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I’ve ascended into my third decade, and people say to me, “These are your golden years.” Tonight, I’m stuck in Aéroport Paris Beauvais Tillé. The airport closes for the night. My next flight is in twenty hours. It’s a hundred kilometers to Paris. I have no money and no place to stay. It’s winter. I spend the night wandering through the closest town. “Your golden years,” I repeat to myself as I curl up in a McDonald’s tunnel slide for children so as not to freeze. “Your golden years.” I whisper these words into my own ears as I pull a half-eaten sandwich out of the trash bin.
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This is the future in action. Something you don’t yet recognise, which begins to live through you. When I think about these things, I’m overcome by such a longing, such grief almost.
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Antanas Garšva wrote. A calm inevitability flowed back into his unconscious. The nightingale fell silent. Above the fence it brightened. In the nightingale’s song, in himself, Garšva was searching for a lost world. Just as this modest bird had sung a thousand years ago. Its song a cipher, the first communicated code.
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The Greek princesses have arrived! The Greek princesses have arrived!’ the crowd shouted.
Loringhoven’s knights pulled back. The Free Imperial Knights of Westphalia stopped.
The town’s burghers ran in whatever direction they could.
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No matter how hard Grandma Rokha tried to get me to think about Him, no matter how she tried to explain about the Jews who wandered in a foreign land, all my thoughts were focused on the butterfly, which had disappeared somewhere.
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The woman was not afraid. This land had never been hers, it had never belonged to her. Just like her life.
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You have to read these letters. That’s your duty. Who else will do it if not you? Who else, if not you, who deliberately or by accident taught me something, but who never taught me anything completely?
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The greatest punishment for a dictator appearing on a balcony would be the silence of the crowd gathered below. Silence as punishment and silence as self-worth.
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How do you get out of yourself, the way you leave home, drive out of the city, fly from one country to another? How to understand yourself, if you can’t look at yourself from the outside?
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Živka held the bow in her hand and shook with excitement. She so wanted to take the instrument home and be finished with it. Her dream of having a cello had come true so unexpectedly that she thought perhaps it was a Christmas miracle.
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When you no longer know who you are, or if you are facing some other mortal threat, what you need to do is find something to read as quickly as possible, even if it’s only a paragraph, or just two letters of the alphabet.
