CHAPTER 7. SHARDS OF ANTIQUITY.

February 7, 1845.

“‘…I am like one of the ancient aqueducts, which for some reason, for some purpose, deliver life-giving moisture to a permanently blooming garden—I am only fulfilling the destiny that was once prepared for me: that moisture gradually destroys my frail body, that moisture slowly, but constantly and surely, makes me weaker, but… but I conduct impulses through my veins, but I conduct energy through my veins, but I conduct life through my veins—that which gives me death brings life to others, more beautiful and more worthy! However, this is my destiny—by destroying my own flesh, by destroying my own life, to improve the flesh and life of others! And even if over time that inexhaustible moisture undermines my shoulders, and even if over time my flesh decays, this garden, this permanently blooming garden, will live forever—it was before me, it is with me, it will be after me! The eternal cycle of life and death—that is what this world is! What was there before me? Life and death! What will there be after me? Life and death! In my place—in the very place where my predecessor existed in a similar way—a new, perhaps less massive and, very likely, more technologically advanced structure will be erected very quickly, the essence of which is to perform the functions destined for it by fate with the same diligence! My flesh, my body will perish, but my work will live forever! I, like a telegraph cable, am only a conduit between one place of life and another place of life—life continuously flows through my veins, but in me myself, there is no life!…’” a man in his forties, dressed in the attire of an executive, quite distinctly recited each of the aforementioned words from a book with a very modest binding, which he was holding in his hands, and, it must be mentioned, he immediately, with a silent plea, turned his exceptionally intent gaze towards another man, who, in turn, at that moment was just a few feet away from him.

“Profound words, but… not the most unambiguous, and therefore not the most precise, and therefore not the most truthful! It must be admitted that this writer, whose works you have been quoting to me for some time, my dear John, is indeed an exceptional master of his craft—first of all, he perfectly understands human nature, if he presents his own thoughts in exactly this way: every person understands him in their own way and no one understands him in the same way! Undoubtedly, he is doomed to glorious disgrace!… Isn't he? This kind of creativity is now perceived by every representative of the species Homo sapiens as nothing more and nothing less than the most senseless waste of not only the author’s own time, but also, what is much more important, the reader's time! And what about the ink and paper?! Your prose standard writes in an extremely drawn-out manner—there is no life in his words: and there cannot be, because he does not live, but only exists—his world is limited to the confines of his own study, and accordingly, his own consciousness! His style makes one dizzy—it makes one dizzy not because it is magnificent, but because it is incomprehensible! His sentences naturally contradict what is, in truth, genuine common sense! Ordinary people, which is to say, the majority… will never understand him, and therefore will, without a doubt, condemn him to the utmost degree—and to people of refined and subtle taste, which is to say, for those for whom his works are intended, for those who are his true audience, his creations will never reach them due to their unpopularity and public contempt! Those who admire his works are inconsistent madmen, hermits of literature! No one in this world speaks the way he writes, of course, with the exception of his own alter ego—that is why there is no truth in his lines! He is a liar, a genuine liar, but, nevertheless, it must be admitted that he does not lie like others do—he lies skillfully… yes, skillfully, not entertainingly! However, I am completely sure, I am extremely convinced of one thing—he has no talent and he, without a doubt, pulls every inscribed word from the bag of his mind with the same diligence and the same difficulty with which every hapless, every ignorant fisherman, stubbornly striving to prove his worth and his skill, strives to catch something from a truly uninhabited pond!…”

“Perhaps his style and the way he presents the text are much less attractive, but he is extremely virtuous in his wisdom! He strives to earn public praise—he fiercely yearns to bring his style to the limits of perfection: it is for this reason, because of the thirst for perfection, that absolute chaos often reigns in his works!”

“Bravo! You have just, with your own lips, identified his biggest mistake! He is reckless, for he yearns to earn public praise—something that is impossible to earn: in this world, it is only possible to earn public flattery, nothing more!… But… why, why are you so lenient towards this kind of writer? What is it about them that so quickly wins you over, my dearest friend, my modern Comte Porschatrin?”

“Do not imitate Zoilus, dear Alvin… Rather, listen to my next words, or rather… listen to the following words of that French abbot: ‘…The road is merciless, just like life itself—its body is entirely covered with potholes, scars, pockmarks, and it absolutely does not care who and what drives over its flesh, over its body: be it the king's or queen's sedan chair, a minister's carriage, or a peasant's cart—if you want to get to your goal, then learn to overcome these obstacles, to bypass these ruts; if you yearn to get to your goal, then learn to repair your own transport; if you strive to get to your goal, then learn to slow down or, when necessary, to drive faster; if you want to get to your goal, then first define it!…’”