This text impressed me a lot. You can even read it as a matter of energy.
The Death of the Moth by
Virginia Woolf
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths;
they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom
which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never
fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies
nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his
narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to
be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, midSeptember, mild,
benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough
was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had
been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came
rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep
the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their
annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast
net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which,
after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to
have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the
air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and
vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon
the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired
the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed
downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the
window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a
queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that
morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moths part in life, and
a day moths at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre
opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his
compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What
remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was
all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the
far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out
at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very
thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his
frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that
a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and
so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and
driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain
and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as
pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and
decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing
and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could
not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing
it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the
greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might
have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple
activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his
dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer
spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was
caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff
or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and
when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I
watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously
waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has
stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its
failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and
fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness
of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he
could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched
out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the
failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down
again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the
enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened
there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness
and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves
off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all
the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in
particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was
useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts
made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen,
have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings;
nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of
exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so
frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. Ones sympathies, of
course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to
know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against
a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to
keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted
the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the
unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly
grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew
death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a
force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been
strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having
righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he
seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
I told someone who doesnt know: people build highways everywhere. Even into solitude.
Now I was on a transport ship, which was mine. Somewhere in a corner of the big river I parked it. But how do you park a ship? I let it where it was, just as it was. I swem, it was large and I was alone.
Waves became bigger and bigger. A transport ship, much bigger than mine, approached. My ship started to move away, its motor was on? With some efforts I reached it. I sat on the ship as one sits on a horse. I was afraid that I dont sit right in balance, that like this I make the whole ship fall with me into the water. Ships came from right and left. When the big ship approached from right, I had to move onward, for from left came another one. There were all kinds of ships. I conducted my transport ship, fast, big, straigt into a tiny water street that was made for little ships. There was no water free, no place to hide, no way to fall. I had to stay calm as ships are calm. But the river was FULL of ships.
Dream 2
I entered a room. I knew it was a psychatry, a forbidden space. From the door a small bridge went over the space. Everything, also the bridge, was white. It all looked as an aquarium. Deeper in space were two residents, they talked loudly with each other so that I heard every word: look, these nurses dont look good. I worry about the nurses. They are to thin. They are almost not there. She approached and took my feet from down under. I climd up. She hang on my foot, I hang on the balustrade;
a moment later I saw them performing. Me and the public were down in the aquarium. The two crazy women were dancing intensively and it was such a touching performance that I havent seen yet. I was ashame of myself; how could I have been afraid of them, how could I take them as crazy? They finished dancing and said: it costs 40 Euro. I saw you!
Le jeune homme dont l'oeil est brillant, la peau brune, Le beau corps de vingt ans qui devrait aller nu, Et qu'eût, le front cerclé de cuivre, sous la lune Adoré, dans la Perse, un Génie inconnu,
Impétueux avec des douceurs virginales Et noires, fier de ses premiers entêtements, Pareil aux jeunes mers, pleurs de nuits estivales, Qui se retournent sur des lits de diamants ;
Le jeune homme, devant les laideurs de ce monde, Tressaille dans son coeur largement irrité, Et plein de la blessure éternelle et profonde, Se prend à désirer sa soeur de charité.
Mais, ô Femme, monceau d'entrailles, pitié douce, Tu n'es jamais la Soeur de charité, jamais, Ni regard noir, ni ventre où dort une ombre rousse, Ni doigts légers, ni seins splendidement formés.
Aveugle irréveillée aux immenses prunelles, Tout notre embrassement n'est qu'une question : C'est toi qui pends à nous, porteuse de mamelles, Nous te berçons, charmante et grave Passion.
Tes haines, tes torpeurs fixes, tes défaillances, Et les brutalités souffertes autrefois, Tu nous rends tout, ô Nuit pourtant sans malveillances, Comme un excès de sang épanché tous les mois.
- Quand la femme, portée un instant, l'épouvante, Amour, appel de vie et chanson d'action, Viennent la Muse verte et la Justice ardente Le déchirer de leur auguste obsession.
Ah ! sans cesse altéré des splendeurs et des calmes, Délaissé des deux Soeurs implacables, geignant Avec tendresse après la science aux bras almes, Il porte à la nature en fleur son front saignant.
Mais la noire alchimie et les saintes études Répugnent au blessé, sombre savant d'orgueil ; Il sent marcher sur lui d'atroces solitudes. Alors, et toujours beau, sans dégoût du cercueil,
Qu'il croie aux vastes fins, Rêves ou Promenades Immenses, à travers les nuits de Vérité, Et t'appelle en son âme et ses membres malades, Ô Mort mystérieuse, ô soeur de charité.
