Alice and Marinna watched the two men with the utmost attention; both wore the very same innocent little smile: one was a man without qualities, the other nothing more than a failed author, a most uncommitted poet. It was not out of their own volition that they bestowed such provocative nicknames upon them—or at least, in their eyes, that was not how they perceived them. Yet that was how they viewed these two men as they conversed. And that, above all, was how the two men referred to themselves.
In the most satirical manner possible, Alice and Marinna were ultimately doing no more than underscoring the plight in which the men had trapped themselves, by styling themselves thus and acting as their own characters.
The two men were talking, face-to-face. On this occasion, they had stopped merely a few inches from the edge of the table, their backs turned almost completely to the rest of the group. Both kept talking while sipping their respective coffees. A few madeleines lay beside their drinks: some still in their wrappers, others half-eaten, and a few already consumed.
Marinna and Alice were turned entirely toward them; they had even drawn as close as possible without drawing attention to themselves—or at least as unobtrusively as they could—simply to listen to them in peace.
— You bring that up, but it has no bearing on our question, said Albert Huger. Truth is merely an ideology designed to keep us quietly in our place, without asking ourselves a single question. In any case, who speaks the truth in this world? You? Me? No… we reach an understanding with it to achieve our ends. People know the truth, yet cannot tell it apart from falsehood; "truth" is a double-sided affair, a sin within a truth, an apple that appears ripe but is thoroughly rotten inside—face that reality, and there you are, a slave to the very lie that has become your own truth.
— Surely, replied Ulrich Musser, quietly sipping his coffee. Our society is the reflection of our condition; what good is complaining if things are as they are today? Truth is merely part of an even bigger lie than the last, and perhaps that is precisely why we attach so much importance to it. Deep down, perhaps we do not live in a genuine lie. I would rather say that we live in such a considerable quantity of small truths that, together, they end up producing something resembling a lie. And the most curious thing is that each of us contributes to this construction while complaining about the edifice itself.
— A man is born free from the moment he feels free, Albert Huger retorted. We are ourselves incapable of distinguishing true from false, let alone a lie from a truth, for we listen primarily to what suits us first. Our ego will always take precedence over reason… and that is why it will one day be our ruin.
— Really? replied Ulrich Musser, looking at Albert with a certain astonishment. You accepted easily enough the fact that you were a poor author, or a poor poet. I remember as if it were yesterday the day your manuscript was torn apart by the publishing house to which you had sent one of your novels, along with one of your notebooks filled with poetry; the only thing you said that day was: "In any case, I am nothing but a fool trying to please a bigger buffoon than myself."
— I see that, for once, you are listening properly, instead of playing the man without talent or qualities, exclaimed Albert Huger, slightly irritated. You, who usually answer only in short statements or brief replies, are now confronting me with all my own failures. I find that very unpleasant coming from you, who have never done anything except study or mope in your corner.
— There is nothing mean or hurtful in what I am saying, said Ulrich Musser. It is merely a reality. You have accepted the fact that you were a author of poor quality; does that make you a bad man? Or me a man who discredits his friend? One must know where we truly stand in our lives, in an illusion or in reality; reality can be hard to swallow, even to accept. No one is born with predispositions—today's society would have us believe so—but the only thing that is rewarded is the decision to take action; for if no one tries, no one will see the fruit grow on the tree of merit. The only thing that kills is inaction, in the passivity of one's ideologies.
— Now you're lecturing me—we really will have seen everything in these new centuries, replied Albert Huger, annoyed. You say that, yet you are the most rational man here and you know very well how it works, you who are furthermore so skeptical as to be detached, almost fleeing from it; you who prefer nuances to categorical assertions and who systematically question certainties, often through brief, ironic, and ambiguous remarks—saying that coming from you is almost a joke in bad taste.
— Accepting that everyone rejects your talent is almost a form of total humiliation, an absolute shame against all odds, he continued, looking at Ulrich. The mere fact of being rejected gives me a pit in my stomach, but it also makes me want to fight to write a book that everyone will scramble for… for now, I am still halfway through this dark forest.
