In my case, I track the consolation as the hunter stalking game. Everywhere I believe I see in the forest I draw. I often do not attain the vacuum, but from time to time, falls prey to my feet. And, as I know the comfort that lasts the duration of a breath of wind in the treetops, I hurry to get hold of my victim.
What am I then in my arms?
Because I'm lonely: a beloved companion or unhappy. Since I am a poet: a rainbow of words that I feel joy and dread to bend. Since I am a prisoner: a sudden glimpse of freedom. Since I am threatened with death: an animal alive and warm, a heart that beats so sarcastic. Since I am threatened by the sea: a very hard granite reef.
But there are consolations that come to me without being invited and meet my room odious whispers: I'm your pleasure - love them all! I am your talent - doing so in bad use of yourself! I'm your desire for pleasure - only live gourmets! I am your loneliness - despise men! I am your longing for death - then slice!
The Razor's Edge is quite narrow. I see my life threatened by two dangers: from the mouths of hungry greed, another by the bitterness of greed that feeds on itself. But I must refuse to choose between the orgy and asceticism, even if I have to suffer the torment that the grill of my desires. For me, it is not enough to know that since we are not free of our actions, everything is excusable. What I seek is not an excuse for my life but exactly the opposite of an apology: forgiveness. The idea came to me finally that consolation does not take into account my freedom is misleading, it is the mirror image of my despair. Indeed, when my despair says: Lose confidence because every day is a truce between two nights, the false comfort me crying Hope, because every night is a truce between two days.
But humanity has no need of consolation in a joke: it needs a consolation that illuminates. And whoever wishes to become ill, that is to say become a man who acts as if all actions were defensible, must at least be kind enough to notice when it succeeds.
Nobody can list all cases where comfort is a necessity. Nobody knows when dusk falls and life is not a problem that can be solved by dividing the light from the dark days and nights, it is an unpredictable journey between places that do not exist. I can, for example, walking on the shore and suddenly feel the terrible challenge that eternity starts in my existence in the perpetual motion of the sea and the continuous outflow of the wind. That then becomes the time, except for a consolation for the fact that nothing that is human is hard - and what a wretched consolation, that enriches the Swiss!
I can sit in front of a fire in the room the least exposed of all the danger and feel the sudden death define me. It is in the fire in all sharp objects around me in the weight of the roof and walls in the mass, it is in water, snow, heat and in my blood. That becomes the human feeling of security if it is a consolation for the fact that death is what is closest to life - and what a miserable consolation that we only remember what she wants us to forget!
I can fill my blank pages with all the most beautiful combinations of words that my brain can imagine. Because I want to make sure my life is not absurd and that I am not alone on earth, I throw all these words in a book and I offer the world. In return, it gives me wealth, fame and silence. But what should I do to make this money and what pleasure can I take to contribute to the advancement of literature - I do not want that I will not: confirmation of what my words have touched the heart of the world. That becomes my talent if not a consolation for the fact that I'm alone - but what a terrible consolation, just makes me feel my loneliness five times stronger!
I can see freedom embodied in an animal crossing a clearing and quickly hear a voice whispering: Live simply, take what you want and do not be afraid of the laws! But what if this is good advice a consolation for the fact that freedom does not exist - and how ruthless consolation for anyone who becomes aware that the human being has put millions of years to become a lizard!
Finally, I noticed that this land is a mass grave in which King Solomon, Ophelia and Himmler lie side by side. I can conclude that the executioner and the unfortunate enjoy the same death as the wise, and that death can do us the effect of a consolation for a wasted life. But what a terrible consolation for those who would see life as a consolation for the dead!
I do not have a philosophy in which I could move like fish in water or a bird in the sky. All I have is a duel, and this duel is engaged every minute of my life in the false consolations, which only adds to my helplessness and my deepest despair, and true, that lead me to a release temporary. I should perhaps say: true because, in truth, there is one consolation for me that is real, the one that says I am a free man, a person inviolable be a sovereign within its boundaries.
But freedom begins with slavery and sovereignty by addiction. The surest sign my easement is my fear of living. The final sign of my freedom is that my fear gave way to the quiet joy of independence. Looks like I need the dependence in order to finally know the consolation of being a free man, and it is certainly true. In the light of my actions, I realize that my whole life seems to have been aimed only to make my own misfortune. This should bring me freedom brings slavery and stones instead of bread.
