Liberated Thoughts — Rebellion

Liberated Thoughts

— Dedicated to Aphrodite —

Days that join an end to a beginning torment me: for my life did not begin on any fixed date, and it will never end! Who am I? I am every human being who rebels against time and against place — and who is, always, at war with them!

In the harshness of the cold, in the trembling of the fingers and the note of wariness in the bones, I was walking lost in the street, as though I were stepping over the sidewalk, and over the passers-by, and over the buildings... and over time itself... not toward home. Not toward the institute of letters. Not toward my place of work... but toward no-place... and no-end...

And I collided, suddenly, with a lady carrying many parcels, clasping them like a beloved in her arms, accompanied by a child who brushed the colored paper against his cheek, sniffed like a puppy at the smell of the new shoe leather, and scattered cheap smiles into the air.

The lady did not grow angry when the white bags tumbled between her feet and mine. She only thanked me, kindly, after I helped her gather the parcels into her arms, while the shopkeeper stumbled over his own smile at the entrance of his shop. And people slid quietly past us four — the lady, and the child, and the shopkeeper, and I — as though they had wearied of this sight, or grown used to it!

Cheer is carved on the lady's face. Cheer is carved on the child's face. Cheer is carved on the shopkeeper's face. Cheer is carved on the faces of the passers-by. Whence comes this contentment of theirs? Is it from those parcels — gladdening the one who sells them, and gladdening the one who buys?

I stood nailed to my place... while the stream of beaming faces stared into my shrunken, frightened, bewildered face... and the lips of some of the young men whistled an inviting, insistent, vulgar tune... and my two lips were dead: dried stiff by a brazen, scornful, conceited cowardice!

I moved two legs that had been held back from motion by a thought making ready to storm, to thunder, and to smash — in order to create a thought fit to dwell in the body.

Such is my life — I, the rebel human being: in every moment a beginning. And in every moment an end. Beginning... and end... end, and beginning...

And after I managed to resume my crawl along the sidewalk, it occurred to me: to touch some of the passers-by. To pass my hand over their faces. To gaze into their eyes. To press the fingers of their hands. To draw near them, so as to feel the warmth rising from their bodies... perhaps so I might put an end to my fear of them!

No, I am not philosophizing. I do not believe in the idea of a school of thought. Or the principle of a party. Or the opinion of any particular person. I only feel that I am drowned here... here... in the heart of truth and reality: I see the banana peel on the sidewalk. The cigarette butt. The advertisement on the wall. Happiness in a pair of eyes. Ugliness on a face...

And I hear the wanton laughter. And the mute, stifled screaming. And the invitation on a mouth. And the trite sentences the professor repeats, like a parrot, about Aristotle, and al-Farabi, and the forgeries of pre-Islamic literature, and sociology... Just as I hear other sentences, which the announcer pours into our ears — grave ones, these — about the turmoil of the politics of our East...

And a criminal disquiet pains me in everything I hear, and see, and feel!

In these last few days I tried to cure my fear. I mean: I tried not to hear. And not to see. And not to feel.

I stuffed my handbag with many liras. I entered most of the shops of the capital; there I greeted the salesman, granted the clerk a smile, drew a joke out of the customers, helped ladies choose colors and gifts... then I left them, sheltering within the net of my arms white parcels. And yellow ones. Adorned with shining ribbons.

A month's salary — sucked from my body as blood — I squandered in a few reckless little hours!

Then I lived through the small moments, the hours, of the remaining days, craving the ring of metal — of the scanty piaster coins — in my barren handbag!

Money does not matter to me; what matters to me is the result of our melting it down into fruitful ends:

I bought a coat, and an evening dress, and shoes. And here I am, like all the girls!

I, with my coat and my dress and my shoes, am close to the people... I came down to them, made myself like them, matched my aim to their aims, plunged into the stream of their existence toward the appointed end! And so I forgot who I am. My thoughts grew feeble. I lost myself in their tumult; my fear was scattered!

And I shall not forget this tyranny I gained — this challenge, poised to spring at anyone who scatters my parcels among the feet, so that I would thrust my five fingers into his eyes and deprive him of light forever!

And I waited, with the crowd into which I had dissolved, for: the end.

The end...

The end comes creeping, lame, stumbling toward its destiny... and the world, all of it, is glitter. And dancing. And good cheer. And going. And coming. And games. And sweets. And songs. And visits and weddings...

As for the beginning...

The beginning rushes on at a run, leaving around me a tremendous din, like the din of the giants of legend in their stride! And in the decisive moment... between the death-throes and the birth:

Perfume billows through the halls, settling upon the seats. Pearls flash on the soft bare necks. The music moans under the players' fingertips. The body strains within the tight, elegant gowns. Drink runs through the yielding joints. And the feet begin to move... and the melody goes mad! And the steps rise in revolt! And the dress flies! And cheek bends to cheek! And an arm winds around a neck! And a breast presses against a chest, and consciousness soars far away!

And the light goes out...

And in the darkness lips close upon lips. And murmurs flood over the walls, like a weary torrent: a year of good and happiness!

A year. And good. And happiness.

And at once they take up the duties of the year. And the duties of the good. And the duties of happiness: they gamble and get drunk. And they cut the night to pieces upon the white, trembling coat of morning!

Is this the end? And is that the beginning? Are these vain games? False customs we have inherited?

And I gathered up the scattered fragments of my dissolved being, in the tumult of the crowd... I know when I shall put on the coat, and the dress, and the shoes. I know when I shall put out the light. I know when I shall move my feet. I know when I shall beam. I know when I shall rest cheek upon cheek... And I know more than that. I know:

when I begin, each time, and when I end.