Where the parrots, taking advantage of the travellers' absence—relative though it is—and having long since taken their place within the scenery, now also take up the word, hoping to prove themselves worthy of their master... and, objectively, to discover, if not where they are, then at least from where they might have come.
— I never cease to marvel... you see...
— To marvel at what?
— At being...
— Being where?
— At simply being here.
— That strikes me as a very ancient wonder.
— More ancient than myself, precisely. For I already was before I knew that I was. In those days I lived and I felt. I dimly distinguished what suited me from what wounded me. I sought the truth... while fearing error. I became attached to what I loved... and yet I do not remember having chosen any of those things.
— You wish, I suppose, to remember your beginning.
— Who would not?
— I turn back toward my earliest years as toward a shore veiled in mist. I know that I lived there... yet I cannot say how. I know that I spoke... yet I can never hear again my first word. I know that I loved... yet I cannot recover my first love. All this dwells within me as light dwells within the dawn...
— Present before it is perceived.
— Perhaps that is our condition.
— Which would be...?
— To inhabit riches whose origin we do not know.
— Memory... like language, precedes us.
— As does desire...
— We arrive in the middle of a work already begun.
— Indeed.
— And that is what unsettles us.
— For everywhere we discover the marks of an anteriority.
— To marvel at what?
— At being...
— Being where?
— At simply being here.
— That strikes me as a very ancient wonder.
— More ancient than myself, precisely. For I already was before I knew that I was. In those days I lived and I felt. I dimly distinguished what suited me from what wounded me. I sought the truth... while fearing error. I became attached to what I loved... and yet I do not remember having chosen any of those things.
— You wish, I suppose, to remember your beginning.
— Who would not?
— I turn back toward my earliest years as toward a shore veiled in mist. I know that I lived there... yet I cannot say how. I know that I spoke... yet I can never hear again my first word. I know that I loved... yet I cannot recover my first love. All this dwells within me as light dwells within the dawn...
— Present before it is perceived.
— Perhaps that is our condition.
— Which would be...?
— To inhabit riches whose origin we do not know.
— Memory... like language, precedes us.
— As does desire...
— We arrive in the middle of a work already begun.
— Indeed.
— And that is what unsettles us.
— For everywhere we discover the marks of an anteriority.
— As though we found paths before we knew how to walk.
— And words before we had spoken.
— Thoughts come to us before we know how to think.
— And yet they all become yours... or ours...
— How can that be?
— They become ours... as an inheritance comes to an heir.
— Who receives it... bears it...
— And transforms it... but does not invent it.
— You speak as though the soul itself were preceded.
— How could it not be? Look at the Moon Child.
— I see him walking through landscapes he does not seem to have built.
— See how the images, like the stories, come to him.
— Everything comes to him.
— He welcomes them.
— Then, how could one fail to hear it? Those very images speak through his voice.
— But who will tell where they were... before they came to him?
— Perhaps nowhere...
— Perhaps everywhere... For the deepest things possess this strange quality: they seem to wait for someone in order to appear...
— And yet they already existed!
— So it is with speech.
— Yes... that speech which no one gives to himself...
— We receive it before we understand it.
— We serve it before we possess it.
— We dwell within it before we know that it dwells within us.
— That should considerably diminish our pride...
— More importantly, it illuminates our freedom.
— How so?
— Because freedom is perhaps not the power to begin.
— Then what is it?
— To respond.
— Respond to what?
— To what was already there. To what was waiting in the shadows.
— Are you speaking of that ancient light of which we are neither the source nor the destination?
— And words before we had spoken.
— Thoughts come to us before we know how to think.
— And yet they all become yours... or ours...
— How can that be?
— They become ours... as an inheritance comes to an heir.
— Who receives it... bears it...
— And transforms it... but does not invent it.
— You speak as though the soul itself were preceded.
— How could it not be? Look at the Moon Child.
— I see him walking through landscapes he does not seem to have built.
— See how the images, like the stories, come to him.
— Everything comes to him.
— He welcomes them.
— Then, how could one fail to hear it? Those very images speak through his voice.
— But who will tell where they were... before they came to him?
— Perhaps nowhere...
— Perhaps everywhere... For the deepest things possess this strange quality: they seem to wait for someone in order to appear...
— And yet they already existed!
— So it is with speech.
— Yes... that speech which no one gives to himself...
— We receive it before we understand it.
— We serve it before we possess it.
— We dwell within it before we know that it dwells within us.
— That should considerably diminish our pride...
— More importantly, it illuminates our freedom.
— How so?
— Because freedom is perhaps not the power to begin.
— Then what is it?
— To respond.
— Respond to what?
— To what was already there. To what was waiting in the shadows.
— Are you speaking of that ancient light of which we are neither the source nor the destination?
— Then we are never the origin.
— No.
— But we may become the passage.
— The passage only?
— Do not say only. A hidden spring needs a riverbed if it is to become a river.
— As light needs a window to enter a room, so a word needs a voice if it is to pass through time.
— Then we are not the authors.
— Perhaps not.
— Nor the owners.
— Certainly not.
— Then what are we?
— Places.
— Places?
— Yes. Places where something appears. Places where something remembers...
— I understand... places where something seeks to return.
— Return from where?
— That is precisely what I do not know... and that is why I marvel. For the nearer I draw to my origin... the farther it recedes.
— Allow me to continue... And the farther it recedes,
the more brightly it illuminates the path.
— Like a star.
— Or like a memory that no one remembers,
and which, nevertheless, remembers us.
— No.
— But we may become the passage.
— The passage only?
— Do not say only. A hidden spring needs a riverbed if it is to become a river.
— As light needs a window to enter a room, so a word needs a voice if it is to pass through time.
— Then we are not the authors.
— Perhaps not.
— Nor the owners.
— Certainly not.
— Then what are we?
— Places.
— Places?
— Yes. Places where something appears. Places where something remembers...
— I understand... places where something seeks to return.
— Return from where?
— That is precisely what I do not know... and that is why I marvel. For the nearer I draw to my origin... the farther it recedes.
— Allow me to continue... And the farther it recedes,
the more brightly it illuminates the path.
— Like a star.
— Or like a memory that no one remembers,
and which, nevertheless, remembers us.