— Perhaps you are right. That does not mean I am wrong, Ulrich Musser countered. I prefer not to hold a definitive opinion on a matter I barely understand and on which, above all, you refuse to engage in an open discussion. Thinking about this subject already gives me a headache; after talking about it so much with you, I am no longer certain the question even deserves an answer… but sometimes, convictions are a way of not thinking any further about a subject that concerns us, for your certainty does not render the world any more intelligible—far from it; I prefer to leave the question open, one possibility among others. You are perhaps taking the matter too seriously, for there is no need to draw a conclusion.
— You see, you do nothing but doubt your own statements, Albert Huger replied. Accepting that we are all failures will make us neither better nor less deserving than anyone else, for everything depends on our opinion on the matter, our view of the situation… in any case, I knew you would say that, you who oscillate between lucidity and indifference in this low world around you; but still, you seem much more assertive and even willing to offer your own opinions on a question. When we first met, your sentences were nothing but short assertions, ironic reflections—proof that we all change over time.
— We give things the meaning we need to hear, said Ulrich Musser. I could debate your assertion about me, but I am not certain it is worth the trouble. But… perhaps… I have not thought about it enough to claim the contrary, let alone to satisfy myself with it… yet at the same time, I simply doubt that it would change anything about your view of things.
— Really? replied Albert Huger, accustomed to his remarks, yet as perplexed as ever by his passivity. You, really… you ought to consider, at times, making an effort to defend yourself on certain points, for staying passive all the time will not save you from the world around you…
"Every truth is worth hearing, every truth carries a profound meaning to bring to our hearts, to our lives. Some of these truths are… lights to guide our lives, others are nothing but burdens. For there are truths so deeply buried within us that upon uncovering them, one does not find the light. One simply discovers that the darkness was inside us all along. A truth is a broken mirror. Everyone holds a fragment of it, and everyone claims that the reflection they glimpse is the entire world. When in truth, it reflects nothing more than what we see of ourselves, of our disappointments, our triumphs, and our sorrows… our life is made of more sadness than happiness—for who knows only happiness? No one, for happiness is like a flower: we find it beautiful because we know that one day it will wither." thought Albert.
— You are less indifferent when we speak of our powers, Albert Huger remarked. Our powers are almost the very meaning of what we are, our perspective on things; they merely reflect who we are. You see, all of a sudden, when we speak of our powers, you seem far more interested than in all the rest; you really ought to—or at least pretend to—show an interest in others, for this sudden fascination with a topic that passionates you might make you appear hypocritical in the eyes of others…
— I am interested in your discussion, or even in other discussions, said Ulrich Musser, cutting Albert off. But the powers we possess seem to me infinitely more worthy of interest than these conversations to which we endlessly return. We stubbornly debate truth and lie, what is permitted or denied us, our right to succeed, as though these questions, by dint of being rehashed, could acquire some new depth. And then there is this evening, this murder, of which we never cease to speak, as if the mere act of circling around an event were enough to exhaust its meaning. I far prefer to converse about matters that genuinely deserve one's attention.
— You think only of yourself in thinking thus, replied Albert Huger. These questions you seem to care so little about are the sign that we are still alive, human even—who would not ponder that evening? That murder? It is entirely natural to think about it, or even to reflect on our legitimacy in having committed those acts, or even to blame ourselves for having done so… Powers are certainly something to be grateful for, but one must not lose sight of what matters most.
— You speak of what matters most, of not forgetting—is that it, Albert? Yet we both know, you as well as I, that you could not care less either, Ulrich continued, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. As if that murder had never had the courtesy to present itself to us in a recognizable and most identifiable form. That we should think of this murder, that we should question our responsibility, or even wonder whether we still have the right to consider ourselves men—all of this strikes me indeed as perfectly natural. But what is natural is not necessarily proof of correctness, any more than the frequency of a thought can guarantee its depth. You say I think only of myself. It is possible. It is even quite probable that we never know how to think other than from ourselves, even when we accuse ourselves of our own faults. For we see the world through our own eyes; so you will excuse me if this subject strikes me as so incomplete, passable even, in all evidence—for what matters most is that we are alive today.
