The Journey Read Online Free Page B

assert our loss, in fact the many losses that we—alone for the most part and with our humble powers—cannotmake up for. But we have set ourselves on the stage. There, as elsewhere, we wish to appear alone, although we are not forsaken. We are never forsaken.
    And so we wish to walk on or not walk at all—for whether or not we walk on or make any progress is certainly not up to us nor anyone else. And so allow us to exist; whether it be in the perpetual motion that brings peace, whether it be in memory that ventures toward peace, either ahead of it or behind, whether it be in flight, one speaks of the fleeting nature of appearances, so let us exist in appearances and remain constantly in motion. Indeed, since our eyes are open, and suffering is not all we experience, but also life, allow us to grant this ever-changing existence so full of memory its only proper name—the journey.

The Tale
    N O ONE ASKED YOU, IT WAS DECIDED ALREADY. YOU WERE ROUNDED UP and not one kind word was spoken. Many of you tried to make sense out of what was going on, so you yourselves had to inquire. Yet no one was there who could answer you. “Is this how it’s going to be? For a little while … a day … years and years …? We want to get on with our lives.” But all was quiet, only fear spoke, and that you could not hear. Old people could not accept what was going on. Their complaining was unnerving, such that around those left untouched by such suffering a cold and hideous wall was erected, the wall of pitilessness. Yet the tight-lipped grins remain unforgettable; they survived all weariness and first appeared in the ruined apartments. The apartments were in fact not destroyed, they still existed in regular buildings with roofs that were intact. In the stairwells the ingrained smells, which lend each house its inextinguishable character so long as the building stands, were still trapped.
    The everyday existence of inanimate objects can seem quite alluring, but it obeys laws that have little to do with our journey, as long as we don’t pick up such things and recognize ourselves within them. True, one speaksof notorious brick walls, but that is only an image for an incomprehensible event, compared to which the visible, the tangible, possesses far more distinctive characteristics. Everything can be left behind, but nothing is cut off from life as long as it remains conscious of itself. That is why buildings stand there indifferent when we abandon them. Then someone shouted, “Go away!” No one actually shouted these words, no one shouted at all, and yet it was declared implicitly, even if no one heard it. But for whoever did not hear it, it meant trouble, because he would crouch in his house as if it were his one and only possession that no one could take from him.
    There was a room and other rooms as well. Their solitude was violated, for the doors stood open, though the windows were gently closed and darkened by the black cloth hanging in them. This was called the blackout. The blackout was everywhere, the nocturnal streets of Stupart lay in solid darkness. Yet inside the house there was light. Not in the stairwell outside, no, for there it was also dark. The bulbs were painted an ugly blue color and covered with shades made of black paper which let no light through and only cast down a feeble circle of light. It was difficult for the boots to trudge heavily up the stairs in the dark, but this did not hold back the tireless messengers, for their hurried steps spread a fear before which the lights withdrew. They usually came in late evening or during the night, carrying a message that cast its own terrible light. “Thou shalt not dwell among us!” That was the printed message they delivered. The people already expected the worst, and therefore the apartments were destroyed even before a plane’s powerful projectile took pity on them. The planes came much later, cracking open the hollow shells like harvest nuts, but not to avenge