Mr. Sakanami had been on the phone for a few minutes now.
He was standing with his back to his students, who initially had watched him before focusing entirely on their own conversation. When he turned around and crossed paths with their gazes—gazes that seemed not to notice him—he would step away while remaining on the phone. From time to time, he caught some of their looks, but chose to pay them no heed. He was already much too busy to take the time to observe them in return.
With the phone pressed hard against his ear, he was receiving his instructions, almost overwhelmed by the sheer flood of words, while his eyes wandered from one chalkboard to another, tracing the signs drawn upon the walls. He straightened up to jot down a few details all the same, then lifted his head and caught sight of all his students sitting quietly around the table. He could not see them clearly, but quickly noticed that they all seemed to be discussing something of interest, judging by the noise they were making.
As he watched them, the phone at his ear barking out orders for him to follow, he pondered these new students; a sudden reflection took hold of him:
"They ought to make a little less noise. If I wanted to, I could listen in on them without the slightest trouble. But a little privacy wouldn't hurt them; they have so much to tell one another, they are still so innocent. Hell will be upon them soon enough; as well let them enjoy their magic cloud a little longer.
One day, the group will have to face all of this; in time, certain individuals will vanish—by the first, the second, and then the third expedition. Afterward, new members will take their place. But will it still be the same group? Even if they all survive and gather once more to reform the original group, will this group still be the very same as the first? Bearing the same dreams, the same stories as the original group? Or will it merely be a name simply grafted back onto this new assembly?
They will change… for better or for worse… but can one truly speak of it in such terms? Their bodies will change with the trials of life awaiting them on the other side; their memories will be like the branches of a tree, sharing the exact same point of origin, yet coming to different ends. Their personalities will shift with the passing seasons. And yet, am I even sure that I myself have changed?
What am I saying? I have changed: my clothes have changed, just as my soul has also changed, my personality has evolved, I have transformed—or at least, time has done its work upon my being, and I have succeeded, I have metamorphosed. The cycle of life has run its course through me; in the beginning, I was but a child discovering the world with such innocence in his eyes, then I became a man who has seen, done, and felt everything, only to finally become what I am today: an old man looking back on his former life. I have rebuilt myself in order to turn backward, in a sense; cycles succeed one another under the tenacity of my being, and I alone remain capable of rethinking and repeating my life cycles through my very existence, while yet remaining fixed.
Even when winding the clock back, things continue to be the same: questioning an indefinite quest, without ever truly finding a semblance of meaning within this infinite existence—that distinct impression of change and transformation within a version of ourselves where nothing ever remains entirely fixed. Things appear, evolve, and ultimately vanish, only to make way for something new.
Yet if everything changes constantly, does a permanent identity truly exist? Who are they, then, if nothing is ever fixed? Are we all destined to possess an identity uniquely our own?
Can the group reform just as easily as it can scatter? Yet it will always remain the same, because people will continue to call it by the same name, just as a person can change over the course of their life while still feeling like the exact same person they were at the beginning. The continuity of change, which binds us to what we once were, remains identical, just as our end does.
I can only hope that luck or destiny will be on their side during this journey, otherwise they are already all condemned to a certain death." thought Shizuru as he stared at them, his gaze darkening; then he turned away to observe the corridor plunging ever deeper into its abysses.
Their words echoed in his ears, but he feigned deafness—perhaps, for once, he was being courageous. He listened again and again to the words tumbling forth from that cursed telephone, almost regretting having become a supervisor. Yet he kept listening to those words which, the further he gazed down the corridor, grew increasingly absurd, almost distorted by the sound issuing from it; the voice, now fainter, now louder, ended up turning into an ear-splitting shriek, its intonation shifting from the deepest bass to the highest treble like the illusion of a single moment, like a breaking wave. Night ended up swallowing everything, leaving not the slightest trace.
On the other side, where the table stood, the atmosphere seemed lively; discussions followed one another without ever giving anyone a moment to catch their breath, shouts and insults erupting from the table right alongside laughter and relentless philosophical discourses on life. They paid little heed to Mr. Sakanami, nor to the corridor, which was now nothing more than the void of night—like a wall that had risen without warning before this so lively room.
— Victory can only come through William Wallace, if we want to save his people, said Paul Vågen with a smile. We will just have to try and eliminate the traitors before they betray us first; God banished Satan from paradise before he could betray Him from within. These people are nothing more than snakes who think only of their own gain, just like that traitor John de Menteith, who did it for nothing more than a few favors from a king he didn't even know.
— If it's to save one's people, then whatever betrayals or murders are committed do not matter, all of that will be nothing but justice and truth, said Albert Huger. The freedom of all is well worth a few deaths on certain sides, there is nothing inherently shocking in that; the only thing that will differentiate a traitor from a hero is what he does afterward.
— To the people, he will remain only a traitor; they will make a fool of him, just like Benedict Arnold, said Paul Vågen, before beginning to whistle a few lines. Your name must now be cursed! The song suits him: a fool in stature, a coward in all his splendor, a simpleton playing at it.
