Читать книгу Tales Written by the Dying in Awe - Vysheslav Filevsky - Страница 7

Once upon a time, there was a man who wrote poetry. But when people took his books into their hands and opened them, they saw only empty pages.

At first, the man was astonished and outraged. Then he said, “Oh, here, look – here are the poems!” And with his finger, he pointed to this or that tiny image.

And indeed, some people succeeded in perceiving signs or even words in his books. But those signs and words did not settle into familiar concepts. And this is why people did not understand them. Then the man recited his opuses aloud. People heard only sound vibrations that meant nothing to them.

Finally, the man realized that his poetry was not for people. “For whom, then?” he mused. “For the Great Inconceivable? For the angels of heaven?” And the man started to listen for sensations that emanated from angels. And indeed, nothing settled into words or concepts! Nothing from the inexpressibly beautiful what angels do could not be displayed using musical notation. And the man realized that angels sing (or speak?) not for someone but instead for no reason. Angels sing or speak not as an act of creativity but as a mode of existence. And after that, he started to act the same way.