Читать книгу One, None and a Hundred-thousand - Luigi Pirandello - Страница 21

Table of Contents

Ah, to be no longer conscious of being, like a stone, like a plant! To remember no longer even one's own name! Stretched out upon the grass, hands interlaced at the back of one's neck, to look up at the dazzling, sun-puffed clouds as they sail past in the blue sky, to listen to the wind which makes, up there in the chestnut grove, a sound like the breaking of the sea.

Clouds and wind.

What did you say? Alas, alas! Clouds? Wind? And does it not seem to you indeed everything, to take cognizance of and recognize the fact that those objects which go sailing so luminously through that boundless sky-blue void are clouds? Does the cloud by any chance know anything of the fact of being? Neither do the tree and the rock know anything of the cloud, nor even of themselves; they are wrapped in their loneliness.

Taking cognizance of and recognizing the cloud, you may, my good friends, think of the change that water (and why not?) undergoes, which becomes clouds to become again water. A fine thing, that. And any sorry little physics instructor can explain to you the change that takes place. But to explain the wherefore of the why?