South Of The Border West Of The Sun Quotes

I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I’m not blaming you for falling in love with another woman. I’m not angry, either. I should be, but I’m not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong.

Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star. It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.

here she is, all mine, trying her best to give me all she can. How could I ever hurt her? But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

For a while" is a phrase whose length can't be measured.At least by the person who's waiting.

For a long time, she held a special place in my heart. I kept this special place just for her, like a "Reserved" sign on a quiet corner table in a restaurant. Despite the fact that I was sure I'd never see her again.

I was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty, but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rainstorms, earthquakes, or blackouts, I liked that certain undefinable something directed my way by members of the opposite sex. For want of a better word, call it magnetism. Like it or not, it’s a kind of power that snares people and reels them in.

No matter where i go, i still end up me. What's missing never changes. The scenery may change, but i'm still the same incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that i can never satisfy. I think that lack itself is as close as i'll come to defining myself.

The sad truth is that certain types of things can't go backward. Once they start going forward, no matter what you do, they can't go back the way they were. If even one little thing goes awry, then that's how it will stay forever.

If I stayed here, something inside me would be lost forever—something I couldn't afford to lose. It was like a vague dream, a burning, unfulfilled desire. The kind of dream people have only when they're seventeen.

Lots of different ways to live and lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn't make a bit of difference. All that remains is a desert.

But you know Hajime, some feelings cause us pain because they remain.

Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.

I wasn't in love with her. And she didn't love me. For me the question of love was irrelevant. What I sought was the sense of being tossed about by some raging, savage force, in the midst of which lay something absolutely crucial. I had no idea what that was. But I wanted to thrust my hand right inside her body and touch it, whatever it was.

Autumn finally arrived. And when it did, I came to a decision. Something had to give: I couldn't keep on living like this.

Even castles in the sky can do with a fresh coat of paint.

Everyone just keeps on disappearing. Some things vanish, like they were cut away. Others fade slowly into the mist. And all that remains is a desert.

I didn't feel like I was in my own body; my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing.

I hurt myself deeply, though at the time I had no idea how deeply. I should have learned many things from that experience, but when I look back on it, all I gained was one single, undeniable fact. That ultimately I am a person who can do evil. I never consciously tried to hurt anyone, yet good intentions notwithstanding, when necessity demanded, I could become completely self-centred, even cruel. I was the kind of person who could, using some plausible excuse, inflict on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal.

Once thing goes wrong, then the whole house of cards collapses. And there's no way you can extricate yourself. Until someone comes along to drag you out.

Inside that darkness, i saw rain falling on the sea. Rain softly falling on a vast sea, with no one there to see it. The rain strikes the surface of the sea, yet even the fish don't know it is raining.

Reading was like an addiction; I read while I ate, on the train, in bed until late at night, in school, where I'd keep the book hidden so I could read during class. Before long I bought a small stereo and spent all my time in my room, listening to jazz records. But I had almost no desire to talk to anyone about the experience I gained through books and music. I felt happy just being me and no one else. In that sense I could be called a stack-up loner.

Have you heard of the illness hysteria siberiana? Try to imagine this: You're a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it's directly overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep. And then one day, something inside you dies. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone, possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die. That's hysteria siberiana.

I would never see her again, except in memory. She was here, and now she's gone. There is no middle ground. Probably is a word that you may find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun.

No one could say how long that life would last. Whatever has form can disappear in an instant.

She was, if anything, on the plain side, at least not the type to attract men wherever she went. But there was something in her face that was meant for me alone. Everytime we met, I took a good look at her. And loved what I saw.

Once she was out of the car and gone, my world was suddenly hollow and meaningless.

We were, the two of us, still fragmentary beings, just beginning to sense the presence of an unexpected, to be-aquired reality that would fill us and make us whole.

Probably." "Again with the probablys." "A world full of probablys," she said.