Die Geschwister der Barmherzigkeit
Der junge Mann: helle Augen und tiefbraune Haut, Des Körper, grad zwanzig, ganz nackt umhergehen müsste; Als Genie unerkannt, doch manchmal als heilig geschaut; Des Stirn in Persien wohl ein Kupferreif schmückte,
In unberührter Schönheit: die herrische Mähne, Verdorben, ungestüm, von jungfräulicher Süße, Jungen Meeren ähnlich und Sommernachtstränen, Die diamanten durch Wadis und Flussbetten schießen;
Nachdem er die Scheußlichkeit Welt erstmalig erkundet, Erzittert das reizbare Herz diesem jungen Mann, Und tief im Innersten fast unheilbar verwundet, Wird er, Geschwister Barmherzigkeit, nach dir so krank!
Doch Frau, du Haufen Gekröse, erbärmlich und süß, Dein finsterer Blick, dein Schoß, wo Schattenglut ruht, Du bist keine Schwester Barmherzigkeit, denn hier nützt Nicht schwächlicher Finger, noch wohlgeformt eine Brust.
Du Blinde, noch nicht Erwachte, mit Riesenpupillen, Der unsre Umarmung stets nur die Frage gestellt: Warum bist du uns, du Milchdrüsenpaar, stets zu Willen, Welch reizende, tiefe Passion, die uns bei dir hält.
Dein Hass, deine ständigen Ohnmachten, ewigen Schwächen, Das was du an Grausamkeit sinnlos geschehen ließ'st, Du zahlst es zurück, o Nacht, doch nicht um zu rächen, Ein blutiger Strom, der monatlich einmalig fließt.
Doch wenn der Zorn sie packt, weil er sie benützt, Liebe, Lebenslied, kreischender Aufruf zur Tat Dann nahen die giftgrüne Muse und rasche Justiz, Um ihn zu zerfetzen mit ihrer erhabenen Kraft.
Verraten von beiden Geschwistern, die ohne Erbarmen, In unablässigem Durst nach Luxus und Ruh, Jammert er zärtlich nach Wissenschaft streichelnder Arme, Schleppt sich mit blutiger Stirn zur blühnden Natur.
Doch schwarze Magie und heilig-frömmelnde Lehren Lehnt der Verwundete ab, auf düstre Erfahrungen stolz; Er spürt, die grausige Einsamkeit rückt immer näher. Doch, immer noch schön, verschmäht er nicht Särge von Holz
Und glaubt an die höchlichste Feinheit, unendliches Träumen, Und promenierend durch Nächte voll Wahrheit allzeit Ruft er zu Dir, an Körper und Seele gebrochen, O unergründlicher Tod, du Bruder der Barmherzigkeit.
Juni 1871
The Sisters Of Charity
That bright-eyed and brown-skinned youth, The fine twenty-year body that should go naked, That, brow circled with copper, under the moon, An unknown Persian Genie would have worshipped;
Impetuous with virginal sweetnesses, And dark, proud of his first obstinacies, Like tears of the summer nights distresses, That turn on beds of diamond, young seas;
The youth, faced with this worlds ugliness, Shudders in his heart, wounded deeply, And, full of profound eternal emptiness, Begins to long for his sister of charity.
But, O Woman, heap of entrails, pitying, sweet, You are never the Sister of charity, never, Dark gaze, belly where rose shadows sleep, Splendidly formed breasts, slender fingers.
Blind un-awakened one, with eyes enormous, Our every embrace is merely a question: Bearer of breasts its you who hang on us, We who nurse you, charming and grave passion.
Your hatreds, your dumb torpors, your weaknesses, And your brutalisation suffered long ago, You give back, O Night, like an excess, Un-malevolent, of blood, each month or so.
When Woman, borne for an instant, taken on, Terrifies Love, lifes call and song of action, The green Muse and burning Justice come To dismember him with their august obsession.
Ah! Endlessly thirsting for splendours and calms, Forsaken by both implacable Sisters, whimpering With tenderness for the science of soothing arms, He brings his blood-stained brow to Natures flowering.
But, wounded, sacred studies, shadowy alchemy Are repugnant to the proud sombre scholar; He feels the atrocious advance of all thats solitary. So, still handsome, without disgust for the bier,
Let him, traversing all the nights of Truth, Credit vast ends, Dreams, immense Journey, And in his soul and sick limbs call on you, O mysterious Death, O sister of charity!
