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Hef ég drepið mann eða hef ég ekki drepið mann? Hver hefur drepið mann og hver hefur ekki drepið mann? Hvenær drepur maður mann og hvenær drepur maður ekki mann? Fari í helvíti sem ég drap mann. Og þó. ↗
When the little mouse, which was loved as none other was in the mouse-world, got into a trap one night and with a shrill scream forfeited its life for the sight of the bacon, all the mice in the district, in their holes were overcome by trembling and shaking; with eyes blinking uncontrollably they gazed at each other one by one, while their tails scraped the ground busily and senselessly. Then they came out, hesitantly, pushing one another, all drawn towards the scene of death. There it lay, the dear little mouse, its neck caught in the deadly iron, the little pink legs drawn up, and now stiff the feeble body that would so well have deserved a scrap of bacon. The parents stood beside it and eyed their child's remains. ↗
Marya put down her fork. “Why are you doing this, Koschei? I have had lovers before. You have, too. Remember Marina? The rusalka? She and I swam together every morning. We raced the salmon. You called us your little sharks.” The Tsar of Life held his knife so tightly Marya could see his knucklebones bulging. “Were any of them called Ivan? Were any of them human boys all sticky with their own innocence? I know you. I know you because you are like me, as much like me as two spoons nested in each other.” Her husband leaned close to her, the candlelight sparking in his dark, shaggy hair. “When you steal them, they mean so much more, Marousha. Trust me. I know. What did I do wrong? Was I boring? Did I ignore you? Did I not give you enough pretty dresses? Enough emeralds? I’m sure I have more, somewhere.” Marya lifted her hand and laid it on her husband’s cheek. With a blinking quickness, she drove her nails deep into his face. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I have worn nothing but blood and death for years. I have fought all your battles for you, just as you asked me. I have learned all the tricks you said I must learn. I have learned not to cry when I strangle a man. I have learned to lay my finger aside my nose and disappear. I have learned to watch everything die. I am not a little girl anymore, dazzled by your magic. It is my magic, now, too. And if I have watched all my soldiers die in front of me, if I have only been saved by my rifle and my own hands, if I have drunk more blood than water for weeks, then I take the human boy who stumbled into my tent and hold him between my legs until I stop screaming, you will not punish me for it. Are we not chyerti? Are we not devils? I will not even hear your punishment, old man. ↗
Shut up,” I snapped. “This is not the time. What part of this situation seems like a joke to you?” Lohka pulled up his knees, giving a feeble, half-manic little laugh. “Oh, maybe just the idea that some soul-devouring being of chaos could be waiting anywhere to finish destroying my life,” he said. “That’s kind of hilarious, you know. Have you ever had a soul-devouring being of chaos hunting you down so it could finish eating you?” “No,” I said. “I’m sorry, Lohka.” “That’s nice,” he muttered. “What about the part where this soul-devouring being of chaos seems to have a taste for me at the moment?” Zhabyr asked. “Can we worry about that, now? Because I kind of already am. ↗
Trebuie să dăm totul la o parte şi sâ atacăm făţiş adevărata problemă. Oamenii se sinucid pentru că viaţa nu merită să fie trăită, iată, fără îndoială, un adevăr — nefecund totuşi, pentru că e un truism. Dar această insultă adusă existenţei, această dezminţire ce i se dă vine oare din faptul că existenţa n-are nici un sens? Cere absurditatea ei sa i te sustragi, prin speranţă sau prin sinucidere? Iată ce trebuie să scoatem la lumină, să urmărim şi să ilustrăm, înlăturînd tot restul. Obligă oare absurdul la moarte? Iată problema ce trebuie discutată înaintea oricărei alteia, în afara tuturor metodelor de gîndire şi a jocurilor spiritului dezinteresat. Nuanţele, contradicţiile, psihologia pe care un spirit «obiectiv» ştie să le introducă în orice problemă nu-şi au locul în această căutare şi în această pasiune. Aici e nevoie doar de o gîndire logică. Lucrul nu-i simplu. E uşor să fii logic. Dar e aproape imposibil să fii logic pînă la capăt. Oamenii care mor pe propria lor mînă urmează astfel pînă la capăt drumul indicat de sentimentul lor. ↗