I always feel as if I'm struggling to become someone else. As if I'm trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. I suppose it's part of growing up, yet it's also an attempt to re-invent myself. By becoming a different me, I could free myself of everything. I seriously believed I could escape myself - as long as I made the effort. But I always hit a dead end. No matter where I go, I still end up me. What's missing never changes. The scenery may change, but I'm still the same old incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that I can never satisfy. I think that lack itself is as close as I'll come to defining myself.

Things that have form will all disappear. But certain feelings stay with us forever.

What we needed were not words and promises but the steady accumulation of small realities.

بإمكان المرء بمجرّد العيش أن يدمر إنسانًا آخر بشكل لا يمكن إصلاحه.

Hajime," she began, "the sad truth is that some things can't go backwards. Once they start going forward, no matter what you do, they can't go back to the way they were. If one little thing goes awry, then that's how it will stay forever.

Because memory and sensations are so uncertain, so biased, we always rely on a certain reality-call it an alternate reality-to prove the reality of events. To what extent facts we recognize as such really are as they seem, and to what extent these are facts merely because we label them as such, is an impossible distinction to draw. Therefore, in order to pin down reality as reality, we need another reality to relativize the first. Yet that other reality requires a third reality to serve as its grounding. An endless chain is created within our consciousness, and it is the very maintenance of this chain that produces the sensation that we are actually here, that we ourselves exist.

Another person's life is that person's life. You can't take responsibility.

Start making excuses and there's no end to it. I can't live that kind of life.

sometimes i'd wake up at two or three in the morning and not be able to fall asleep again. i'd get out of bed, go to the kitchen, and pour myself a whiskey. glass in hand, i'd look down at the darkened cemetary across teh way and the headlights of the cars on the road. the moments of time linking night and dawn were long and dark. if i could cry, it might make things easier. but what would i cry over? i was too self centered to cry for other people, too old to cry for myself.

[...] Shimamoto had her own little world within her. A world that was for her alone, one I could not enter.

Is that what you see in my eyes, that you know nothing about me?” “Nothing is written in your eyes". I replied. "It is written in my eyes and i see the reflection in yours

Why are you staring at me?” she’d ask. “‘Cause you’re pretty,” I’d reply. “You’re the first one who’s ever said that.” “I’m the only one who knows,” I’d tell her. “And believe me, I know.

I'm scared," she said. "These days I feel like a snail without a shell." "I'm scared too," I said. "I feel like a frog without any webs." She looked up and smiled. Wordlessly we walked over to a shaded part of the building and held each other and kissed, a shell-less snail and a webless frog.

People want to be bowled over by something special. Nine times out of ten you can forget, but that tenth time, that peak experience, is what people want. That's what can move the world. That's art.

Once I began a book, I couldn’t put it down. It was like an addiction; I read while I ate, on the train, in bed until late at night, in school, where I’d keep the book hidden so I could read during class. But I had almost no desire to talk with anyone about the experience I gained through books and music. I felt happy just being me and no one else.

لعلّها كانت هادئة، رابطة الجأش. ربما حسِبَ بعض طلبة فصلنا أنها باردة و متغطرسة. لكني اكتشفت شيئًا آخر، شيئًا دافئًا و هشًا تحت السطح مباشرة، شيئًا مثل طفل يلعب الغميضة، خفيًّا في أعماقها، و إن كان يتمنى أحد يعثر عليه أحد.

There are some things in this world that can be done over, and some that can’t. And time passing is one thing that can’t be redone. Come this far, and you can’t go back.

You’re here,” I continued. “At least you look as if you’re here. But maybe you aren’t. Maybe it’s just your shadow. The real you may be someplace else. Or maybe you already disappeared, a long, long time ago. I reach out my hand to see, but you’ve hidden yourself behind a cloud of probablys. Do you think we can go on like this forever?