— You're mixing everything up, you poor idiot, said Albert Huger, glaring at him maliciously. He betrayed to save more lives than you will ever save, or even create in your entire miserable, parasitic life. So don't act smart whistling those foul words in front of me and everyone else. The two glared at each other in annoyance before stopping and resuming their drinks. The group watched them with amusement; the discussions were as variable as their moods.
— Let's not argue over mere nonsense, said Thomas Stormen. Some of these men saved more lives than people say, and others betrayed for a mere carrot; so what's the use of fighting over people who have been dead for a very long time? Let's look at it from another angle and see what best we can draw from it. Anyway, things happened the way they did, there is nothing left to change.
— Some had the most admirable convictions in the service of the most dubious democracy, said Alice Kageyama. Others thought only of themselves, but where is the harm, in the end? They themselves will still have to help other people of this same populace; ultimately, everything will depend on the judgment of this so-called people, to know whether they will be celebrated for good or for ill.
— If you think history boils down to grotesque fables and petty songs caricaturing people, it means you don't know much about the history of these peoples, replied William Riemann.
— Go back to your mathematical formulas, and let grown-ups speak instead of stepping into discussions like a virus, said Alice Kageyama, glaring daggers at him. The only thing you know is your own selfishness; you do nothing but talk about yourself and your formulas all the time… you make me think of Ludwig Boltzmann—perhaps you'll end up like him too, from walling yourself up in your solitude.
— I find it far more interesting to talk about my formulas than to chat with people like you, people who think others can't see what they truly are, replied William Riemann.
— Can't we have a normal discussion here? Not even a minute ago, everything was fine, why change everything completely? said Marinna Hidelbarde.
Silence fell again, at least for a few seconds, before the discussion resumed. Everyone drank a little tea or coffee; on the table were small sweets, madeleines, cookies, and the like, which they helped themselves to while sipping their drinks.
The discussions immediately started up again. Marinna, seated on her chair, was eating a chocolate croissant while sipping her lemon tea. Conversations were flying from everywhere; she was somewhat surprised to see this—everyone was talking to someone, but at the same time, everyone seemed to be listening to one another.
She turned her head to the side to observe Manas and Paul, who appeared to be talking together. They seemed to disagree on a topic, she didn't know which, but both looked very invested in it, to the point that others seemed wanting to give their opinion.
— We must not see these people as individuals who brought death, but as people who attempted to save lives, said Manas Dvait. We need to step back, rather than pointing the finger at them for acts that were sometimes selfish, or even individualistic. We must not forget that sometimes, behind all of that, an entirely altruistic act may be hidden.
— Bullshit! replied Paul Vågen. We must point the finger at them, that is precisely what the stories or fables told to us are for—to bring to light a truth that the passage of time might have forgotten. There is no turning back or holding onto convictions at that moment; we must accept things as they happened.
— What do you know about it, on this matter? replied Thomas Stormen, rather annoyed. What do you propose yourself to change the outcome? For a people wanting their freedom, good and evil can quickly be brushed aside from certain minds. If we are in this mess, remember that it's your fault!
— My fault! It was inevitable. And you, would you want to go back there? I'd rather die now than return to a place that even death has stopped visiting, said Paul, fixing Thomas right in the eyes. And if I remember correctly, I wasn't the only one who thought of that plan.
— You're mixing everything up, said Thomas, sipping his tea. As a reminder, it was the French people who decided together on the death of King Louis XVI; they voted and discussed it before doing so—which was not the case after the king's death. Maximilien Robespierre then did whatever it took to make his pseudo-liberty reign. And we can clearly see the result: disorder and chaos.
— As a reminder, it wasn't me who acted, I merely suggested it, replied Paul, looking at the others. I was like Georges Danton during the Terror; the proposal seemed right to me, but after thinking about it a bit more, I fell back on something else. So don't accuse me of having provoked this, you are just as guilty as I am in this story!
Thomas stood up abruptly from his chair, as did Paul; the others began to make them sit back down, a few words flying from right to left with a bit of violence, before the tension finally subsided.
— We did what we had to do, there is nothing left to regret—like Oppenheimer, who ended up regretting giving the most dangerous weapon in the world to mentally ill people preaching war everywhere, we did what had to be done, said Albert Huger seriously. We only opposed this anarchy that was holding us back.
— Maybe so, but what's the use? We have once again returned to the exact same starting point… it's as if all of this served no purpose at all, replied Paul, burying his face in his hands. Trapped on a flaming wheel that pursues us to the end, that is what we are reduced to. All of this is useless! Nothing! Nothing… we've only repeated the same cycle as them, we are no different from that group of sick individuals.
— We must remain optimistic, said Naoto Akizuki. Granted, our act wasn't necessarily fair toward that person, but many things have never been fair: Oscar Wilde was judged and condemned because he was homosexual, Ireland itself was contaminated by England, there has been widespread discrimination against it, yet there are plenty of points that can seem sad to us. Still, every single thing can have a positive aspect. So we must remain focused, so as not to miss it.