— Passing the ball back to me in this way by no means makes you a most intelligent man, declared Albert Huger. You do nothing but criticize and call into question the very nature of this issue, the morality and the convictions surrounding this murder; you have twisted my conclusion to turn it, once again, into one of your trite, boilerplate phrases—a phrase that puts front and center your reluctance to answer without questioning, doubting, and challenging the very meaning of the question itself. Your irony on the subject does nothing to address my conclusion.
— It is not doubt that prevents me from drawing a conclusion, Albert, but the distrust inspired in me by any certainty that has never needed to justify itself, replied Ulrich Musser. A crime remains a crime; in its very nature, it is categorized as something bad, as evil, but in our case, it was nothing short of justice, or at least a form of justice. Yet it cannot be as good as one might wish, for human goodness relies on altruism and humanism toward one's fellow man, whereas we have none of that—absolutely none. When we all stabbed him at the same time, there was nothing good nor bad about it. We are human, neither good nor bad… simply human, hence my doubts regarding your very question; it makes no more sense than saying our society is just—we can idealize it into a utopia, but it remains false, for our society exists solely for money and nothing else, and we are here because we made a choice, and nothing else.
— There is nothing more to say, yet everything can be said again, he continued, looking at Albert and sipping his coffee. Questions are countless, unlike answers, which are exceedingly brief; doubting is the only thing that makes sense in this society, questioning everything to better discern true from false—and even then, doubting is sometimes merely a way of keeping oneself at a distance from it all. A crisis of meaning, among many others, haunts us—us and us alone—for finding meaning is far harder than following the crowd into this new turn… knowledge is a precious thing, for without it, there is a lack of value, and that makes itself felt. A utopia possesses a whole sense of the possible and the real, because if morality no longer exists, a functional society exists even less; everything passes through crises. We doubt because we think, therefore we doubt.
— We were forbidden from tasting knowledge—a forbidden, suspicious knowledge, withheld without reason—why was it denied to us? Is it a sin to know? Is it death? Are they content with ignorance? Is that their state of happiness, the proof of their blindness and their faith in ignorance? said Albert Huger. I would return to my mountain sprinkled with snow, crossing through that dark, obscure forest, for that truth hidden from all.
— You see, you can be inspired from time to time; one need only set the right conditions, replied Ulrich Musser with a faint smile. Look at me: I enjoy cultivating myself and reading, it is a genuine passion… you don't need to be shy around me. Look, I love literary, or even sensual, experiences that life has to offer me; there is no shame in it, even if I am admittedly a bit fickle—you know me by now. They say happiness is within reach, but I prefer to doubt that possibility rather than blindly follow ready-made answers.
— I feel embarrassed, because you tell me about your life as if I actually cared, said Albert Huger, slightly flushed and annoyed at the same time. I do have inspiration, far more than you think or imagine; I simply prefer to keep to myself that element of mystery that drives me, instead of stating out loud that I enjoy having sexual or sensual relationships with women just for the experience. Truly, you exasperate me with your passivity toward the revelations you make about your life; I really wonder where your usual indecision and rationality have gone.
— They are still here, Ulrich replied calmly. It is simply that right now, I am sharing what drives me, or rather some of my passions, with someone I trust. There is no more shame to be felt when we love something, like mathematics, writing, literature—these are a few of my many passions, just like criticizing what surrounds me; I am not ashamed, for that is what shaped me and allowed me to gain a power. Just like the experiences we live through, what we feel—they forge us and make us more ourselves; I see no reason why you should be ashamed of your fascination with epic poetry.
— I am not ashamed of loving it; I adore it. I simply do not like speaking of it—that is the difference, declared Albert. I am the sort who avoids talking about myself, or my passions in general; you see, it makes me somewhat uncomfortable, for explaining to someone that one writes books on the internet, and on paper as well, only to admit that ultimately neither works out, is a bit more embarrassing than other things… but there it is: I love reading all kinds of works, niche or famous—it is a passion like yours, yet unlike you, I prefer to keep them to myself.