Entonces no lo sabía. No sabía que era capaz de herir a alguien tan hondamente que jamás se repusiera. A veces, hay personas que pueden herir a los demás por el mero hecho de existir

It was as if - this something I thought of only later, of course - she was gently peeling back one layer after another that covered a person's heart, a very sensual feeling.

Rain falls and the flowers bloom. No rain, they wither up. Bugs are eaten by lizards, lizards are eaten by birds. But in the end, every one of them dies. They die and dry up. One generation dies, and the next one takes over. That’s how it goes. Lots of different ways to live. And lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn’t make a bit of difference. All that remains is a desert.

Even now, whenever I think of her, I envision a quiet Sunday morning. A gentle, clear day, just getting under way. No homework to do, just a Sunday when you could do what you wanted. She always gave me this kick-back-and-relax, Sunday-morning kind of feeling.

I got to know her well, and we talked about all sorts of things. We understood each other. You could even say I loved her.

Probably is a world you my find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun.

What would tomorrow bring? I wondered. Both hands on the wheel, I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body; my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing. What would become of me tomorrow I did not know.

Es una lástima, pero hay cosas que no pueden volver atrás. Una vez has dado un paso hacia delante, por más que lo intentes, ya no puedes retroceder. Si se estropean, así se quedan para siempre.

Loving her, and being loved, was the only way I could hold myself together.

In order to pin down reality as realilty, we need another reality to relativize the first. Yet that other reality requires a third reality to serve as its grounding. An endless chain is created within our consciousness, and it is the maintenance of this chain which produces the sensation that we are actually here, that we ourselves exist.

لم تكن الكلمات ولا الوعود ما نحنُ بحاجةٍ إليه، بل التراكم الثابت للوقائع الصغيرة

لكنك لا تعرف مدى الفراغ الذي يشعر به المرء لعدم قدرته على إبداع أي شيء.

I can't build a simple shelf. I have no idea how to change an oil filter on a car. I can't even stick a stamp on an envelope straight. And I'm always dialling the wrong number. But I have come up with a few original cocktails that people seem to like.

The feel of her hand has never left me. It was different from any other hand I'd ever held, different from any touch I've ever known. It was merely the small, warm hand of a twelve-year-old girl, yet those five fingers and that palm were like a display case crammed full of everything I wanted to know--and everything I had to know. By taking my hand, she showed me what these things were. That within the real world, a place like this existed. In the space of those ten seconds I became a tiny bird, fluttering into the air, the wind rushing by. From high in the sky I could see a scene far away. It was so far off I couldn't make it out clearly, yet something was there, and I knew that someday I would travel to that place.

Ella ya sólo existe en mis recuerdos. Se ha ido de mi lado. Estaba aquí, pero ha desaparecido. Y allí no hay término medio. Donde no hay lugar para el compromiso no puede haber un término medio. Los quizá tal vez existan al sur de la frontera. No al oeste del sol.

Le travail ne représentait qu'ennui pour moi, je détestais aller au bureau. Je me sentais vraiment oppressé. J'avais l'impression que mon moi véritable se rétrécissait de plus en plus, et que j'allais finir par disparaître.

هاجيمي, لا يمكنك أن تعرف شيئاً من الصور. إنها مجرد ظل. أنا الحقيقية بعيدة جداً, و هذا لا يظهر في صورة.

If you gathered together all the shades of blue in the world and picked the bluest, the epitome of blue, this was the color you would choose.

Our hands were clasped together for ten seconds at most, but to me it felt more like thirty minutes. When she let go of my hand, I was suddenly lost.

For a while is a phrase whose length can't be measured. At least by the person who's waiting. And probably is a word whose weight is incalculable.

Khi bắt đầu đi tìm những lời biện hộ, người ta sẽ giữ mãi cái thái độ đó suốt cả đời

một con người có thể làm tổn thương một con người khác, duy nhất bởi vì anh ta tồn tại và là chính anh ta

A smile like a small wisp of smoke drifting quietly skyward on a windless day.

