A few days ago, I saw Dr. Tsovinar Gabuydzian, an old soviet school mental health specialist. She asked me how I would write if I were alone in the world.
“You mean nobody else but me?”
“No reader.” she said. “Nobody who could understand your language. No sane man or woman around you. Nobody interested, or let’s say that everybody left with the bees you told me about the last time when we met. Everybody flying, jumping into the cosmos, the outer space. Everybody and the bees in their own special spacesuit, all searching for the center of the universe. All hoping to take a peek at that unique gold atom you say is stuck, or might be stuck over there.”
The doctor reached for a new pack of cigarettes that was waiting in a pocket of her jacket. She opened it with a graceful movement. She took a cigarette out, but she did not lit it right away.
“Now you are all alone on Earth.” she said. “What is the first thing you do?”
“I breathe.” I said. “I take a deep breath. That’s what I first do. I think of those science-fiction novels or poetic stories with a hero who finds himself absolutely alone. I call out loud to the world. I shout: What’s left of a man, if he’s the last one? and Why me? I suppose I can’t believe that I’m alone, that this is happening. I check on the Internet to see if it’s still alive, active. There could be messages sent to me. WE ALL LEFT WITH THE BEES or GONE TO SEE THE WIZARD or WE’VE ALL TURNED INTO REAL WIZARDS EXCEPT YOU HA! HA! HA!”
“I am sorry,” interrupted the doctor. “What is a real wizard again?”
“Real wizards can bend reality around them.”
“Then what happens,” asked me Gabuydzian, “what happens when we all become real wizards?”
“By all, do you mean all of us including the dogs and cats, bananas, yeast, pebbles and stars?” I asked her.
“Why do you always insist on ignoring the difference between humanity and the rest?”
“What is the difference?”
“Are you a pebble? Are you a star?” asked me the good doctor.
She lit her cigarette. Poisonous but beautiful blue smoke came out of her nose. “Amazing nose and eyes, she has” I thought to myself.
So I repeated her question: “Am I a pebble? It depends on who is I.”
“I am talking to you.” she said. “YOU. This you who came to see me, Dr. Gabuydzian. Now tell me how would you write if there were nobody left in the world but you.”
“Just a second, please, doctor.” I said. “You asked me what would happen if everybody but me suddenly became a real wizard, one able to twist reality at will. That is an interesting question, isn’t it?”
“Oh! A very theoretical question.”
“Thank God! for the theoretical questions. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be poetry.”
“Really?” said the good doctor. “Is that your definition of poetry? An exploration of theoretical questions?”
“Not exactly.” I said.
“Not exactly?” she asked.
“Not exactly” I repeated. “Now, if every human being alive turned into a real wizard, I believe it would mean the end of reality.”
“What comes after the end of reality?”
“Me, writing about it.” I said. That was a bit bold maybe, but something was itching on my neck.
“So how do you write about it?” she asked.
That’s when I discovered that dozens and dozens of ants were crawling all over me. I ran outside, removing my clothes, beating them, wondering what could be the very last thing an ant sees when you crush it.
“You mean nobody else but me?”
“No reader.” she said. “Nobody who could understand your language. No sane man or woman around you. Nobody interested, or let’s say that everybody left with the bees you told me about the last time when we met. Everybody flying, jumping into the cosmos, the outer space. Everybody and the bees in their own special spacesuit, all searching for the center of the universe. All hoping to take a peek at that unique gold atom you say is stuck, or might be stuck over there.”
The doctor reached for a new pack of cigarettes that was waiting in a pocket of her jacket. She opened it with a graceful movement. She took a cigarette out, but she did not lit it right away.
“Now you are all alone on Earth.” she said. “What is the first thing you do?”
“I breathe.” I said. “I take a deep breath. That’s what I first do. I think of those science-fiction novels or poetic stories with a hero who finds himself absolutely alone. I call out loud to the world. I shout: What’s left of a man, if he’s the last one? and Why me? I suppose I can’t believe that I’m alone, that this is happening. I check on the Internet to see if it’s still alive, active. There could be messages sent to me. WE ALL LEFT WITH THE BEES or GONE TO SEE THE WIZARD or WE’VE ALL TURNED INTO REAL WIZARDS EXCEPT YOU HA! HA! HA!”
“I am sorry,” interrupted the doctor. “What is a real wizard again?”
“Real wizards can bend reality around them.”
“Then what happens,” asked me Gabuydzian, “what happens when we all become real wizards?”
“By all, do you mean all of us including the dogs and cats, bananas, yeast, pebbles and stars?” I asked her.
“Why do you always insist on ignoring the difference between humanity and the rest?”
“What is the difference?”
“Are you a pebble? Are you a star?” asked me the good doctor.
She lit her cigarette. Poisonous but beautiful blue smoke came out of her nose. “Amazing nose and eyes, she has” I thought to myself.
So I repeated her question: “Am I a pebble? It depends on who is I.”
“I am talking to you.” she said. “YOU. This you who came to see me, Dr. Gabuydzian. Now tell me how would you write if there were nobody left in the world but you.”
“Just a second, please, doctor.” I said. “You asked me what would happen if everybody but me suddenly became a real wizard, one able to twist reality at will. That is an interesting question, isn’t it?”
“Oh! A very theoretical question.”
“Thank God! for the theoretical questions. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be poetry.”
“Really?” said the good doctor. “Is that your definition of poetry? An exploration of theoretical questions?”
“Not exactly.” I said.
“Not exactly?” she asked.
“Not exactly” I repeated. “Now, if every human being alive turned into a real wizard, I believe it would mean the end of reality.”
“What comes after the end of reality?”
“Me, writing about it.” I said. That was a bit bold maybe, but something was itching on my neck.
“So how do you write about it?” she asked.
That’s when I discovered that dozens and dozens of ants were crawling all over me. I ran outside, removing my clothes, beating them, wondering what could be the very last thing an ant sees when you crush it.
::: ::: :::
[Picture: The very last thing an ant sees when you crush it by reading_is_dangerous]I recommend Solaris
, the original movie by Andrei Tarkovski (1972). What is reality? What is mankind? What is love? What could resurrection mean? Let the famous Russian filmmaker tell you how he feels about it.
, the original movie by Andrei Tarkovski (1972). What is reality? What is mankind? What is love? What could resurrection mean? Let the famous Russian filmmaker tell you how he feels about it.
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