— I understand completely, replied Ulrich Musser. But there is no reason to be ashamed, especially if it does not succeed; plenty of male and female authors are in the exact same position as you, and perhaps it will persist until your very death, and even beyond, you cannot be a hundred percent certain it will work. Yet trying is far better than remaining passive before the situation; if one does not try, one can only dream, and dreaming under such conditions is almost a form of gratuitous self-mutilation, for a dream is meant to be accomplished, not merely dreamed. One must sometimes idealize things from a certain angle; above all, we do this for ourselves, not for others—we put things into perspective to uproot certain structures, for it is through desiring and acting that we will reach a conclusion in the end. But only in the end; perhaps we shall see it, and perhaps at times we never shall.
— Oh, woe is me, sad as I am! I feel trapped behind the very words he has just exposed, revealing my weak spot to the entire world. What crime have I committed to deserve being thus exposed by one of my friends—one of the most beloved? declared Albert Huger, reclining in his seat with a raised hand rested upon his forehead. I still praise God for it, and thank Him, for God's prayer was distinct. O predestination, how far removed is your root from these visions that fail to see the first cause in its entirety, for my shame is greater than my words regarding my sad reality as a failed author; he has confronted me with my clarified faults—what a sad reality I have had to endure!
— You see, now it is your turn to make fun of me with such irony, said Ulrich Musser. Yet reality has an end from which one cannot escape behind grand speeches. Success is another card to add to an artist's sleeve, but that does not always mean we are true artists, nor even good authors; some are, others are merely poor writers—we are not always good at what we do. So, let us not await the arrival of these bourgeois in their houses, busy counting their gold; let us make a reality of our dreams by publishing them, without worrying about the expectations of others.
— That is certain, replied Albert. But you see, when they discredited me, I had a sudden epiphany; from then on, I began writing an epic poem—my own epic poem—in the manner of Dante's Divine Comedy or John Milton's Paradise Lost, and frankly, it is enough to make one tear one's hair out, but what is also so fascinating about such methods is that they are nearly impossible to copy, or at least it is difficult to imagine that someone is doing exactly as you do… and perhaps at the end of my great comedy, they will finally accept me into a publishing house.
"The two men stood in the glowing light,
Upon their cloud, they rose toward the skies.
Borne by a quest, immense and singular,
They braved the horizon beneath shadowy clouds.
The shadows fell upon their dark destiny;
Heaven and earth opposed their mad endeavor.
Yet their design, which no god would have forgiven,
Defied the laws of the world and its established order.
One of the men advanced, blinded by his faith;
His iron will prevented him from seeing
The danger already rising before him,
As the sky darkened into night.
The cloud cleaved through space toward the City of Silver;
The two men, resolute, prepared to strike.
The city trembled beneath their thunderous assault,
As the clash of arms suddenly shook it to its core."
There is a small excerpt from one of the cantos of my poem; you surely doubt it, but these verses are only the beginning of the epic. Unfortunately, now I shall have much less time to write it with what is happening to us, he continued, looking at him with a most satisfied, yet at the same time most complex smile. But that does not mean I will stop right away. If I have time to think of nonsense, then I shall have time to write. I need this foolish dream, this star that shines brighter than the others in this black sky; we need to dream in order to exist.
"So many movements, so many actions that have taken place… And for what, exactly? If one were to reduce the sum of my choices and actions to a rigorous equation, what would be obtained? Nothing more than a sequence of unverified hypotheses of truth. I am still merely a simple student, a writer in my spare hours, and perhaps a mathematician-to-be. Through science, I sought the precision of a world idealized by my thought, believing that by dissecting reality, it would ultimately yield its hidden essence to me. Yet reality cannot be explained in words; it accumulates within us as thoughts, causing us to doubt everything. We become nothing more than what events make of us; it is a mistake to wish to know everything, for to know is to desire an absolute conviction, which I lack. I am merely a man without qualities, or rather a man whose qualities are only piecemeal, untrue, in a state where equilibrium will never come knocking at the door.
