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I wanted to be alone in an altogether unusual way, a new way. Quite the contrary of what you think: that is to say, without myself and, to be precise, with a stranger at hand.
nice wAy of being alone!
Solitude is never where you are; it is always where you are not, and is only possible with a stranger present;
True solitude is to be found in a place that lives a life of its own, but which for you holds no familiar footprint, speaks in no known voice, and where accordingly the stranger is yourself.
The unfortunate part is that you, my dear friend, will never know, and I shall never be able to tell you, how what you say to me is translated inside me.
But is it our fault, yours and mine, if words in themselves are empty? Empty, my dear friend. You fill them with your meaning, as you speak them to me; while I, in taking them in, inevitably fill them with my own. We thought we understood each other; we did not understand each other at all.
They give no sign of having any ears; but who knows? it may be that trees, in order to grow properly, have need of silence all the same.
It was inevitable, if you think it over well, that this game of mine should yield the fruit of madness.
be and was that shadow’s,
