative coordinate system, always remains great! And indeed, the aforementioned fire was great in those moments! But was it consciously, deliberately great? Or was its being at this moment guided only by its natural impulses and desires, and consequently, did it act unconsciously? No, that flame was reckless—as reckless as Gargantua and Pantagruel: it was this quality that gave rise to general chaos—like leprosy, it instantly afflicted everyone who, in one way or another, physically or metaphysically, touched the very freedom-loving nature of that flame. But did it afflict everyone? No! In those moments, the city of Mayagüez, despite the mercilessly ruling disaster, was still filled with great people who, unlike the aforementioned flame, were great consciously, deliberately—this greatness was evidenced, first of all, by the extraordinarily meaningful actions of these people. To the ranks of such—not only exceptionally great, but also, what is important, extremely courageous—people belonged José Cordero: a dark-skinned son of Spain, the most remarkable feature of whose character was an unshakable simplicity that could not be shaken by anything—it was for this reason, because of his naive trust, that he was now extraordinarily courageous, and therefore great, along with everyone who was now taking part in overcoming the absolutely rebellious red-faced flame.

Instantly concentrating a significant amount of moisture in his hands—very capacious wooden vessels with handles provided him with no small assistance in this—José Cordero swiftly headed toward one of the epicenters of, truly, no more and no less than a horrifying misfortune: after taking several surprisingly fast and at the very same time unusually heavy steps, that twenty-year-old citizen of Spain suddenly noticed how a chaotic swarm of barely reddened snow-white pages, under the influence of the self-willed wind, lightly flew out of the half-open window of a house that was entirely ablaze, a slight part of which was subtly, but purposefully, approaching the very exquisite reed roof of the neighboring house—another moment and before José Cordero's eyes another, no less destructive than the aforementioned, essence of the insatiable flame was born. Its destructiveness, its deadliness, its mercilessness were caused by just a few snow-white pages that had involuntarily flown out of the window of a house already undeniably doomed to perish—this deceased one did not have its eyes closed in time, and therefore it waywardly snatched another life from the being of a living reality, one that was less colossal in its size, but still, still a life. Another moment, and that very moisture that had been so restrained in the wooden vessels, swiftly splashed onto the other pages, which had already returned to the earth from the limits of the ether, which were no more and no less than harmful—after this, José Cordero immediately placed those relatively decayed, but now completely soaked in cold moisture, scraps of the aforementioned, partly smeared with ink, parchment into one of the pockets of his unremarkable clothing and immediately continued to do what, in the opinion of Ecclesiastes, was no more and no less than a hopeless vanity: but was it really so?

After a certain amount of time had passed, carelessly sinking into the exceptional comfort of an ordinary armchair, the significantly exhausted José Cordero hurriedly turned his gaze to the small window—rain reigned outside the window: it was it that awakened in José Cordero's mind thoughts about the two-facedness of this world—water and fire, God and the devil, man and woman, thought and feeling, soul and body, life and death... Death! Instantly placing before his eyes the pages that were already quite dry, on which a substantially blurred, yet still discernible, text could now be seen, José Cordero thought that water, like time, is an excellent solvent—a solvent not only of matter, but also of what exists outside of forms, and consequently, outside of limitations: a solvent of thoughts and feelings. Sighing heavily, José Cordero began to read those very pages that were currently not only a wonderful absorbent in relation to water but also, what is important, an no less excellent absorbent in relation to very specific, very definite human feelings—the feelings of not only artists, composers, or writers, but also of significantly more ordinary people, due to the quality and quantity of the talent present in their nature:

Withered lines.
"...Yesterday with Felipe, they betrothed,
Your slender form and gentle face:
As on the flowery El Khalil,
Whose fame by choice is great,
In this life, the best trophies,
Only he, without a doubt, will find,
Who with a greater sum and more quickly,
Reaches the merchant of happiness!.."

Withered lines.
"...With a citizen of the world's cordiality,
I sent you a kind gaze.
And you? With a nobleman's contempt,
Whose eyes are the poison of burning thoughts,
Rejected me indifferently,
Depriving me of brief attention:
Such you were only externally—
Crimson hid a swallow of white..."