— Yes, like everything: a bad act against an act that seems good to us… ultimately, there is no meaning left in that. Hitler believed his intentions were good, when he was only locked inside his own bubble, replied Paul. What may seem right to us, or morally right, can be unnatural for public order. I am merely bringing to light the choices I made, and that you made too. I don't regret anything, I did what seemed most right to me; my actions and my attention, at that moment, were sincere—I was simply being myself, fully and without artifice. To tell you the truth, it was perhaps the most authentic moment of my life.
— In the situation we were in, back there, we were only hiding in our own illusion, replied Naoto Akizuki. Even God seemed to have abandoned us in those places, or at least that was the impression He left; perhaps it was even because of that thought that we acted. There was no one left but us to change things, it had to be done—I wonder why you're starting to question everything now.
— I don't know; but one must always question oneself, wonder if our act was necessarily right or wrong, replied Paul, taking his hands away from his face. I know, and I have accepted the choices I made, I have already accepted the evil we caused… we aren't the worst ones here, I know that, but I now prefer to ponder all of this… before becoming indifferent to that past situation.
They all looked at each other; their expressions were complex. Everyone knew what the others had done in the old orphanage, but no one wanted to say it openly for fear of being overheard—and since Mr. Sakanami was not far away, they spoke in half-words. Numerous conversations branched off in all directions, each person chatting with someone while listening with one ear to the discussions of others.
Marinna watched them without managing to understand what had happened in this discussion; she had listened to them, but could not grasp how they had ended up there. Yet she was drawn to a new conversation on the other side of the table.
— Let's talk no more of it, said Léonard Bluom. These things are annoying and unpleasant; we only go in circles every time we talk about them. It would be better to move forward while keeping this in mind, rather than seeing it as a burden. We must inevitably mourn that, mourn our innocence—but that is life; perhaps we are still wandering in search of a meaning or a sign, whence the idea that, sometimes, one must simply press on knowing that something will eventually happen.
— This view may be mistaken, replied William Riemann. Accepting this as an everyday commonplace can be a form of escape for our mind, but it is not necessarily good for it. Tali Sharot speaks precisely of the dangers of illusions formed by our brain: it distorts our perception of reality thinking it is doing right, when it is wrong. After all, it's quite a shame that Mr. Sharot is one of those cushioned little devils chasing after nothing but money.
Léonard was a bit disconcerted by William's remarks. He was also a former Jew who had changed religion, but still remained a Jew in his soul. He was now a Protestant, but he did not like people criticizing individuals like him, as he knew it was a dig directed at him.
— I see no connection between Jews and the subject of our conversation, replied Léonard Bluom. Perhaps a form of discrimination against them, but aside from that I see no other motive for this gratuitous insult. It is only a religion, it has no relation to the research we conduct on a daily basis.
— I am merely pointing out a fact, true or false, it is nothing more than an observation; there's no use accusing me of antisemitism or hatred toward a religion, I am only saying what I was told, replied William Riemann. You, who are always searching for your Jewish identity, are now playing the victim—it contradicts your former words; you seek meaning in everything while sexualizing every one of your desires with every thought you have. If it helps you feel better, then accuse me, but do not accuse me of preaching hatred toward them.
— I am not saying that, but I advise you to be careful with remarks like the one you just made, replied Léonard Bluom. The imaginary and reality are two very different things, you should know that; I can drift in my mind imagining whatever I wish, but the essential thing is that even when you think you are escaping, you end up face-to-face with yourself. The longest detour is the shortest path home. One must know how to keep their feet on the ground, even when we are alone with ourselves.
— That is precisely what needs to be known, said William Riemann. Keeping your feet on the ground is the greatest remedy against madness.
Marinna wanted to make a remark, but before she even had time to think about it, a new noise caught her attention: a fresh discussion had just started on the left side of the table, seeming somewhat more animated than the previous one.
— That is why religion cannot be at the heart of a society; Baron d'Holbach predicted it with his book Good Sense—society runs on reason, not on the irrationality of all these precepts modified over the ages, said Alice Kageyama, as the previous discussion wound down. Religion serves only the interests of the State: The Ego and Its Own was already saying as much over a hundred years ago. Why does no one listen to intelligent people? Sometimes, I feel like I'm surrounded by poor fools.
— You think as you act, and you truly think like a genuine ignoramus, replied Thomas Stormen. Reducing a religion to simple social rules is completely contradictory, even senseless; a religion is there to allow us to believe and improve ourselves on a daily basis, and not to lock ourselves up behind it. Today, it is reduced to many things, but its original purpose is to give faith, not to trap us in distorted dogmas. But perhaps by reading a book, you will find the truth in the beauty of selfishness and individualism… though I suspect you don't need to read those books to prove it.
— You do nothing but talk, but the facts are there. This society runs on nothing but flawed principles, replied Alice, crossing her arms. After all, it's always you who holds the truth, so why should I doubt? Still, I think, and I say, that some of your actions are contrary to what you claim.
— Everything I think or say is right; my actions and thoughts are nothing less than justice for the group, unlike yours which are nothing but a façade, said Thomas, fixing her with a wide smile. I don't need to justify myself to anyone, neither to you nor to the group; I owe accounts only to God, and even then.