It boils within. Thousands of fragments of myself, or of my thoughts, swirl inside me, as though each had something more to say than the others, as though they were battling among themselves to express themselves; this racket brings on a sort of absolute migraine, yet at the same time it breeds a desire to reflect, as if I were already inhabited by all this modern din boiling in my mind.
And yet… I see myself in the mirror of her eyes gazing upon me; I see myself through her eyes.
Yet this reflection is not me… at least, according to the reflection that her eyes cast back. I know not why my gaze imposes upon me a form, a consistency that I lacked yesterday. An altered image of myself, a deformation of what I am. It is fascinating, yet terrifying all at once: am I this external projection, created by my own mind, or does there remain something behind this surface that is still completely unknown to me?
I am becoming this unknown man seated on this chair, staring back at me, whom I see only through the reflection of her eyes. This suited silhouette, severed of its head, sits at the center of what one might call a version of oneself, though possessing none of its customary properties. Where our face ought to be—that supposed mirror of the soul, that fleshy, bony structure that grants us the illusion of an identity of our own—there lies only an anarchic proliferation of signs, geometries, and mathematical vestiges.
It is fascinating to observe how this assemblage manages to capture the essence of our era in all its complexity, or rather that absence of essence dwelling within me and within this world. A single, hyperrealistic eye floats amidst this chaos, like the eye of reason striving in vain to bestow meaning upon a world fraying around us and around oneself. It is encircled by points, circles, lines of force, sharp cones: mathematics frantically attempting to impose order upon the raw matter of this body, achieving nothing more than a tangle of vectors devoid of clear direction.
In the midst of this body, I behold this intense red stain, like an effusion of passion or violence reigning within each of us, yet without cause or consequence. And that butterfly, so fragile, a reminiscence of nature, which seems eager to escape from us, appearing to be there solely by accident in this body eroded by disorder.
One could perceive in this anonymous silhouette, with its hat and tie existing only through my vision, a symbol of what I have become today: a man without qualities, a set of functional relationships operating within my mind, thoughts that divide me between indifference and reason, these thoughts turning into diagrams of my own confusion. It is, in short, an image refusing to be its own image—that of a man without qualities.
For I am none other than that man." thought Ulrich, who was now looking at himself in a mirror hanging beside a wall shelf, where he could already no longer see his face.
— From what I see, you used two different styles for your epic poetry: terza rima and blank verse, replied Ulrich Musser, looking at Albert with a certain measure of respect. Poetry is something noble, splendid even, to hear and to write. I sympathize: to finally have the idea that could draw you out of the shadow of so many others, only to find yourself in a situation where you no longer have the time to pursue the things you are so passionate about.
— A fragile life will never equal the life of one blessed by the heavens. Life is made to render our task harder, not to hand us poor humans a delicious chocolate cake; every choice brings about another of the most consequential kind—life is quite formidable at that game, especially at ruining every single one of our choices, Albert Huger replied in a calm tone. If you don't mind, let us stop speaking of my foolish dreams; this is hardly the best moment to discuss them, and above all, I no longer feel much desire to talk about them further with anyone.
"The human heart has its flaws that it cannot conceal from the heavens, much like the rain falling upon the earth; the heart echoes in parallel with the first rains. I believe I have fallen back to the beginning of my life; believing in all these dreams is too childish—who would have thought that I would be the kind of person to believe in such things. My heart knows it, and I know it too: one cannot always fulfill one's dreams, for some are merely there to grant us a clear conscience. I have descended from my cloud to look things in the face; I grew sad upon realizing that I had believed in nothing from the very start. Everything has a beginning and an end, yet I never believed in either its beginning or its end. I like chasing after foolish dreams like mine, for it is restful: to forget everything for a moment and focus on something that has not yet begun. I love language, for one can play with it as one pleases, crafting words with specific sonorities or double meanings for all kinds of things—for names, objects, or for ourselves.