But that reality was like nothing I'd ever seen before: a reality that didn't seem to fit.

What confused and disappointed me, though, was that I could never discover within her something special that existed just for me. A list of her good qualities far outstripped a list of her faults, and certainly far outshone my own, yet there was something missing, something absolutely vital.

Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She'd take one from its jacket, place it carefully on the turntable without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to brush the cartridge free of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently onto the record. When the record was finished, she'd spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she'd return the record to its jacket and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her this procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in check. Meanwhile, I was on the sofa, watching her every move. Only when the record was safely back on the shelf did she turn to me and give a little smile. And every time, this thought hit me: It wasn't a record she was handling. It was a fragile soul inside a glass bottle.

I was determined that my free time was going to be mine.

بعض الأشياء لا يمكن أن تعود إلى الوراء.. حين تبدأ في السير إلى الأمام. ولايمكن أن تعود كما كانت .. إذا انحرف شيء صغير يبقى هكذا إلى الأبد.

-¿Por qué me miras tan fijamente? -me preguntaba. -Porque eres bonita -respondía yo. -Eres la primera persona que me lo dice. -Es que yo soy el único que lo sabe.

And probably is a word whose weight is incalculable.

After a certain length of time has passed, things harden up. Like cement hardening in a bucket. And we can’t go back anymore.

Există diverse moduri de a trăi şi diferite feluri de a muri, dar nu asta contează, ci faptul că doar deşertul rămâne în urma noastră, doar el supravieţuieşte.

It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials.

I was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty, but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rainstorms, earthquakes, or blackouts, I liked that certain undefinable something.

قلتُ: "فكرتُ أنكِ لن تأتي هنا أبدا". قالت وهي تضحك: "كلما أراك تقول الشيء ذاته"، وكالعادة، جلست جنبي، تريح يديها على البار. "لكني كتبتُ لكَ: قد لا يُقَدَّر لي المجيء هنا فترة، محتمل. هه؟" قلتُ: "لكلمة (فترة) طول لا يمكن قياسه. على الأقل لمن ينتظر".

When you’re always scheming about ways to make money, it’s like a part of you is lost.

شعرت بالتعاسة, إذ حاضرت في يوكيكو هكذا. ما قلته كان صحيحاً, لكن الشخص الذي قال ذلك كان الشخص الخطأ. قد أكذب على يوكيكو و ألعب من خلف ظهرها. كنت آخر شخص ينبغي عليه الاهتمام بالأخلاق.

I don't know if I have the strength to care for Yukiko and the children, I thought. No more visions can help me, weaving special dreams just for me. As far as the eye can see, the void is simply that — a void. I've been in that void before and forced myself to adjust. And now, finally, I end up where I began and I'd better get used to it. No one will weave dreams for me — it is my turn to weave dreams for others. That's what I have to do. Such dreams may have no power, but if my own life is to have any meaning at all, that is what I have to do. Probably.

This was the second stage in my life, a step in my personal evolution--abandoning the idea of being different, and settling for normal... Gradually I drew nearer to the world, and the world drew nearer to me.

No quiero que vuelvas a marcharte. No puedo vivir sin ti. No quiero volver a perderte. No quiero volver a oír las palabras «por una temporada». Ni tampoco «quizá». Eso pensé. Dices que, por una temporada, no podemos vernos y entonces desapareces. Pero nadie puede saber si volverás. No tengo ninguna certeza. Tal vez no regreses jamás. Es posible que llegue al fin de mis días sin haberte reencontrado. Y eso me resulta insoportable. Todo cuanto me rodea pierde su sentido

I was living someone else's life, not my own. How much of this person I called myself was really me? And how much was not? These hands clutching the steering wheel - what percentage of them could I really call my own? The scenery outside - how much of it was real? The more I thought about it, the less I seemed to understand.

