понедельник, июля 03, 2006

Postcards (II)

One morning, however, all these endlessly repetitive and imprisoning nights of self-indulgence reached an end: the foreigner woke up and realized the enormity of his experience. All he had done, his desultory innuendoes to girls and fatuous jokes with newly-made acquaintances, amounted to a heap of dross that he could not brook for another minute. His still inchoate self-respect began to stir and lumber about in his soul, as if it were preparing to depart from the fell where it had been hiding for so long, hiding from both the inoportune tyro and the overwhelming pseudo-self that took over the exile's spirit upon every sunset.

The stranger looked at himself in the mirror, tamped his unshaved face, and felt it was time to withdraw his razor blade from the desuetude that victimized it. Curiously chary of cutting himself while shaving his beard, at first he parried the movement of the blade even before it touched his skin.
Its sharp end turned into a grin, the metal blade stared at him with flip impatience. The foreigner realized it was fruitless to rail against the arrant sharpness of the blade. Removing the foliage that hid his face was the fundamental reason for the blade to exist, although he did not know yet what his own fundamental reason to exist was. His self-respect could assert, however, that removing his facial hair was the first action of a truly free spirit.

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