Chapter 29. A Few Lines.

March 29, 2022

"This morning Morpheus served me for breakfast a truly extraordinary delight – the sweet flesh of a singular dream. In those minutes of dwelling within that state, my being was most naturally situated upon a high tribune, like those from which some of the most skilled orators in this world had once delivered their speeches, before an innumerable multitude of people. There, with a special inspiration, I declaimed verses of some poet, seemingly long forgotten by my reason, yet assuredly great, if judged by the depth of his maxims. These few lines were clothed in the following verbal form:

‘Unhappy peoples of the Earth,
When will you come to understand:
Without agreement – freedom’s birth
In this wide world will find no land?!

The American strikes the Briton,
The Briton straightway hastens, grim,
To loose from out his soldier’s satchel
A flesh of iron – aconite dim.

The Indian strives his brother Indian
From his own soil to drive away –
Is there not room enough on Earth
For all in peace to dwell and stay?

So thought each philosopher,
Whose lot it was to think and write:
His lips – like sickles, sharp and keen,
His hand – a pen and “grace” alight!

But what to write of humankind
At that very moment… ah, indeed! –
When rivers stream down from the skies,
Of atoms far: a Star decreed,

Which, burning bright with haughty flame,
Expelled from out its native land
Its brethren – elder, younger all –
And chose the fate of endless night…’

But who, what poet, wrote these lines? I know, I know for certain his name, though it lies covered within my mind and in my consciousness beneath the dusty veil of years spent amidst the waves and swells of daily existence – years that both involuntarily and intentionally lulled my being to sleep after that very period which men are wont to call youth.

My memory is no longer what it once was, and the tyrant time is to blame: twenty-seven years of my life I have wasted upon languid, though not dark, reflections, upon dialogues and antimonies with myself. Perhaps it is for this very reason that at the hour when many of my peers surrender themselves to the joys and burdens of family life, I drown instead in the search for something sacred and hallowed to me… something capable of bringing me nearer to the truth, and thus granting me the chance to behold that which is hidden from most.

But why this truth? Why do I long to be not with the many? Why do I wish to see where others are blind? Only to set myself apart most audaciously from all, thereby embodying, in the opinion of the majority, the proud and arrogant visage of Lucifer? No! My aim was never gain, still less amusement. In the name of fulfilling my destiny – a destiny that until this hour was unknown to me – I thirsted with fervor to obtain that which cannot be obtained in this world. And, I must admit, I succeeded rather well…

Day by day, as though with sinews and muscle, I clothed myself more fully in secret knowledge. My being desired nothing so much as to speak – endlessly, brightly, languidly, with true eloquence – to speak, not with the surrounding silence, but with myself in every voice, whether La Fontaine or Burns, in the voices of all men who exist, who have existed, or who never shall exist. With silence I revealed to the world truths unique and uncharted; with my lips, in speaking, I bestowed upon it nothing at all…

Burning in the flame of my own torment and anguish, I swayed like a slender reed, whose flesh, by circumstance, yields against its will to the coarse command of an unchained wind. In one and the same moment my being furiously longed both to cease, to bring to an end these inward searches, and at the same time to pursue them with the utmost care and diligence. In those moments, I in some measure grasped what it means to be, to exist, and to live as a woman – to dwell in perpetual inconstancy and undeniable doubt…

And yet, should I abandon these searches? Why should I concern myself with the verses of some long-forgotten author? No! I cannot cease searching, for… for these few lines, as though seared upon metal by the sharp flame of Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, as though carved into a Rosetta Stone by a master’s chisel, became in my soul, by some cause – or rather, for some purpose – a cornerstone leitmotif of all the hours of my life: past, from the moment of my awakening, present, and yet to come, within my truly dual existence.

Immersed wholly in the answers that appeared before my eyes after a search on the internet, I sifted them with particular care, like a successful prospector of gold, separating out those very grains and specks that might lead my being to its sacredly predetermined end. Much of it was useful, more still was worthless, and nowhere was there what I sought so desperately. “Today Joe Biden signed into law an act against lynching…” – this was not what I required, I must search further…

Another instant… and before my eyes there arose yet another answer to my query – a response clothed in the form of a video upon YouTube. Perhaps, perhaps this would bring my being nearer to objective truth… A few clicks, and there I was, within the bounds of a channel on that platform – the channel of Germaine de Saint-Preux. With unquenchable curiosity I beheld a video, unique in its intimacy, simple in its complexity, complex in its simplicity. Its content was as follows:

‘At dusk upon the ocean shore, scarcely visible to the human eye, stands a slender silhouette, listening with singular intent to the strange song of the sea. Whether his eyes are open or closed – we do not know. Whether he is poor or rich, wise or foolish, young or old – we do not know. And does it matter? In this world one must not judge men by outward form, for the fairest of angels proved to be none other than the devil. That silhouette – it is each of us, it is we. It is at once an individual and all humanity entire…’