to seek his fortune in the outside world. Antek, on the other hand, he was a madcap, you never knew what he’d come up with next. Whereas me, I never dreamed of ever building a new house, let alone a tomb. I was always more interested in living than in dying. Living and living, as long as I could, as much as I could. Even if there was no reason to. Though does it matter all that much whether there’s a reason or no? Maybe it actually makes no difference, and we’re just wasting our time worrying about it. Who knows, maybe living is the eleventh commandment that God forgot to tell us. Or perhaps everyone has it written in their stars or in some other book that they’re supposed to keep on living, and that has to be enough. People don’t need to know everything. Horses don’t know things and they go on living. And bees, for instance, if they knew it was humans they were collecting honey for, they wouldn’t do it. How are people any better than horses or bees?
In any case I couldn’t have said whether I liked living or I just felt I had to, so much so that I felt closer to being born than to dying. And death counted for little with me. I was only interested in life. It goes without saying that death came after me a good few times, probably more than the next man. There were moments it followed right behind me and even lay down to rest beside me, because it thought it might take me in my sleep. Other times italready had its bony hands on me. But it never got the better of me. Sometimes, at those moments it would weep with rage. Weep away, you dark bastard. I’m going to keep on living awhile, because that’s what I feel like doing. You’ll never take me when you want to. I’ll come to you myself when I’ve had enough, I’ll say I’m done with living, I can die now.
How so much life got into me I couldn’t say. Sometimes it’s destiny, and sometimes a person’s born that keeps on living however much everything gangs up against them. It’s as if life itself picked them to stand up to death.
I wasn’t quite three when the neighbor’s turkey-cock strayed into our yard. It was big as a young cow and all covered in dangling red wattles, like it had a cherry branch instead of a neck. The wattles made everything around go red, like a red glow from a fire. The barn, the cattle shed, the fence, the ground, it all suddenly turned red. The dog dashed out of its kennel and started yapping at the turkey, it was filled with red anger. The cat came out of the house, here kitty kitty, its fur was gray, and all of a sudden now it was red. The geese, it seemed like someone had taken their white covers off, as if they were pillows and they were waddling around in the red linings. And even the scythe leaning against the barn started to drip with red blood, drip, drip, drip.
I set off toward the turkey to pull off those wattles of his that had turned the whole world red, and hang them around my own neck. He probably thought I wanted to play with him, and to begin with he started running away. Then all of a sudden he came to a stop, bristled up, gobbled, and spread out like a whole cherry tree, and the blood almost burst from his wattles. I reached for his neck, and he ups and jabs me in the hand, jabs me in the head. Then he gobbles again and jabs me again. But by this time I’d already gotten ahold of his neck with both hands, and I held on like it was a fence post. He tugged and jumped, but I wouldn’t let go. He started hitting me with his wings, and with his head caught in my hands he jerked me one way and the other like he was trying to leave me his head and get free even ifit meant going headless. He didn’t manage to, though, because in my little hands I could feel the strength of four grown-up hands. He dragged me all the way across the yard and back. In the end he must have decided there was nothing else for it. He stood still, spread his wings like two clouds, and tried to fly. He flapped and flapped, he thrashed
In any case I couldn’t have said whether I liked living or I just felt I had to, so much so that I felt closer to being born than to dying. And death counted for little with me. I was only interested in life. It goes without saying that death came after me a good few times, probably more than the next man. There were moments it followed right behind me and even lay down to rest beside me, because it thought it might take me in my sleep. Other times italready had its bony hands on me. But it never got the better of me. Sometimes, at those moments it would weep with rage. Weep away, you dark bastard. I’m going to keep on living awhile, because that’s what I feel like doing. You’ll never take me when you want to. I’ll come to you myself when I’ve had enough, I’ll say I’m done with living, I can die now.
How so much life got into me I couldn’t say. Sometimes it’s destiny, and sometimes a person’s born that keeps on living however much everything gangs up against them. It’s as if life itself picked them to stand up to death.
I wasn’t quite three when the neighbor’s turkey-cock strayed into our yard. It was big as a young cow and all covered in dangling red wattles, like it had a cherry branch instead of a neck. The wattles made everything around go red, like a red glow from a fire. The barn, the cattle shed, the fence, the ground, it all suddenly turned red. The dog dashed out of its kennel and started yapping at the turkey, it was filled with red anger. The cat came out of the house, here kitty kitty, its fur was gray, and all of a sudden now it was red. The geese, it seemed like someone had taken their white covers off, as if they were pillows and they were waddling around in the red linings. And even the scythe leaning against the barn started to drip with red blood, drip, drip, drip.
I set off toward the turkey to pull off those wattles of his that had turned the whole world red, and hang them around my own neck. He probably thought I wanted to play with him, and to begin with he started running away. Then all of a sudden he came to a stop, bristled up, gobbled, and spread out like a whole cherry tree, and the blood almost burst from his wattles. I reached for his neck, and he ups and jabs me in the hand, jabs me in the head. Then he gobbles again and jabs me again. But by this time I’d already gotten ahold of his neck with both hands, and I held on like it was a fence post. He tugged and jumped, but I wouldn’t let go. He started hitting me with his wings, and with his head caught in my hands he jerked me one way and the other like he was trying to leave me his head and get free even ifit meant going headless. He didn’t manage to, though, because in my little hands I could feel the strength of four grown-up hands. He dragged me all the way across the yard and back. In the end he must have decided there was nothing else for it. He stood still, spread his wings like two clouds, and tried to fly. He flapped and flapped, he thrashed
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