The Journal of Happiness, Nicolae Steinhardt (5)
After all I don’t even know well if I broke it or not. Made out of crystal, thick. If I admit that I broke it, I’m telling the truth (the objective truth) and, once I spoke the truth, I must carry on and admit it all and so that Nego spoke like an enemy (That’s the whole purpose of this nightly meeting for investigation, in which she defends me so suspiciously careful, she hands me so friendly the rescue pole; for her, worthy of the highest grade for memorising and unable to forget any detail, she’s jumping over ranks when it comes to me and my words from then, she forgets them or quotes only parts of them and answers : “Who told them? I can’t remember. Someone, someone of those present, I only know that they were pronounced … ” This ” were “impersonal and neutral, as in logistics and in structuralism, oh how it is accomplice to me and how it demeans me.)
So, talking, I go into clarity and truth and there is no recess where I may cringe, I walk in the light zone, the hidden things dissapear instantly. Or, if I do not remember, if I psychologically make the gesture of detente and relaxation, I lose myself in the smoke of confusion, I lose myself in the loss of memory , I surrender to the sweet delirious of evanescence and then I admit again, I admit because now all is the same for me, because all is grey and the same , because nothing has meaning and precision. I enter the world of new novel and literature without characters: of IT , and of THEY and of the OTHERS, where SELF and HIMSELF perish, merge into the undifferentiated crowd. Personality (what’s that?) sprinkles finely crumble, passes all through the sieve.
Whatever I do, I’m lost.
You are lost, you are lost, rocks me softly the tender rocker of fatigue and failure, of disgust, of wonder, of grateful friendship.(She just does all that she can do. She wants to help me. In the crystal facets sparkle the candles on the festive table.)
I am lost also because this was supposed to be my fate – that, not other. Am I not a soiled guy, a loser, an old man in his concessions and yieldings, in shameful weddings, in grotesque sorrows, in pulses of envy, in bloody pride, in cravings always awake, sated but never met lofty and full, always crippled, is it not my rightful place among filth, among lukewarm, this restful toilet of renunciation and obedience, of confirmation of truth, is it really not the logical end of a long foul? What for to deceive myself on the far roads of pride and dignity? Inaccessible. The path is crossed forever.
– to be continued
translation: memyselfandela, 2012