Yet I can see it clearly: my heart is weeping; one can hide it from others indefinitely, but not from oneself. I am on the verge of doing as the sky does and beginning to weep; I have looked upon the things that surrounded me every day, my routines, and I seem to have fallen from up there, I have fallen very low, for in searching for one of those faint memories that seems so empty to me today—memories I had repressed so deeply, overturning them because I refused to face reality—the rain has turned me into a scattered man who weeps within himself and hides it in his heart. I hid myself by trying to trample upon myself, to trample upon my own heart, but things do not work that way; we cry all our lives yet refuse to admit it, for we fear what will happen afterward… after the realization.
I have become once more that child who believed in Santa Claus, in everything that seemed so right to me when I was still a child; but reality leaves a bitter taste, for there can be no world that is purely good any more than one that is purely evil—there simply exists a world where all things reign supreme, where our dreams are only there to keep us alive. Reality is a dream that seems so distant to me, for I am merely that bird flying through the sky, hoping one day to see the sun." thought Albert, who was gazing at a painting hanging on the wall, depicting a duel between two people beneath a rain-heavy sky.
— Then tell me what your power is, and I shall leave you in peace, Ulrich Musser countered. You know very well that it is a subject that preys on my mind; I am curious, especially when it comes to powers—studying them is so alluring that I could stop sleeping for nights on end to immerse myself deeper into them. Powers are everything here: the beginning and the end, the inception and the collapse of this place. I want to know what power you possess: a Lotus Artifact? A Supreme Principle? I want to know what your power is, and what its true nature is.
— Why are you so interested in that? They are merely powers, said Albert Huger, annoyed by his persistence on the subject. We all have our secrets, and powers work in that very way, in secret; for if everyone starts knowing the nature of our power, it risks playing tricks on us. It is as if our enemy or opponent knew our heart—that would be fatal for us, for if he knows our heart, then he will know all the secrets that dwell within us; he will discover our strengths as well as our weaknesses, and that is far too risky. In any case, one day you too will discover it, whether you wish to or not, for one day we shall inevitably have to fight… either you will be my ally and you will see it as a weapon to slay our adversaries, or you will be my enemy and taste my power.
— That is a most sorrowful reality you have just announced to me, especially to one of your friends, to one of your comrades, declared Ulrich Musser. From that perspective, I am certain that one day I shall feel your power, but I would prefer to know it without fighting with you or against you; combat is something I do not care for—too long, complicated, one must foresee everything, possess extreme speed of reaction to understand the opposing party's power and defeat it, it is long and complicated… I far prefer studying them; that is much more in my domain.
— We all prefer studying over fighting—and even then, it depends on the person—but there are times when we are indeed forced to use them in order to overcome certain obstacles, Albert replied. One cannot always overcome trials through discussion; certain discussions will lead to inevitable conflicts, impossible to dodge or flee from—fleeing is a solution, but it cannot work for our entire lives; sooner or later, one must face some of these battles instead of running from them. Who likes fleeing from the problems that come their way? For running from them will only delay them; one cannot escape the inevitable.
— Thus one might define the sense of possibility as the faculty to conceive everything that might "just as well" be, and to accord no more importance to what is than to what is not. For every choice made by our own consciousness is a choice, said Ulrich. I am not merely what has happened to me, but also everything that could have happened to me in the course of my choices; there are no bad choices, for each choice brings forth a new one still entirely unknown to us, and taking one or the other will inevitably lead us to a result we do not yet know. Fighting is a very difficult choice, for there are just as many chances of winning as of losing.
— In a fight, we must inevitably sacrifice something of ourselves to succeed in defeating them, Ulrich continued. A fight is something that frightens everyone; losing sometimes means dying, and there are always stakes that surpass us in certain fights. Especially with these powers that surpass us, for they are as powerful as they are complex; to master them, one must sometimes desensitize oneself—are we truly prepared to sacrifice ourselves for a fight? There exist so many possibilities in a fight, of winning as well as losing, that sometimes the stakes are far too great to be taken. It is better to observe and analyze every power rather than fight, and it is far more entertaining, especially for someone like me who so loves to analyze the things around him.
