David Grossman - Falling out of time

no love.

DUKE:

And you — pick up

a hoe and till a bed.

Plant in it a pillow, a lamp,

a letter, a picture of

a beloved face, perhaps also a kettle,

thick socks, gloves and a satchel,

a pencil or paintbrush, a book

or two, a pair of glasses, so that you

can see near

and see far.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the rocking horse.

CENTAUR: You again? Won’t you ever shut up?

TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the soccer ball, about the cowboy hat. About the birthdays, tell me about them. About the magician’s wand, the blue kite—

CENTAUR: You’re torturing me.

TOWN CHRONICLER: About the toy boat—

CENTAUR: Junk! Memory husks!

TOWN CHRONICLER: At least tell me something about the cradle.

CENTAUR: How about you tell me something about yourself for a change? You’ve been coming here for weeks, ten times a day, interrogating me, turning me inside out like a glove, and you yourself — nothing! Just a clerk! Following orders! Hiding behind your royal edict, which any idiot can see is a fake, with that ridiculous drawing of the duke wearing a crown. I mean, come on! You could have put a little more effort into it. A five-year-old can draw better than that!

Okay. I get it. I can be quiet, too. Here. Being quiet. A rock. A sphinx. You’re not looking so hot yourself either, you know, these last few days, but I am absolutely going off the deep end, yes, that’s not hard to see. This fight with it , goddamn it, is doing me in. I admit it. And this silly thing that happened to me with the desk? I bet you’ve heard the stories around town, right? For that reason alone you should have stopped bothering me with your nonsense. Don’t you have any mercy for a poor centaur? And a bereaved one, at that? Come on, look at me. No, I mean it. Climb up on this window, use both hands, don’t be afraid. What’s the worst thing I could do to you that you’re not already doing to yourself?

So? Nice, isn’t it? Aesthetically pleasing. Have you ever seen such grafting? Such a curse? Half writer, half desk? Well, there you have it. You can get down now. Finita la tragedia . What do you say? It’s quite a thing, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you there was nothing as pleasurable as other people’s hell?

TOWN CHRONICLER: Your son once lay in that cradle.

CENTAUR: And now he has a different one.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Help me, Centaur. Those piles of yours are driving me mad.

CENTAUR: I’ll never leave this place.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Thirteen years ago I lost my daughter.

CENTAUR: These last few days, when you were being a real pain in the ass, I was beginning to think it might be something like that.

TOWN CHRONICLER: I can’t talk about her.

CENTAUR:

I built the cradle

with my own two hands. The day

he was born, from branches of oak. My wife

painted the two ducks.

She painted so beautifully.

She was a quiet,

gentle woman. She left me,

three years after

the boy did. If I could have,

I would have left me, too.

Adam — that was his name.

Adam. I placed him

in the cradle

after he was born. He lay there

with his eyes open, looked

at me, studied me with his gaze.

He was so serious! He always was,

his whole life. His whole

short life. Serious

and slightly lonely. Hardly

any friends. He liked stories.

We used to put on plays,

he and I,

with costumes and masks. You asked

about the cradle. My wife padded it

with soft fabric,

but he could only fall asleep

with me, on my chest. He would cling

to me.

I just remembered, you’ll laugh,

but there was a special sound

I used to make to put him

to sleep on me. A sort of quiet,

deep, trembling

moan. Hmmmm …

Hmmmm …

TOWN CHRONICLER: Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I also …

CENTAUR: Not at all … Hmmm …

TOWN CHRONICLER: Hmmm …

CENTAUR and TOWN CHRONICLER: Hmmm …

WALKING MAN:

Walking, walking,

neither awake nor

asleep, walking

and emptying

all my thoughts,

my passions,

my sadness, my fervor,

my secrets, my volition,

anything that is me.

Look at me, my son:

here I am not.

I am but a platform of life,

calling you to come

and be through me—

to occur, if only for a moment,

to once again be purified

by what is.

Come, do not hesitate,

be now,

I am gone,

the house is yours,

and it is furnished with every limb.

Flow into it, pool in it,

this blood is your blood now, the muscles,

your muscles. Come,

be present,

reach your arms

from world-end to — end,

rejoice from my throat, laugh, vibrate,

celebrate,

all is possible at this moment,

everything now is yes ,

so love and burn and lust

and fuck.

My five hungry senses

are at your command like

five horses foaming at the mouth,

stomping, raring

to gallop to your never-end.

Do not stop, my boy,

your time is short, meted out,

my eyelids are trembling now,

soon I will come home,

soon my pupils will contract

in the light of confining logic. Quick,

taste it all, devour, be deep,

be sad,

determined, delighted, roar,

tremble with pleasure and power,

my pleasure is yours, my power, too—

enchant, shower your soul,

be the swing of a sower,

a cascade of grain and

golden coins streaming

like light—

be engorged like an udder,

and torrid as midday,

and rage, and rave,

tighten your hand into a fist until

arteries swell in your neck,

and be thrilled, like a heart, like a girl,

be agape, thin-skinned, alight

with the glory of

one-off wonders,

be a whole,

momentary fraction

of eternity.

And as you do so, pause suddenly, breathe, inhale, feel the air burn your lungs, lick your upper lip, taste the salt of healthy sweat, the tingle of life, and now say fully: I—

(Damn it, I realize now:

that pronoun is also

lost, it died

with you, leaving me

with only he and you

and us , and no one

will ever again

say I

in your voice.

That too. That, too.)

Just hurry, my boy,

dawn is rising, the magic

soon will melt, so you must love,

and, even if betrayed,

even if you taste the venom

of disdain, love

and be brave, but be cowardly, too,

be everything, touch defeat,

touch failure, hurt someone,

disappoint

and lie.

Quick, my boy, pass through all these,

there is no time to linger,

such illusions are so brief,

but you must touch, caress

a warm body, a woman,

bounteous breasts in your hands,

the head of a newborn child, unborn

to you.

Quick, quick, the first strip

of light—

see the world you never saw: New York,

Paris, Shanghai, so many faces

in this living

world—

No, no, stop—

it’s too late now,

come back

to rest,

quick,

to obscurity,

to oblivion,

just do not see

with my own eyes

what happened

to you.

WALKERS:

Our feet lift slowly

from the earth lightly

lightly we hover

between here and there

between lucidity

and sleep

the thread will soon

unravel

and we will glide