uncertain about their limits.
The bird in him brings this about perhaps, though it does not seem to have much to do with birds.
The loop does not move and the young man stands stock-still in front of it. He must be thinking, startled: So it was this.
But that it should be like this?
And that it must be like this?
I donât think I will.
He thinks this in the small space he has left to move in. The two that are to meet in him are beginning to fill it up.
He looks at the loop a little longer, and then he says: I will.
He only says it for the sake of saying it. He knows there is only one thing to do: He must do it.
Should he go over and press his forehead against it? Is that all that must be done?
No, no, he thinks.
But he will. He thinks: That it should be like this!
I canât, he thinks.
He has to think all this for the sake of appearances. The moment he saw the loop hanging there he knew what he had to do. It is futile to pretend to push it aside. In a while he is ready. He will and he can scramble up and take hold of the loop. He will soon find out what happens afterwards.
I shanât get up there, the rock is smooth.
He knows very well that he will get up. This is fateâand he is the helpless heart of a bird that has let itself be lured.
Smooth rock. Impossible to get up there without special equipment. No sooner has he thought this than he looks more carefully, and sees good handholds and footholds in the twelve feet he needs. Does he know what he is nearing? No way round it.
No way roundâhad he thought there was? Something in him wants to run away.
No, he says sharply.
Itâs too late anyway. He is really hanging already on the rock wall like a fly.
The loop still hangs motionless above his head. He is half-way up to it, and it is no problem to climb the rest of the way, but still he pauses. As if to show that he can do that.
That I can make some decisions myself.
Then he crawls the last short stretch, using the safe footholds. Then his bare forehead is on a level with the loop.
Ugh, with my forehead.
Why not?
Precisely with my forehead.
With his hands he clings to the rock. His hands are trembling. The brown, or brownish-black, loop is just in front of his eyes. Then he does it: he touches the loop cautiously with his forehead.
The loop gives a tiny jerk.
Then there is nothing more, then the loop seems dead again.
It almost makes him fall from the cleft he is standing in. Fire runs through him. The first. There will be no more. He seizes the edge of a crevice and saves himself.
If he had expected something cold it had turned out otherwise. The loop was as mild as the air it hung in, warmed by the sun like everything else. But it was not a dead thing. Against his forehead he had felt the tiny, sudden jerk of life. What kind of life?
In a flash there was a meeting. The two that met in him have settled side by side and have started to bum.
He cannot move a finger. He is here now. Before him hangs the loop. Should he grasp it, since it was made to be grasped? No no. He is tempted to do so, to let go with his right hand and clutch at the thick loop. No no.
A cautious grip would be impossible, he is so dazed. A clutch. What would happen?
Impossible to tell, but what has happened would be destroyed. Why donât you get away?
I canât.
Neither of them move. Nothing seems to be happening. Things did happen in a flash before they began burning. From the one to the other and back again.
The loop does not begin to glide, does not haul itself up or down, there is no more to be seen of it than is there already. There is no one here who can look into the young manâs eyes to see if they are dead. If thatâs what has happened. He has not moved a muscle. Is he going to stand here forever, like the other? Does he no longer exist?
Minutes pass perhaps. No one is counting them. Everything has turned to stone.
Dead? Oh no. Rushing rivers move towards the unknown. One
The bird in him brings this about perhaps, though it does not seem to have much to do with birds.
The loop does not move and the young man stands stock-still in front of it. He must be thinking, startled: So it was this.
But that it should be like this?
And that it must be like this?
I donât think I will.
He thinks this in the small space he has left to move in. The two that are to meet in him are beginning to fill it up.
He looks at the loop a little longer, and then he says: I will.
He only says it for the sake of saying it. He knows there is only one thing to do: He must do it.
Should he go over and press his forehead against it? Is that all that must be done?
No, no, he thinks.
But he will. He thinks: That it should be like this!
I canât, he thinks.
He has to think all this for the sake of appearances. The moment he saw the loop hanging there he knew what he had to do. It is futile to pretend to push it aside. In a while he is ready. He will and he can scramble up and take hold of the loop. He will soon find out what happens afterwards.
I shanât get up there, the rock is smooth.
He knows very well that he will get up. This is fateâand he is the helpless heart of a bird that has let itself be lured.
Smooth rock. Impossible to get up there without special equipment. No sooner has he thought this than he looks more carefully, and sees good handholds and footholds in the twelve feet he needs. Does he know what he is nearing? No way round it.
No way roundâhad he thought there was? Something in him wants to run away.
No, he says sharply.
Itâs too late anyway. He is really hanging already on the rock wall like a fly.
The loop still hangs motionless above his head. He is half-way up to it, and it is no problem to climb the rest of the way, but still he pauses. As if to show that he can do that.
That I can make some decisions myself.
Then he crawls the last short stretch, using the safe footholds. Then his bare forehead is on a level with the loop.
Ugh, with my forehead.
Why not?
Precisely with my forehead.
With his hands he clings to the rock. His hands are trembling. The brown, or brownish-black, loop is just in front of his eyes. Then he does it: he touches the loop cautiously with his forehead.
The loop gives a tiny jerk.
Then there is nothing more, then the loop seems dead again.
It almost makes him fall from the cleft he is standing in. Fire runs through him. The first. There will be no more. He seizes the edge of a crevice and saves himself.
If he had expected something cold it had turned out otherwise. The loop was as mild as the air it hung in, warmed by the sun like everything else. But it was not a dead thing. Against his forehead he had felt the tiny, sudden jerk of life. What kind of life?
In a flash there was a meeting. The two that met in him have settled side by side and have started to bum.
He cannot move a finger. He is here now. Before him hangs the loop. Should he grasp it, since it was made to be grasped? No no. He is tempted to do so, to let go with his right hand and clutch at the thick loop. No no.
A cautious grip would be impossible, he is so dazed. A clutch. What would happen?
Impossible to tell, but what has happened would be destroyed. Why donât you get away?
I canât.
Neither of them move. Nothing seems to be happening. Things did happen in a flash before they began burning. From the one to the other and back again.
The loop does not begin to glide, does not haul itself up or down, there is no more to be seen of it than is there already. There is no one here who can look into the young manâs eyes to see if they are dead. If thatâs what has happened. He has not moved a muscle. Is he going to stand here forever, like the other? Does he no longer exist?
Minutes pass perhaps. No one is counting them. Everything has turned to stone.
Dead? Oh no. Rushing rivers move towards the unknown. One
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