— Indeed, said Albert Huger in a calm tone; he understood his reasoning perfectly, for he too was like him. Yet it can also be perceived as a form of cowardice, a flight from something we do not control… to be sure, you did not say so, but the reality is there. You are someone lucid, not necessarily cowardly, yet you run away…
— You are playing with words, and on top of that, you accuse me of running away, but you never asked me what I was seeking in my answer, replied Ulrich Musser. There is no cowardice in fleeing certain battles lost in advance; there is only a reality to be accepted, a resilience before our condition, which we can neither change nor escape; there are indeed moments when we find ourselves facing walls we cannot immediately surmount.
— We all play with words, said Albert Huger. It is perhaps thanks to this that we are still alive… fleeing is a normal thing, but confronting is sometimes a challenge; we did it once, after all, with… now, we lament the future that awaits us, for deep down we are all runaways—it is a defining characteristic of human beings.
"Man is merely a flower standing between two streams, one filled with water, the other filled with lava; the flower does nothing but sway, throughout its life, between these two courses. The human is this flower that believes itself a god. And God holds this fascination for the human." thought Albert.
Meanwhile, Marinna stopped watching and listening to them, turning toward Alice, who was still observing them with that same mocking little smile. She quickly noticed Marinna's gaze fixed upon her and, against her will, stopped listening to them. She turned toward Marinna with a most jovial, almost smug smile, then took a small cookie and slipped it into her mouth.
The two girls stepped off to the side so they could converse without disturbing them further, taking care to remain as unobtrusive as possible; once they were far enough away, they settled in. Marinna seemed somewhat uncomfortable at having eavesdropped on so much of their private lives without their consent, unlike Alice, who seemed delighted to have listened to it all while judging them.
— You really are a despicable person, said Marinna, watching Alice take her tea with that same pathetic little smile on her face.
— Why? Why would I be despicable? replied Alice, who seemed astonished. Just because I made fun of two people talking about their problems?
— Yes, but not only for that, Marinna countered. You judge them according to your own standards. You don't just make fun of them by ridiculing them and laughing in a way that is as pathetic as it is ridiculous. Besides, coming from you, really, at times I wonder why certain people speak up when they themselves are completely delusional. Human hypocrisy truly possesses quirks that will never cease to impress me.
— Just because I laugh a little, I am a hypocrite? Alice exclaimed. That is completely untrue! If anything, you are the hypocrite! You were listening to them too, so don't lecture me on what I am or am not.
— Granted, I am listening to them, but unlike you, I do not pass the slightest judgment, replied Marinna. It is mind-boggling to see how someone can be wrong and yet believe they are right. It feels almost like a dream, so foolish does what you say sound to me. Now I understand why no one in the group wants anything to do with you: you are petty, selfish, despicable, and on top of that hypocritical, narcissistic even… I even wonder how you manage to judge them with all the flaws you already possess. You will never cease to amaze me!
— So what? Does that make me a monster? declared Alice. No, just a human being. Everyone passes judgment—you, me, all of us, we judge. Marinna, playing deaf won't help: everyone is hypocritical with themselves, for we all jump to hasty conclusions about the people around us. And so what, Marinna, we are what we are; a judgment never killed anyone… so stop telling me that what I am doing is wrong.
— It is wrong in its very nature, it is bad, Marinna answered. How does judging people make you any better? It will in no way make you feel superior to others. By doing so, you merely show others that you are a creature forced to point fingers at others just to exist. It is simply sad to watch; that is the long and short of my thought.
Alice noticed a new conversation just as Marinna finished what she had to say; this new conversation seemed to come at the perfect time, especially after the little interaction she had just had with Marinna.
She smiled and gestured with her eyes to Marinna, who understood immediately what it meant, but her gaze refused to settle where Alice wanted it to.
— Come on, please, let's listen to another conversation, said Alice, almost begging Marinna to listen along with her. Just this last one, alright? After that, if you want, we stop, okay? It'll just be you and me talking… So please, let's listen to this conversation!