Other men have other masters. In my case, my talent makes me a slave to the point of not daring to use it, for fear of losing. In addition, I am so my slave name that I can hardly write a line for fear of harming it. And when the depression finally arrives, I'm also a slave. My greatest desire is to retain it, my greatest pleasure is to feel that everything I was worth lies in what I think I have lost: the ability to create beauty from my despair, my disgust and my weaknesses. With a bitter joy, I wish to see my houses fall into disrepair and I see myself buried under the snow of oblivion. But depression is a doll Russian and, in the last doll, found a knife, a razor blade, poison, deep water and a jump in a big hole. I ended up becoming a slave to all these instruments of death. They follow me like dogs, unless the dog, this is me. And he seems to understand that suicide is the only evidence of human freedom.
But, from a direction that I do not suspect yet, here we approach the miracle of liberation. This can happen on shore, and even eternity who, earlier, my fear is aroused now the witness of my Accession to freedom. So, what is this miracle? Simply in the sudden discovery that person, no power, no human being has the right to state requirements such to me that my desire to live come to wither. For if this desire does not exist, what can then exist?
Since I'm at the seaside, I can learn from the sea Nobody has the right to require Sea she carries all boats, or the wind that fills the sails constantly. Similarly, nobody has the right to demand of me that my life is to be a prisoner of some functions. For me, this is not the duty before everything but: life first. Like other men, I must be right at times when I can take a step aside and feel that I am not just a part of this mass is called the world's population, but also an autonomous unit.
Only such a moment that I can be free vis-à-vis all the facts of life that previously have caused my despair. I can recognize that the sea and the wind will surely outlive me and that eternity does not care about me. But who asks me to worry about eternity? My life is shorter than if I place it on the block of time. The possibilities are only limited my life if I count the words or the number of books that I have time to give birth before dying. But asking me to count ? Time is not the appropriate standard to life. Basically, time is a measuring instrument worthless because it is only the advanced works of my life.
But all that happens is important and anything that gives my life its wonderful content: the encounter with a loved one, a caress on the skin, aid at the critical moment, the show moonlight, a stroll on the sail, the joy that you give to a child, the thrill at the beauty, all this takes place completely outside of time. For whatever I encounter the beauty within a second or within one hundred years. Not only happiness lies outside of time but it denies any relationship between it and the life.
I raise my shoulders the burden of time and, at the same time, the performance that is required of me. My life is not something that one should measure. Neither the kid nor the leap from sunrise are performance. A human life is not a performance, but something that grows and seeks to achieve perfection. And what is perfect performance fails: what works in perfect state of rest. It is absurd to claim that the sea is made for wear and armadas of dolphins. Certainly it does - but retaining its freedom. It is also absurd to claim that man is made for anything but to live. Admittedly, it supplies machinery and writes books, but it might as well do something else. The important thing is he does what he does freely and in full awareness that, like any other details of creation, there is an end in itself. It is itself like a stone on the sand.
I can free myself from the same power of death. It is true that I can free myself from the idea that death walking on my heels and still less deny its reality. But I can nullify the threat it constitutes exempting me to hang my life to support points as precarious as the time and glory.
By cons, it is not in my power to remain perpetually turned towards the sea and look for his freedom with mine. The time will come when I will have to return to earth and face the organizers of oppression which I am a victim. What I am then forced to acknowledge is that man gave his life in ways that, at least in appearance, are stronger than him. Even with my most recent release I can not break, I can only sigh under their weight. By cons, among the demands made on man, I can see which are absurd and which are unavoidable. I think, a kind of freedom is lost forever or for long. It is the freedom that comes from the ability to have its own element. The fish has his own, as well as bird and land animal. Thoreau of Walden woods yet - but where is now the forest where humans can prove that it is possible to live in freedom outside of fixed forms of society?
I am obliged to answer: nowhere. If I want to live free, we must for now I do it within these forms. The world is stronger than me. A power I have nothing against that myself - but, on the other hand, is considerable. For, as I will not let me run over by the number, I am also a power. And my power is awesome as I can oppose the force of my words to that world, because whoever built prisons expressed less well than who builds freedom. But my power will know no bounds and the day I have no more than silence to defend my inviolability, because no ax may have taken on the living silence.
That is my only consolation. I know that relapse into despair are many and deep, but the memory of the miracle of liberation makes me like a wing to a goal that gives me vertigo: a comfort that is more than a consolation and a greater philosophy, that is to say a raison de vivre.
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