— You really make me laugh, retorted Alice. You always have that strange way of making things simple when they come from you. It's almost admirable, really. But I think you are just like me: we are more alike than I believed. You think of yourself before thinking of others, you manipulate them while pretending to help them, but in reality, all of this is solely for your own personal interest. Why justify your nature in the name of good and justice?
— Hehe! Hahahahahahahaah!
Thomas was laughing, unable to stay on his chair so hard was he laughing. Alice, seeing this, began to grow angry, her hands tightening harder and harder around herself.
— Why are you laughing? said Alice in a voice trembling with rage.
— Why? Are you seriously asking me that question? Think for a moment before you speak, retorted Thomas with a smile stretching from ear to ear, before turning serious again. Don't you even have the answer to your own question? You sometimes forget that we have only known each other for barely a week; you don't know me, and you assert things that are the exact opposite of who I truly am. I may happen to look arrogant, even almost mean, but the reality is quite different: I am one of the most empathetic people here. I see and conceive plans that you would never understand, with your total indifference toward the group; I help the group move forward. One might almost call me a superman or something similar, but I only say this to motivate you all, so that you keep moving forward.
He paused, watching Alice, who looked at him without saying a word, her eyes fixed on him like a hunting rifle, never letting him out of her sight. Seeing this, Thomas was almost moved; he let out a slight, mocking laugh at the situation before finishing what he had started.
— You are one of those people who think they know everyone better than they know themselves, said Thomas. I am far from resembling you; even Paul bears no resemblance to you at all, even though he has one of the strangest and most incomprehensible ideologies in the group—one might think he takes after you, but he is far more human than you are. I love others… generally speaking, even if they are sometimes tiresome, I like them well enough. That is perhaps our difference: I think of others above all before thinking of myself, and even if I think of myself, where is the harm when it is necessary? Above all, we must live to help others; if we are all dead, then we can no longer help anyone.
Marinna looked at them with wide eyes, let out a sigh, and took another sip of tea. While drinking, she heard the sounds of a new conversation; curious to know what it was about, and with no one coming over to speak to her about anything, she raised her eyes toward those individuals. She discovered Manas discussing a new subject with Ulrich.
— We only say certain things, but we lose our way; karma will catch up with us if we continue like this, said Manas Dvait, looking at Ulrich. We must be better than we were in our former place; this mistake must not be repeated, otherwise karma will catch up with us. We must find our inner peace.
— Sometimes, that is impossible; running when certain changes are inevitable, replied Ulrich Musser. Certain dogmas must be replaced by new ones, modernity replaces the old times, that can be fatal, just as our karma will end up catching up with us, just as destiny will; so running will do no good, the sense of the real or the possible will come when we create this utopia of men. Without that, we will be uprooted from our very being…
— I sometimes wonder if you answer me like that merely to cut the discussion short, simply agreeing to please me, or if you are simply a man without qualities who answers without thinking, or asserts something without believing it, said Manas Dvait. You ought to take into consideration a bit more what people say; every word spoken by someone can be an opportunity to improve oneself.
— Some of your remarks are rational for once, but I doubt that what I hear or see is necessarily true; certain things that we see can be perceived by us, as by many others, as real, but they could just as easily be completely false, said Ulrich Musser, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. If there is a possible to believe in, then there will necessarily be an impossible to believe in. There will always be a sense of crisis within each of us; it is up to us to see what we can make of it. However, answering from time to time without asserting anything may be proof that one has finally begun to truly think.
A dull thud drowned out the conversation of those two; Marinna turned to see who was making so much racket and had thus blurred that conversation. She found Alice and Thomas once more, whose voices were rising.
— You are just digging your heels in, Alice; the answer is right in front of you, why won't you hear it? There is no harm in simply accepting the truth, replied Thomas Stormen, staring at Alice. You know I'm right, because I have an answer for everything, especially because I think in concrete terms.
— You just fancy yourself a superman with an oversized ego, when you're actually just a failure of this experiment; talking without ever letting others speak doesn't mean you're necessarily right, replied Alice Kageyama, staring him down. It's almost hypocritical of you to act this way; I thought you less miserable than that.
— Ahah! You're very funny, but that kind of remark doesn't work on me, replied Thomas with a slight smile on his lips. I'm simply realistic about things, unlike you who prefer to hide behind your poor counterfeit illusions. Trying to tip the scale to your side with excuses like that won't work with me; you can try, but it won't work. I help the group so that it can be perfect, especially after our actions; I understand that perfection isn't your strong suit, like most things for that matter, so stay in your corner and keep your cynical remarks to yourself.
— You are really starting to annoy me, always contradicting me and the others as soon as an opinion differs from yours, said Alice, glaring daggers at him. Do you even know what free will is, right? Because right now, I'm seriously starting to doubt all the choices you made with the others; you manage the group well, I'd even say you have a gift for bringing it together, but you do nothing more than make our decisions for us, while imposing your opinion on everything.
— Now you're talking to me about that! You will always surprise me, talking about things you don't even respect, said Thomas, smiling slightly. Perhaps with the others your low-level manipulation works, but with me, it absolutely doesn't. Unlike you, I am here to help the group, and not to drag it lower than the earth, as you do with your words or your actions. Granted, I sometimes come across as a tyrant, but my intentions are good, unlike yours, which are more than ambiguous.