— Why do you need me to do these completely inappropriate things? Marinna replied. You could very well do it all by yourself, like a grown-up, instead of asking me to come with you. You know very well that afterward we risk having the same discussion and that I might insult you again, even though I know that is not how one should go about things. So why do you persist so much with me?
— Because you are my only friend, said Alice with a faint smile. And besides, I like doing this sort of activity with people who feel like good friends to me. So could we please do it one last time?
— Fine, alright. You really have a knack for making me go back on my own word! Truly, I am far too nice. Just because you speak to me from the heart, I give in, said Marinna, surrendering to Alice, who seemed utterly delighted. But at the slightest judgment on your part, we stop, understood?
— Thank you, Marinna! said Alice, smiling with her cheeks slightly flushed. I will repay you for this gesture with all my heart, at a moment when you truly need it.
"She makes me laugh, that one, preaching stability and equality… ahaha, but she is so easily manipulated, naive, and completely living in a delusion of the real world—perhaps because of her young age, or some form of excessive kindness that makes her believe in the goodness of others. She is still far too young to understand life as it truly is: harsh, evil, filled with the most chaotic people possible. After all she has been through with us, it has deeply changed her; or at least she has already changed, yet she remains that same little bird refusing to leave the nest. Such naivety will lead her to a most inevitable death. You must think only of yourself in this world, for everyone will think of themselves before ever thinking of you; the freedom to navigate this world requires countless sacrifices—collectivism never works; only individuality and egocentrism succeed, for what is the point of thinking of others when you already have yourself to take care of? Good God cannot help us, for He is dead! And if He did exist, He would be among those who steal everyone's time; in any case, God and the State are two entities stealing our future and our lives—they are merely two thieves hiding from all of us and stealing everything from us, absolutely everything. Hence the idea that one must do everything alone to succeed, for no one will come to our aid, neither the world nor the people around us; only we can do it—no one is better served than by oneself. So I have every right to think of myself, for when I am dead, I will be nothing, so why not make the most of it? Why should I follow rules when they are only there to thwart us? Let us be free to move about in total serenity; collectivism hinders freedom—one might as well act alone and reap the benefits for oneself, right? For in the end, there will only be you at the end of this road; no one else will be there to tell you what to do or how to do it—you will be alone in the end anyway, and you will die alone. One must think of oneself to survive in the world we live in; this world is like a jungle—only the strong survive—so thinking of oneself is crucial to existing, and the rest comes second. In any case, it has always worked this way: the rich and the poor. There isn't necessarily a need for force to rule somewhere—power alone is what matters; today, that is our case, and power will likewise determine who shall reign supreme… to end up free and go wherever we wish without restraint… one must know how to forget everything that used to be good!
I am merely an angel who wants to go wherever she pleases and whenever she pleases; freedom has its virtues that one must know how to nurture to always claim to be free to decide where we shall go tomorrow. I am not God's Good Samaritan, nor am I the Devil's monster. Even angels are not all saints; man is pure because he has known both sides: the good and the bad; the angel sees only the good, when there is all the rest… and the monster sees only evil, but man sees what is right.
I am merely that bird that died and emerged from beneath the earth as a skeleton to soar toward that distant sun—a sun where it will be master… I think of myself, for my freedom and my free will. I am merely a dreamer dreaming beneath the stars of the night, while this shadow that is society exists only to consume my sweet dream!" thought Alice with a most ironic smile.
Alice stepped right beside Marinna, her tea cup filled once again; Marinna had stopped drinking her tea and held a madeleine in her mouth. The two girls were watching Paul and Thomas, who appeared to be in complete disagreement in their discussion.
No one paid any attention to these two girls listening to them—neither Paul, nor Thomas, nor even the rest of the group, for all were occupied speaking of the topics that troubled them to varying degrees.
The two girls were on the lookout for the slightest piece of information that passed from the mouths of these two young men conversing.
Yet, to their great surprise, events did not unfold as they had imagined…
End of this episode.
Thank you for reading.