knows his brother, and, given that there aren’t too many options within their line of vision from the bottom of the well, he knows which word he is thinking of. But he enjoys playing, and the best thing about the game is the game itself.
‘Necessity!’
‘No.’
Words beginning with en pile up in his head, all of them a product of his captive condition. He decides to stretch the rope a little more, to test his brother’s resistance.
‘Necrosis!’
‘No.’
‘Niche!’
‘No!’
He loosens the knot a fraction: his brother is clearly losing the will to go on.
‘Nothing!’
‘No.’
‘It’s really difficult. Give me a clue.’
‘OK… You can see it, but you can’t touch it.’
Now is the moment of joy. He can’t put it off any longer.
‘Nightfall!’
‘Yes! Well done!’ bursts out Big with an enormous smile.
‘Again!’
‘Something beginning with… ar.’
Small admires the simplicity of his brother. It must be easy to make decisions in a world with such radical contrasts, where everything is black and white. It must be easy to do the right thing.
‘Rage!’
‘No.’
Interred in a well, his brother sees roots. He cannot see anything else because he looks in the way that dogs look. It is that basic, that beautiful. A piece of meat and a few pats of his back would suffice to make him feel loved. Roots. For Small, there are entities more certain than those things he can touch.
‘Reality!’
‘No!’
Human Remains. Rations of insects. Red-Raw knees. Rebellions. Ravings. Routines. Rituals. Rot. The game could be a lot more fun if only his brother understood. He throws him a bone out of the goodness of his heart.
‘Rocks!’
‘Warmer!’
‘Am I close?’
‘Very. Go on!’
Nor does he want his brother to think him an idiot.
‘Roots!’
‘You got it!’
‘Cool!’ Small hoots exaggeratedly. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
‘OK, but none of those abstract words. Only things that can be seen.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I spy…’ begins Small.
‘I spy,’ says Big.
‘I spy with my little eye… Something beginning with… bee. With bee! With bee!’ Small shrieks, looking down at the russet-coloured earth.
71
‘ L OCK UP ANY MAN in a cage,’ says Small.
Give him a blanket, a feather pillow, a mirror and a photograph of the ones he loves. Find a way to feed him and then forget about him for a number of years. Under these conditions, in the majority of cases the end result will be a shell of a man, reduced to guilt, bent to the shape of a cage.
In exceptional cases, he goes on saying, the chosen subject will die, consumed by the slow wasting of his essential organs, or he will go insane watching his own reflection in the mirror. Or he will die of a terminal illness, which in any case he was fated to suffer.
On the other hand, for those subjects predisposed to rebel, those who can’t ignore the call of their inquisitive spirit, prolonged captivity is impossible: lock up a rebel in a cage for a few years and he will either escape, commit a meticulously planned suicide making use of the objects he has at his disposal, or die carving up his own body into pieces small enough to pass through the bars. The real problem, though, is the way these dissenters—fertileby nature—breed and spread in our human conscience: when one dies, two occupy his place.
Given the above, imagine cages hanging from the ceilings of every café, bookshop, church, hospital, and, above all, every school, and imagine that at least one of those cages is inhabited by a subversive—a non-conforming, rebelling subject. Imagine the speeches of these twisted, concave bodies, incited by the crowds who surround their altar with their guilty consciences; what perverse, lucid public acts will they come out with during their reign. Imagine what will become of the inmate from a hospital, beautiful and sustained like a blue machine that pumps out memory, bearing witness to disease and corpses. Imagine the
‘Necessity!’
‘No.’
Words beginning with en pile up in his head, all of them a product of his captive condition. He decides to stretch the rope a little more, to test his brother’s resistance.
‘Necrosis!’
‘No.’
‘Niche!’
‘No!’
He loosens the knot a fraction: his brother is clearly losing the will to go on.
‘Nothing!’
‘No.’
‘It’s really difficult. Give me a clue.’
‘OK… You can see it, but you can’t touch it.’
Now is the moment of joy. He can’t put it off any longer.
‘Nightfall!’
‘Yes! Well done!’ bursts out Big with an enormous smile.
‘Again!’
‘Something beginning with… ar.’
Small admires the simplicity of his brother. It must be easy to make decisions in a world with such radical contrasts, where everything is black and white. It must be easy to do the right thing.
‘Rage!’
‘No.’
Interred in a well, his brother sees roots. He cannot see anything else because he looks in the way that dogs look. It is that basic, that beautiful. A piece of meat and a few pats of his back would suffice to make him feel loved. Roots. For Small, there are entities more certain than those things he can touch.
‘Reality!’
‘No!’
Human Remains. Rations of insects. Red-Raw knees. Rebellions. Ravings. Routines. Rituals. Rot. The game could be a lot more fun if only his brother understood. He throws him a bone out of the goodness of his heart.
‘Rocks!’
‘Warmer!’
‘Am I close?’
‘Very. Go on!’
Nor does he want his brother to think him an idiot.
‘Roots!’
‘You got it!’
‘Cool!’ Small hoots exaggeratedly. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
‘OK, but none of those abstract words. Only things that can be seen.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I spy…’ begins Small.
‘I spy,’ says Big.
‘I spy with my little eye… Something beginning with… bee. With bee! With bee!’ Small shrieks, looking down at the russet-coloured earth.
71
‘ L OCK UP ANY MAN in a cage,’ says Small.
Give him a blanket, a feather pillow, a mirror and a photograph of the ones he loves. Find a way to feed him and then forget about him for a number of years. Under these conditions, in the majority of cases the end result will be a shell of a man, reduced to guilt, bent to the shape of a cage.
In exceptional cases, he goes on saying, the chosen subject will die, consumed by the slow wasting of his essential organs, or he will go insane watching his own reflection in the mirror. Or he will die of a terminal illness, which in any case he was fated to suffer.
On the other hand, for those subjects predisposed to rebel, those who can’t ignore the call of their inquisitive spirit, prolonged captivity is impossible: lock up a rebel in a cage for a few years and he will either escape, commit a meticulously planned suicide making use of the objects he has at his disposal, or die carving up his own body into pieces small enough to pass through the bars. The real problem, though, is the way these dissenters—fertileby nature—breed and spread in our human conscience: when one dies, two occupy his place.
Given the above, imagine cages hanging from the ceilings of every café, bookshop, church, hospital, and, above all, every school, and imagine that at least one of those cages is inhabited by a subversive—a non-conforming, rebelling subject. Imagine the speeches of these twisted, concave bodies, incited by the crowds who surround their altar with their guilty consciences; what perverse, lucid public acts will they come out with during their reign. Imagine what will become of the inmate from a hospital, beautiful and sustained like a blue machine that pumps out memory, bearing witness to disease and corpses. Imagine the
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