Marinna quite quickly stopped listening to them to turn toward a new discussion that had just sprung up on the other side of the table. She didn't like when a simple discussion took on such proportions; she preferred simple debates that talked about everything and nothing.
— This tea is quite delicious; it's been a very long time since I've tasted one like this, said Léonard Bluom, looking at his cup and speaking almost in a half-whisper. That must date back to at least a week... in fact, it was the very day we arrived in the other building. So many emotions seize me when I think back on it; so many things have happened that I still believe all of this is just a new illusion.
— Time has always been one of the most delightful effects, it must be admitted, replied Ulrich Musser, drinking his coffee while looking at Léonard. The first classes, the first lessons are like fond memories, whereas upon thinking about it properly, that feeling is more distorted than anything else. This feeling is common to all, which is rather logical and rational, because our brain, our mind, plays with certain hormones to make us rethink memories by softening them, making us believe they were necessarily pleasant, when they were merely simple memories. We are in constant search of new values, or at least new sensations, a form of perpetual quest.
— My word, you are very intelligent, practically a true man of science, you make me think of myself, said Léonard Bluom. I have the feeling we are closer, or at least that our way of thinking is closer than we ourselves realize.
— Perhaps so, replied Ulrich Musser, continuing to drink his coffee. It is difficult to know whether two men grow close because they think alike, or simply because they have found the same words so as not to think quite the same thing. It also happens that resemblance is a matter of distance: from afar, things appear close, whereas one could scarcely bring them together if one had to place them side by side.
— You are quite right; after all this time I've known you, I should know that, said Léonard Bluom. But one thing bothers me, if I may say so: since the beginning of this cycle of violence, everywhere, you and I alike have been searching for that meaning which drives us through this vision of horror that weighs upon us—these religions that keep us under the yoke, all for a simple low-grade murder that we all committed, in the name of a freedom distorted by a morality that has become harmful. Will our crossing of the seas ever find footing on dry land? Perhaps—but I keep wandering around thinking that anything can happen at any moment, and that ultimately very few things truly exist.
— Perhaps because man is always trying to bring order to what has none, said Ulrich Musser. He transforms chaos into narrative, violence into necessity, and fear into belief. He seeks meaning in everything within a nascent chaos, when there is only solitude and the annoyances of this society. Walking through a city can be a lifelong journey; observing every single thing is sometimes more difficult than understanding philosophical ideas. The human soul overflows with a well of knowledge that we ourselves are unaware of.
— Then we would be condemned to repeat the same cycles, without ever learning from the previous one, said Léonard Bluom. This creates a closed loop, and we are prisoners of our own ideas; we are ultimately biting our own tails. A cycle of violence that will never end; one can watch it from afar, but one day it will arrive at our door, and at that moment we will no longer be able to forget it or dodge it.
— But who decides the season in which we live? Our choices? Our enemies? God? Or simply our need to believe that we are moving forward? replied Ulrich Musser. I am almost sure that all these people want to create their own values and their own morality; they seek only to construct their imaginary utopias, so that their dream of a new man, whom they imagine, may be created in their own image. But like everything else, it will only be a gilded cage, where there will be nothing but white bread to make them believe in these illusions.
— Perhaps so, replied Léonard Bluom. Perhaps man only moves forward because he cannot bear to remain motionless before this void that inhabits him. Many people seek to return home, or to find that meaning which everyone is desperately searching for. It is not enough to stand on this river flowing backward to realize who one truly is, for it will continue to flow with or without you.
— And what if the meaning we are seeking simply did not exist? retorted Ulrich Musser. We would then have nothing left to do but live with this absence, without trying to transform it into truth. It would suffice to circumscribe the problem posed by this crisis of values, and even without solving it, we could live with it; the absurd does not need meaning to exist among us, so why not do the same?
— You ask yourselves far too much about the meaning of life; life is like a celestial muse, you only need to find one to realize it, said Paul Vågen. If we ceaselessly seek a reason for our existence, then we will end up destroying ourselves by constantly questioning everything. Perhaps everything we call order, morality, destiny, or even goodness of soul are merely ideas destined to make us more stupid than we already are; the government has managed to convince us that all of this had meaning, when it is false—nothing has any meaning in these values, material or fictitious; only the perseverance of the soul can pull us out of any trial in life. I prefer to focus on the present, where I can still act; life is already just a big absurd joke, a simple illusion that keeps spinning in loops, a fragile construct of the mind meant to give a semblance of meaning to an existence that, deep down, possesses none at all, or is even entirely devoid of it.
— But if the present is enough, then why do most people flee into fleeting pleasure? asked Ulrich Musser. Perhaps he is right, life is merely the joke of a sleeping god, and we are simply waiting for him to wake up so that everything vanishes like a bad dream. But upon thinking about it a bit more, or listening to what I just said, many people in our era are lost; they are searching for meaning, they have lost their own identity, hence their refuge in fleeting pleasure—the world has alienated us from ourselves.