I should have learned many things from that experience, but when I look back on it, all I gained was one single, undeniable fact. That ultimately I am a person who can do evil. I never consciously tried to hurt anyone, yet good intentions notwithstanding, when necessity demanded, I could become completely self-centered, even cruel. I was the kind of person who could, using some plausible excuse, inflict on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal. College transported me to a new town, where I tried, one more time, to reinvent myself. Becoming someone new, I could correct the errors of my past. At first I was optimistic: I could pull it off. But in the end, no matter where I went, I could never change. Over and over I made the same mistake, hurt other people, and hurt myself in the bargain. Just after I turned twenty, this thought hit me: Maybe I've lost the chance to ever be a decent human being. The mistakes I'd committed—maybe they were part of my very makeup, an inescapable part of my being. I'd hit rock bottom, and I knew it.

I seriously believed I could escape myself–as long as I made the effort. But I always hit a dead end. No matter where I go, I still end up me. What’s missing never changes. The scenery may change, but I’m still the same old incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that I can never satisfy. I guess that lack itself is as close as I’ll come to defining myself.

Die Leute schauen vorbei, nehmen ein paar Drinks, hören sich die Musik an, unterhalten sich und gehen dann nach Hause. Sie sind bereit, für ein paar Drinks bis hier hinauszufahren und dann noch eine Menge Geld auszugeben – und weißt du, warum? Weil jeder das gleiche sucht: einen imaginären Ort, sein eigenes Luftschloss, und darin seinen ganz besonderen privaten Winkel.

Cuando leo un libro malo,tengo la sensación de haber malgastado el tiempo. Y eso me decepciona. Antes no me sucedía. Disponía de mucho tiempo y, aunque pensara: «¡Vaya tontería acabo de leer!», siempre tenía la impresión de que algo habría sacado de allí. Dentro de lo que cabía, claro. Pero ahora no. Sólo pienso que he perdido el tiempo. Quizá tenga que ver con hacerse viejo.

إنّنا نعتمد دومًا على واقع معيّن -لندعوه واقع متعاقب- و ذلك كي نثبت واقعية الأحداث. إلى أي مدى تبدو الحقائق التي ندركها مثل الواقع مثلًا كما هي، و إلى أي مدى هي حقائق لمجرد قولنا إنها كذلك، ذاك اختلاف يستحيل استنتاجه. لذا، كي يثبت الواقع على أنه واقع، نحتاج إلى واقع آخر يتناسب مع الأول. مع ذلك يتطلّب الواقع الآخر واقعًا مثاليًا ليكون أرضية له. و بذلك تتكون سلسلة غير متناهية في وعينا. الحفاظ على هذه السلسلة هو ما ينتج الإحساس بأننا في الواقع هنا، و أننا موجودون بالفعل. لكن يمكن أن يحدث شيئًا لهذه السلسلة فنصبح ضائعين. ماهو واقعي؟ هل الواقع موجود في هذا الجزء من السلسلة المكسورة؟ أم أنّه هناك في الجانب الآخر؟. كان ما شعرت به آنذاك هو ذلك الإحساس المقطوع.

We were utterly alone. The hot-springs hotel where we'd had lunch, and the iron bridge, lay hidden in the shadow of the mountains. Every once in a while, as if remembering its duty, the sun showed its face through a break in the clouds. All we could hear were the screeches of crows and the rush of water. Someday, somewhere, I will see this scene, I felt. The opposite of deja-vu - not the feeling that I'd already seen what was around me, but the premonition that I would someday.

I should have learned many things from that experience, but when I look back on it, all I gained was one single, undeniable fact. That ultimately I am a person who can do evil. I never consciously tried to hurt anyone, yet good intentions notwithstanding, when necessity demanded, I could become completely self-centered, even cruel. I was the kind of person who could, using some plausible excuse, inflict on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal.

