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As usual, Junko thought about Jack London's 'To Build a Fire.' It was the story of a man traveling alone through the snowy Alaskan interior and his attempts to light a fire. He would freeze to death unless he could make it catch. The sun was going down. Junko hadn't read much fiction, but that one short story she had read again and again, ever since her teacher had assigned it as an essay topic during summer vacation of her first year in high school. The scene of the story would always come vividly to mind as she read. She could feel the man's fear and hope and despair as if they were her own; she could sense the very pounding of his heart as he hovered on the brink of death. Most important of all, though, was the fact that the man was fundamentally longing for death. She knew that for sure. She couldn't explain how she knew, but she knew it from the start. Death was really what he wanted. He knew that it was the right ending for him. And yet he had to go on fighting with all his might. He had to fight against an overwhelming adversary in order to survive. What most shook Junko was this deep-rooted contradiction. The teacher ridiculed her view. 'Death is really what he wanted? That's a new one for me! And strange! Quite 'original,' I'd have to say.' He read her conclusion aloud before the class, and everybody laughed. But Junko knew. All of them were wrong. Otherwise how could the ending of the story be so quiet and beautiful? ↗
Kiedy umieramy - jest tak jak wtedy, gdy wszystkie sceny są już umieszczone na rolce taśmy filmowej, a dekoracje rozebrane i spalone - stajemy się fantomami we wspomnieniach naszych potomków. Stajemy się wtedy upiorami, mój drogi, stajemy się mitem. Ale na razie wciąż jesteśmy ze sobą, wciąż razem jesteśmy przeszłością, odległą przeszłością. Pod kopułą mitycznej przeszłości wciąż jeszcze słyszę twój głos. ↗
