house
suggested an answer to an enigma that only now, upon intuiting its solution, he
could formulate. What did his contemporaries do when he knew nothing about them?
What did the great writers and artists whom he admired do during the often long
periods of time when they were not presenting a book or making a movie or
setting up an exhibit? Because of the amount of time he spent with books, he had
grown accustomed to thinking of the great figures as dead, for the simple reason
that for the most part they were: in order for their works or their fame to have
reached him, some time had to have passed, and even more for him to have decided
to study them; and this delay, more often than not, was more than enough for a
human life to complete its cycle. That’s why he would feel a little shock
whenever he found out that this or that famous person was alive, simply living,
without doing the things he was famous for doing. This created a kind of blank
in which the nature of fame negated itself. He never understood because, truth
be told, he’d never really stopped to think about it, but now he saw it all very
clearly: what they did was live, though not just live, which would have been a
platitude, but rather enjoy life, practice “the art of living” in houses like
this one, or not as luxurious but in any case endowed with the comforts
necessary to enjoy oneself and spend one’s time without any concerns. Thanks to
the link between reason and imagination, he felt at that moment that he could do
the same from then on.
He had just sat down when he had to stand up again,
because the other brothers had come in to tell him that the patient was awake
and expecting him. They didn’t sit down, so he didn’t again, either. They told
him that they’d given him his injections early so that he would be lucid at ten
o’clock. They didn’t know if it was necessary, but the patient himself had
requested it.
“Perfect,” said Dr. Aira, just to say something and
without giving an explanation such as they must have been expecting.
In the blink of an eye, he didn’t know exactly how, they
were climbing the stairs to the bedroom. The moment of truth was
approaching.
The truth was, he hadn’t finished deciding what to do. He
had spent the last two days considering his options with the same uncertainty
he’d had for the last few decades, ever since that day in his far-distant youth
when he had intuited the Cures. The idea had remained more or less intact since
then, not counting the natural alternation between doubt and enthusiasm
characteristic of a genuinely original concept. It had been the center of his
life, the pivot around which his readings, meditations, and quite varied
interests had turned. Of course, in order to keep it in this central position he
had had to endow it with a plasticity that resisted any definition. It had
always been right in front of his nose, like the proverbial carrot hanging in
front of a donkey, indicating the direction of his prolonged flight forward. He
owed his life to it, the life he had, after all, lived, and for this he was
grateful. He could not complain about it just because it refused to give him a
practical set of instructions at a decisive moment. He didn’t want to seem
ungrateful, like those infamous scroungers who spend twenty years taking money
from a generous friend, and when finally the friend can’t or doesn’t want to do
as they ask, they condemn him without appeal.
Moreover — as he had been repeating to himself
throughout that atypical weekend — something would occur to him. It’s not that
he trusted his ability as an improviser; on the contrary, he had serious reasons
to distrust it. But he knew that for better or for worse he’d manage, because
one always does. It’s enough for time to pass, and it inevitably will. It wasn’t
strictly a question of “improvising” but rather of finding in the teeming
treasure of a lifetime of reflections the one gesture that would do the
suggested an answer to an enigma that only now, upon intuiting its solution, he
could formulate. What did his contemporaries do when he knew nothing about them?
What did the great writers and artists whom he admired do during the often long
periods of time when they were not presenting a book or making a movie or
setting up an exhibit? Because of the amount of time he spent with books, he had
grown accustomed to thinking of the great figures as dead, for the simple reason
that for the most part they were: in order for their works or their fame to have
reached him, some time had to have passed, and even more for him to have decided
to study them; and this delay, more often than not, was more than enough for a
human life to complete its cycle. That’s why he would feel a little shock
whenever he found out that this or that famous person was alive, simply living,
without doing the things he was famous for doing. This created a kind of blank
in which the nature of fame negated itself. He never understood because, truth
be told, he’d never really stopped to think about it, but now he saw it all very
clearly: what they did was live, though not just live, which would have been a
platitude, but rather enjoy life, practice “the art of living” in houses like
this one, or not as luxurious but in any case endowed with the comforts
necessary to enjoy oneself and spend one’s time without any concerns. Thanks to
the link between reason and imagination, he felt at that moment that he could do
the same from then on.
He had just sat down when he had to stand up again,
because the other brothers had come in to tell him that the patient was awake
and expecting him. They didn’t sit down, so he didn’t again, either. They told
him that they’d given him his injections early so that he would be lucid at ten
o’clock. They didn’t know if it was necessary, but the patient himself had
requested it.
“Perfect,” said Dr. Aira, just to say something and
without giving an explanation such as they must have been expecting.
In the blink of an eye, he didn’t know exactly how, they
were climbing the stairs to the bedroom. The moment of truth was
approaching.
The truth was, he hadn’t finished deciding what to do. He
had spent the last two days considering his options with the same uncertainty
he’d had for the last few decades, ever since that day in his far-distant youth
when he had intuited the Cures. The idea had remained more or less intact since
then, not counting the natural alternation between doubt and enthusiasm
characteristic of a genuinely original concept. It had been the center of his
life, the pivot around which his readings, meditations, and quite varied
interests had turned. Of course, in order to keep it in this central position he
had had to endow it with a plasticity that resisted any definition. It had
always been right in front of his nose, like the proverbial carrot hanging in
front of a donkey, indicating the direction of his prolonged flight forward. He
owed his life to it, the life he had, after all, lived, and for this he was
grateful. He could not complain about it just because it refused to give him a
practical set of instructions at a decisive moment. He didn’t want to seem
ungrateful, like those infamous scroungers who spend twenty years taking money
from a generous friend, and when finally the friend can’t or doesn’t want to do
as they ask, they condemn him without appeal.
Moreover — as he had been repeating to himself
throughout that atypical weekend — something would occur to him. It’s not that
he trusted his ability as an improviser; on the contrary, he had serious reasons
to distrust it. But he knew that for better or for worse he’d manage, because
one always does. It’s enough for time to pass, and it inevitably will. It wasn’t
strictly a question of “improvising” but rather of finding in the teeming
treasure of a lifetime of reflections the one gesture that would do the
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