قلتُ: "ألا تذكرين؟ الأسطوانة التي اعتدنا سماعها، كان فيها - بنهاية الحركة الثانية - خدش بسيط نسمعه. بوشي! بوشي! هكذا. ودون هذا الخدش، لم أستطع التوافق مع الموسيقى!". ضحكت شيماموتو. "ليس لي أن أسميه تقديرا فنيا". "ليس له شأن بالفن. دعي نسرًا أقرع يلتهم الفن! فلن يضيرني في شيء. لا يعنيني ما يقوله أي فرد، فأنا يعجبني هذا الخدش!". اعترفَت شيماموتو: "قد تكون على حق، لكن ما بال النسر الأقرع؟! أعرف النسور العادية، فهي تلتهم الجيف. لكن النسور القرع؟". أثناء عودتنا للبيت بالقطار، وضحتُ لها الفرق بكثير من التفصيل: يتحدد الفرق من مكان مولدها، صياحها، فترات تزاوجها. "يعيش النسر الأقرع على التهام الفن. أما النسر العادي فيعيش على التهام جيف المجهولين. وهو اختلاف كلي". ضحكَت. "أنت غريب". وهناك بمقعد القطار، بدرجة طفيفة جدا، حرَّكَت من كتفها لتلمسني. المرة الواحدة الوحيدة، طيلة الشهرين الماضيين، التي تلامس فيها جسمانا.

College transported me to a new town, where I tried, one more time, to reinvent myself. Becoming someone new, I could correct the errors of my past. At first I was optimistic; I could pull it off. But in the end, no matter where I went, I could never change. Over and over I made the same mistake, hurt other people, and hurt myself in the bargain. Just after I turned twenty, this thought hit me: Maybe I've lost the chance to ever be a decent human being. The mistakes I'd committed - maybe they were very makeup, an inescapable part of my being. I'd hit rock bottom, and I knew it.

Once she called to invite me to a concert of Liszt piano concertos. The soloist was a famous South American pianist. I cleared my schedule and went with her to the concert hall at Ueno Park. The performance was brilliant. The soloist's technique was outstanding, the music both delicate and deep, and the pianist's heated emotions were there for all to feel. Still, even with my eyes closed, the music didn't sweep me away. A thin curtain stood between myself and pianist, and no matter how much I might try, I couldn't get to the other side. When I told Shimamoto this after the concert, she agreed. "But what was wrong with the performance?" she asked. "I thought it was wonderful." "Don't you remember?" I said. "The record we used to listen to, at the end of the second movement there was this tiny scratch you could hear. Putchi! Putchi! Somehow, without that scratch, I can't get into the music!" Shimamoto laughed. "I wouldn't exactly call that art appreciation." "This has nothing to do with art. Let a bald vulture eat that up, for all I care. I don't care what anybody says; I like that scratch!" "Maybe you're right," she admitted. "But what's this about a bald vulture? Regular vultures I know about--they eat corpses. But bald vultures?" In the train on the way home, I explained the difference in great detail.The difference in where they are born, their call, their mating periods. "The bald vulture lives by devouring art. The regular vulture lives by devouring the corpses of unknown people. They're completely different." "You're a strange one!" She laughed. And there in the train seat, ever so slightly, she moved her shoulder to touch mine. The one and only time in the past two months our bodies touched.

Durante toda mi vida, he tenido la impresión de que podía convertirme en una persona distinta. De que, yéndome a otro lugar y empezando una nueva vida, iba a convertirme en otro hombre. He repetido una vez tras otra la misma operación. Para mí representaba, en un sentido, madurar y, en otro sentido, reinventarme a mí mismo. De algún modo, convirtiéndome en otra persona quería liberarme de algo implícito en el yo que había sido hasta entonces. Lo buscaba de verdad, seriamente, y creía que, si me esforzaba, podría conseguirlo algún día. Pero, al final, eso no me conducía a ninguna parte. Por más lejos que fuera, seguía siendo yo. Por más que me alejara, mis carencias seguían siendo las mismas. Por más que el decorado cambiase, por más que el eco de la voz de la gente fuese distinto, yo seguía siendo el mismo ser incompleto. Dentro de mí se hallaban las mismas carencias fatales, y esas carencias me producían un hambre y una sed violentas. Ese hambre y esa sed me han torturado siempre, tal vez sigan torturándome a partir de ahora. En cierto sentido, esas carencias, en sí mismas, son lo que yo soy.