— I don't believe fleeing is always a bad thing, replied Léonard Bluom. There are times when a man must simply keep walking, even when he no longer knows where he is going. I have myself walked through streets, buildings, and memories without knowing exactly what I was looking for. Perhaps coming home isn't finding a place, but finding a part of oneself that one thought was lost. And if we are all a little bit strangers somewhere, then perhaps solitude brings us closer together than all our words.
— That is precisely what bothers me, said Ulrich Musser. We turn every experience into a symbol to give it an importance it perhaps doesn't have. A walk becomes a quest, a loss becomes an identity, an encounter becomes a revelation. We have such a need for meaning that we end up manufacturing it everywhere. And when this construct collapses, we call it an existential crisis. But everything collapses for everyone; what reality must one believe when there are no longer any defined landmarks?
— Manufacturing meaning is not a weakness, but a quality, replied Paul Vågen. The world fights against false precepts, helping others is part of that—the world being already harsh, one should first concentrate on oneself before helping others. As Max Stirner thought: one first loves someone for one's own selfishness, before loving individuals, but we love them because love makes us happy, because loving is natural to us, because above all it pleases us; fighting against others just to resemble them still means belonging to them and giving them meaning. The individual is only worth what he appropriates, far from the hypocrisy of conformism and the false superman who claims to surpass others without ever surpassing himself—might as well turn this thought into a paradise, and this reality into a nameless hell. Let us not allow this thought to remain a mere fleeting illusion; anyway, the murders are going to start again, the plots and alliances, all this chaos is going to start again, our madness is going to escape once more, everything will soon begin anew.
— Yet, dream can also prevent us from seeing those who are truly suffering, said Léonard Bluom. It is easy to talk about freedom when one forgets others. I have always thought that man ought to be able to look at his fellow man without immediately trying to judge him. We are all different, strangers to one another, but that does not mean we must remain alone. Perhaps our true freedom begins when we accept the vulnerability of others as much as our own.
— That is merely an illusion, said Ulrich Musser. Freedom is seized by oneself, which is paradoxical, only to lock us up afterward in a society controlled by powerful people who threaten us with their violence. Accepting that one's fellow man is vulnerable is good, because a human remains human, one must not forget that; we are constantly caught in existential crises between ourselves and our own selves, life is a hell for our minds, so let's avoid imposing more constraints on ourselves than necessary. Admittedly, my past inaction must have held me back in many areas, much like my passivity and indecision in my own life, but that doesn't mean I will stay locked in a cage… anyway, we've already done it once, why not twice.
— Then perhaps we simply need to stop wanting to be good, said Paul Vågen with a slight smile. Being bad is sometimes more honest and genuine. We all know that altruism holds a share of selfishness and hypocrisy; we all expect a reward behind an act of kindness, even the saint. Kindness is merely an illusion. Madness is right, because before us there was only chaos, and above all we master our madness; besides, God killed us for that, before making us be reborn. In any case, it's true, we've already done it once, why not twice? After all, blood is already flowing on our sinner's hands.
— You both make everything sound so cold, replied Léonard Bluom. I don't think every human gesture has to be reduced to a calculation or a violent nature. A person can help another simply because they recognize in them a suffering they already know. Memory transforms us, the dead stay with us, like a weight that burdens us or a new strength that makes us move forward, and sometimes a simple memory is enough to revive an emotion we thought had vanished. Perhaps that is what it means to be human: to doubt, to question, to challenge oneself. Let's avoid making the same mistake as before.
Marinna was somewhat lost by all these debates on the meaning of life and the rest... and finished drinking her tea. Once her cup was set back down on the table, she noticed that many discussions were still raging, but singled out one that seemed to stand out from the rest.
— Don't you find this place magnificent? There are so many paintings, objects so beautiful that one loses the rhythm of the music, said Naoto Akizuki. Beauty can be found in the tiniest details of all these arts.
— Beauty takes on its meaning when it manages to nourish us; without that element, art has no true meaning, replied Albert Huger. Take these artists: Vincent van Gogh, Johannes Vermeer, Edgar Allan Poe, and even Franz Kafka—their works are world-famous today, but long after their deaths; that makes no more sense than being rich a year before dying. They remained poor all their lives, leading a flat existence, without any real achievement.
— An artist's life is not necessarily measured by what they will have gained materially, said William Riemann, fixing Albert and Naoto. Quite a few great names in literature or science have refused prizes or money—take Jean-Paul Sartre or even Grigori Perelman—because to them it didn't matter. Granted, money makes life possible, but above all one concentrates on the work, and not on how much money the author will have amassed over the course of their life.
— I'm not saying otherwise, but money makes life possible and gives recognition to the artist, said Albert Huger, looking at William. We all well know that popularity does not make the quality of a work, nor its beauty, but for me, having that material recognition honors all the greatest texts or works.
— It's quite a shame to think that way, said Naoto Akizuki, slightly saddened. Art shouldn't need money to prove its value. We often forget that we sometimes do things out of pure passion, and not to draw the attention of others.
