Παρασκευή 10 Δεκεμβρίου 2010

Take my hand

Because of its tremendous solemnity, death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearences.
A human being's eternal dignity lies precisely in this, that he can gain a history. The divine in him lies in this, that he himself, if he so chooses, can give this history continuity, because it gains that, not when it is a summary of what has taken place or has happened to me, but only when it is my personal deed in such a way that even that which has happened to me is transformed and transferred from necessity to freedom. What is enviable about human life is that one can assist God, can understand him, and in turn the only worthy way for a human being to understand God is to appropriate in freedom everything that comes to him, both the happy and the sad.
Søren Kierkegaard, “Either-Or”

Mrs B. arranged the flowers in the vase. She stared at the early winter sky outside: thick and flat, filling the window like a grey-brown store. She turned and drew her chair closer to the bed the man was lying on, half-crouched. She sent him a smile. “It looks we are in for some snow”, she said, softly. He smiled back, his eyes flashing a sparkle of wit. “Hope Tommy brings back my snow-shovel in time.”
Of course; that was him. Like he would ever scoop the snow again – or anything else, for that matter. Like these weren’t his last days under the sun. Like his body was not falling apart in watery shambles. But, then again, here lies the truth: a dying body – not a dying man.
“He’d better!” she giggled “or he’ll be in reeeal trouble.” Bending over to stroke his hair, she felt a strange lightness, a freshness blowing through her chest.
Here they were: two lovers taking a calm evening stroll. He would offer his arm. She would lean on and let him lead the way. Through an orchard of graceful trivia; of days well spent. Of life - serenely in its place. Of death - as it is.
Her other man (passed away three years now) was like this, too. Same fabric: solid and present. Caring. Filling the place as best he could.
The man was now breathing regularly. She stood up and paced towards the door. “Sleep well, my dear” she whispered. “And thank you” – under the quiet rain watering her cheeks.
Slow Marching Band (Jethro Tull)

2 σχόλια:

ELvA είπε...

Tι ομορφο αποσπασμα, φιλε μας Prths!
Πολυ ανθρωπινο και συγκινητικο..
Ποιος ειναι ο συγγραφεας.Μου θυμιζει ενα διηγημα του James Joyce .

Καλο Πσκ! :)

Prths είπε...

[χμμμμ-γκούχ! κοκκίνισμα]
Καλό ΠΣΚ και σε σένα, φίλη Elva :)