Hay una realidad que demuestra la verdad de un hecho. Porque nuestra memoria y nuestros sentidos son demasiado inseguros, demasiado parciales. Incluso podemos afirmar que muchas veces es imposible discernir hasta qué punto un hecho que creemos percibir es real y a partir de qué punto sólo creemos que lo es. Así que para preservar la realidad como tal, necesitamos otra realidad -una realidad colindante- que la relativice. Pero, a su vez, esta realidad colindante necesita una base para relativizarse a sí misma. Es decir, que hay otra realidad colindante que demuestra, a su vez, que ésta es real. Y esta cadena se extiende indefinidamente dentro de nuestra conciencia y, en un cierto sentido, puede afirmarse que es a través de esta sucesión, a través de la conservación de esta cadena, como adquirimos conciencia de nuestra existencia misma. Pero si esta cadena, casualmente, se rompe, quedamos desconcertados. ¿La realidad está al otro lado del eslabón roto? ¿Está a este lado?

From east to west, in fact, her gaze swept slowly, without encountering a single obstacle, along a perfect curve. Beneath her, the blue-and-white terraces of the Arab town overlapped one another, splattered with the dark-red spots of the peppers drying in the sun. Not a soul could be seen, but from the inner courts, together with the aroma of roasting coffee, there rose laughing voices or incomprehensible stamping of feet. Father off, the palm grove, divided into uneven squares by clay walls, rustled its upper foliage in a wind that could not be felt up on the terace. Still farther off and all the way to the horizon extended the ocher-and-gray realm of stones, in which no life was visible. At some distance from the oasis, however, near the wadi that bordered the palm grove on the west could be seen broad black tents. All around them a flock of motionless dromedaries, tiny at the distance, formed against the gray ground the black signs of a strange handwriting, the meaning of which had to be deciphered. Above the desert, the silence was as vast as the space. Janine, leaning her whole body against the parapet, was speechless, unable to tear herself away from the void opening before her. Beside her, Marcel was getting restless. He was cold; he wanted to go back down. What was there to see here, after all? But she could not take her gaze from the horizon. Over yonder, still farther south, at that point where sky and earth met in a pure line - over yonder it suddenly seemed there was awaiting her something of which, though it had always been lacking, she had never been aware until now. In the advancing afternoon the light relaxed and softened; it was passing from the crystalline to the liquid. Simultaneously, in the heart of a woman brought there by pure chance a knot tightened by the years, habit, and boredom was slowly loosening. She was looking at the nomads' encampment. She had not even seen the men living in it' nothing was stirring among the black tents, and yet she could think only of them whose existence she had barely known until this day. Homeless, cut off from the world, they were a handful wandering over the vast territory she could see, which however was but a paltry part of an even greater expanse whose dizzying course stopped only thousands of miles farther south, where the first river finally waters the forest. Since the beginning of time, on the dry earth of this limitless land scraped to bone, a few men had been ceaselessly trudging, possessing nothing but serving no one, poverty-stricken but free lords of a strange kingdom. Janine did not know why this thought filled her with such a sweet, vast melancholy that it closed her eyes. She knew that this kingdom had been eternally promised her and yet that it would never be hers, never again, except in this fleeting moment perhaps when she opened her eyes again on the suddenly motionless sky and on its waves of steady light, while the voices rising from the Arab town suddenly fell silent. It seemed to her that the world's course had just stopped and that, from that moment on, no one would ever age any more or die. Everywhere, henceforth, life was suspended - except in her heart, where, at the same moment, someone was weeping with affliction and wonder.