— Perhaps, but the artist himself needs it, replied Albert Huger in a bitter tone. One must make a living to keep creating. Otherwise, one dies without ever having finished their work. Robert Musil, with The Man Without Qualities, or David Foster Wallace, who unfortunately did not complete some of his books, are examples among many other artists who could not finish their works.
— To live, yes. To be recognized, not necessarily, retorted Naoto, looking at the works around him. A work can be magnificent without its creator ever receiving anything in return; Oscar Wilde, my favorite author, was unable to complete some of his books. There are all sorts of paintings that have no known author, because they don't need one: the Master of Moulins, a major work from the late 15th century whose author remains anonymous, or the anonymous 17th-century floral still-life paintings—these are major works that I particularly cherish, just as I love sunflowers, which for me represent this ultimate beauty, this pursuit of eternal light, much like the artist who chases a work he may never be able to complete.
— And what is the point of creating a whole life if no one remembers it? asked Albert, his eyes fixed on a painting hanging on the wall. You can give everything you have to your art and die without anyone ever knowing you existed. It almost makes me sick, I am almost angry at those painters or authors who prefer to remain in anonymity rather than showing that they are the true artists.
— Perhaps the problem stems precisely from there, replied William Riemann, pensive. Albert turned toward him, visibly annoyed. Why must someone remember us for our existence to have had meaning?
— Because we are human beings, said Albert, looking at William. We want to leave something behind. A trace; the fear of oblivion is, for some, worse than death—death is only passing, oblivion, on the other hand, is eternal.
— Surely, yes, said William calmly. But wanting something does not mean that thing will have meaning later on. Some people get discredited, defamed, because to such and such a person, this author is weird, strange, or problematic. This opinion is merely subjective; I am sure many people just want to die in peace, and not be insulted even after their death.
— A work is perhaps not made to conquer time, murmured Naoto. It is perhaps made to exist despite it. Time merely confirms that it mattered at a given time, but some only resist oblivion among many people.
— That's a nice way to console oneself, and to see reality, replied Albert, who had been silent for a moment. If a work crosses time, it is because it is formidable, even incredible; I could cite Tolstoy's War and Peace, Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, James Joyce's Ulysses, Dante's Divine Comedy, or even John Milton's Paradise Lost. All these works are eternal; this list is tiny compared to all the formidable works we possess.
— And you, replied Naoto, looking at him, you seem above all to be looking for a reason not to be disappointed. What interests you so much, deep down? Success? Money? The pinnacle of painting or writing is to become one with one's art—it is not thinking about the aftermath, but about the moments when one paints or writes a sentence on one's manuscript; every word, every brushstroke is unique. At that moment, one no longer thinks of anything else, one becomes one with one's work. The continuation of the work will depend on others, not on our individual choice, which can sometimes be unjust.
— Perhaps so, but that is precisely what saddens me the most, replied Albert, looking away. Success won't even depend on quality anymore, but on an opinion that, most of the time, knows nothing about what it reads or what it sees. People only judge by superficial criteria now.
— You are both looking for something that no one can truly guarantee you, said William, observing the two men. Naoto is looking for beauty, a form of perfection in art; you, Albert, are looking for a form of gratitude, or respect, toward yourself or art in general. Which remains a rather subjective subject.
— And you, what are you looking for in art? asked Albert.
— An answer, in an attempt to understand everything, replied William. I view art or writing the way one views formal axiomatic theories, or how one perceives quantum theories. An infinite number of points, strokes, lines—I cannot conceive everything, for there would be an infinity of possibilities in the choice of the brush, the turn of every phrase, from beginning to end. A story, like a painting, begins with a first point, point A, and ends at point Z; stated thus, it is simple enough, but making sure this work is as flawless as it is in our mind is far from an easy task. An infinity of choices, of questions at every brushstroke, at every written word, of reflections—one imagines a thousand and one things, how, why; one does this because the possibilities are as numerous as all the electrons contained in the universe, until reaching the final phase. That is what I want to understand: the end. When one reaches the end of complicated equations, I want to feel that sensation, I want to understand… I want to see what it feels like.
— So it's a quest for accomplishment, you want to see what the feeling of reaching the end of a work is like… I understand, retorted Albert Huger. The path is sometimes much longer than one would have thought, and much harder.
— And what if it didn't exist? said Naoto Akizuki with a slight, sullen smile. If there is no sensation at the end, if there is nothing. What would you do?
— Then I would have my answer, replied William, looking straight ahead. I don't necessarily expect an answer or anything else, I'm just curious to see what it feels like to reach the end of such a work. A lifetime's work.
At the end of this discussion, or at least of the final part she had managed to overhear, Marinna noticed that Alice, too, seemed alone. Everyone was talking, except for her, who was doing the exact same thing as her: eavesdropping on every conversation.
She watched her for a long time before going over to speak with her:
— They're all more or less expressive, for once, don't you think? said Marinna. Everyone is talking, which is rather nice, isn't it? Ever since what happened back there, everyone had been a bit down.
— More or less, replied Alice. They're just talking about that subject again, slipping it discreetly into their conversations. Nothing has changed since last time… they talk about it, regret having done it, but when you think about it, they did it with a smile anyway, because it was necessary for our survival.
