The Hermit - Eugène Ionesco. 그리고 아무말도 하지 않았다.

... ; but love can move mountains, love can burst all bonds, even steel; nothing can stand in its way, as we all know. It's our own mediocrity that makes us let go of love, makes us renounce it.

... But we cannot know, our ignorance is boundless. We have neither the right to judge, nor the possibility of judging. It's a question of having confidence. The question is: in whom?

... All we are, perhaps, is knots, ephemeral intersections of energies, forces, various and contradictory tendencies which only death unites. And yet these forces, these energetic events are ourselves; we are built, we are produced, we are acted upon, but also we make ourselves, we act and we act upon ourselves.

... I thought that it was strange to assume that it was abnormal for anyone to be forever asking questions about the nature of the universe, about what the human condition really was, my condition, what I was doing here, if there was really something to do. It seemed to me, on the contrary, that it was abnormal for people NOT to think about it, for them to allow themselves to live, as it were, unconsciously. Perhaps it's because everyone, all the others, are convinced in some unformulated, irrational way that one day everything will be made clear. Perhaps there will be a morning of grace for humanity. Perhaps there will be a morning of grace for me.

... That strikes me as one of the fundamental acts of cruelty on the part of the divinity: each person is simultaneously unique and everyone; each person is universal. It would have been so much easier to distribute all the anxiety, despair, and panic equally among the billions of creatures on the faces of the earth. In that case, our portion of anxiety would only be one three billionth of the total amount of universal suffering. But no, in dying each of us bears with him the entire crumbling universe.

... The nausea of nothingness. And then the nausea of surfeit. How could such a situation continue, and if it could for how much longer, assuming time was still there. Perhaps it wasn't; perhaps there were only instantaneous moments.

... This world, made out of papier-mache, this particular theatrical setting would be substituted for any other at any time.

... Alas, it is as though what was had never been: the past, the pictures all out of focus, events all out of joint. Who can prove that it ever was? The past is a death without a body to prove it. Once upon a time... once upon a time.


i. 이오네스코의 유일한 소설이라는 얘길 듣고 호기심이 생겨 읽게 되었다.

주인공의 생각과 세상에 대한 내 관점이 비슷한 점이 많았다. (그리고 사실 그런 그의 생각과 그가 사는 사회의 모습은 그 누구에게나, 어디에서나 유효할테다.) 그래서인지 후반부에 나름의 깨달음을 얻은 그가 취할 태도와 앞으로 살아갈 날들에 더 관심이 간다.

ii. 그의 절친한 친구 Emil Cioran의 책은 작년 초에 사놓고 처음 몇 페이지를 읽고 그 날카로운 문체에 마음이 쓸려서 읽기를 포기했었다. 시간이 흐른 지금, 내 마음에 굳은살이 많이 생겼을까, 다시 한 번 시도해 봐야겠다.


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