— It's normal to talk about it again, said Marinna. It's better to talk about it than to hide it deep inside like a burden. Granted, our act was cowardly and miserable, but it had to be done anyway… there's no need to be ashamed of it.
— I'm not saying otherwise, retorted Alice. What I simply notice is that they talk about it with a sort of sadness, whereas at the time, they weren't like that—they were almost happy to be freed from that burden. Which might seem a bit hypocritical, viewed from that angle… but is it really a crime to be hypocritical? That man made us live through worse than hell, hence his death; everyone is simply trying to find relief however they see fit, some remain indifferent, for others it's more complicated. But everyone seems to be doing better, which is good, because what's coming might happen all over again here.
— Not necessarily. Why should this place become like our old place? It can simply be a place where we are trained to cross over to the other side, said Marinna, before remembering a piece of information she had momentarily forgotten. Yes… well… if he becomes a nuisance, then we'll eliminate him, that's all! I'm sure he'll calm down with his group; anyway, he'll be forced to, an investigation will be conducted in the old orphanage, so, knowing him, he'll stay quiet for a while.
— I'm not sure he'll follow the rules, replied Alice. That said, I could be wrong about how things will play out… but I prefer to prepare for the worst, just in case everything goes haywire.
— Yes, I hope so too. I hope everything goes well, for once, replied Marinna.
The discussion stopped there; the two girls watched the others talk among themselves, silence being a common thing between them. Marinna didn't like this silence any less, quite the contrary, she loved it; during these silences, she loved to ponder the situation she found herself in. Out of the corner of her eye, she turned slightly to the side; Alice stood straight, watching the others speak, listening in an almost Olympian silence. Marinna looked back in front of herself, rested her elbow on the table, and began to contemplate the fruit basket sitting in the middle of the table.
"We could all represent ourselves as fruits. If one of them were to come to life instantly, then small arms and small legs would start to grow, a head would appear with eyes, a nose, eyebrows would sketch themselves out with everything else. They would begin to wonder why they were born and why they were here. Then they would decide on a leader, or at least a representative of this basket; plots and manipulations would arise, for who does not want absolute power? So clans would form, murders and plots would surge, corpses would become roads, blood would become the cement, to reach all the way to the throne. Consciousnesses would flow in, just as intelligence would appear; one would doubt, reflect, and then begin to explore, discovering new life forms, killing them, enslaving them, or allying with them to invade other territories—but above all, discovering the unknown. Who has never felt this sensation of freedom, this infinite happiness upon discovering a new land? Sensations are the very principle of the human, for what defines one human compared to another? Curiosity? Love? I would say rather our mistakes, our violence, then our regrets, all the way to a form of self-acceptance; the devil is merely a more human figure than the gods on high, hence his fall. We meet, we grow suspicious, we become increasingly intelligent, intellectual doubts arrive like all of life's problems; we go from child to adult, from adult to old man, and from old man to the grave—everything has a beginning as well as an end. Who are we to say whether one act is more beautiful than another? A suicide can have an aspect that is both beautiful and cowardly, but is a hero's death more beautiful? Death has a bitter taste when we become too conscious of our own existence. This is why man dreams of becoming immortal, of prolonging his life unto boredom, unto wishing he were alive. We love one another, then we hate each other upon discovering life. We discover love, friendship, everything; the basket grows larger and larger, until its extinction, for everything has an end. God has an end. The Earth has an end, the universe has an end; everything, every atom, down to the slightest cell, has a precise end.
I see them as I see us, in the middle of this table, all dressed in shiny sheets and chic outfits; these fruits talk to each other, while remaining serious at the same time. Around me, everyone discusses calmly, each seeming to have their own way of thinking or expressing themselves—twelve, just like the apostles of Jesus. Will they follow me? Will they betray me? I am merely the being of my own consciousness. I am here, at the center of my creation. Who am I to them? God? A simple messenger? Or perhaps a false prophet? While remaining silent, observing them just as I observe my own species, I learn, to better understand the meaning of life, much like the creation of my imagination.
I really should stop daydreaming like this; I've already told myself that all of this could draw trouble between reality and fiction. They aren't uninteresting, they're just slow and think at a snail's pace; they aren't mean, which is also why I love helping or loving them so much, but I prefer to stay alone, even if today I have a group, with comrades. Life sometimes functions on very little, and faith indirectly on many strange things. Am I perhaps too intelligent? Maybe so... no, I'm joking, one must know where one stands. The only thing that is certain is that I must anticipate, foresee his future actions, like his movements or his plans, otherwise he will start all over again," thought Marinna as she looked at the fruit basket.
She raised her eyes toward the chandelier enthroned above the table; it was magnificent, blazing with a thousand lights, adorned with crystals, itself made of a blend of metals that gave it a gorgeous golden hue. As she contemplated it, her eyes lit up while watching those tiny flames dance upon the long candles.
Her gaze then rested upon her entire group, her comrades, even her friends; a slight smile appeared, and she said in a low voice, in a whisper:
— Light rises in the darkness for the upright. Hope does not deceive. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes every morning.
End of this episode.
Thank you for reading.