JК
The Mysterious Flame Of Queen Loana :: Эко Умберто
Страница: 247 из 286A long line forms in front of the confessional, everyone intent on giving in to sleep only after the merest hint of sin has been confessed.
In the menacing comfort of dark naves, fleeing the evils of the century, I spend my days in icy ardors, in which even Christmas carols, and what had been the comforting crèche of my childhood, become the birth of the Child into the horrors of the world:
Sleep , do not cry , oh my sweet Jesus ,
sleep , do not cry , my beloved Redeemer…
Oh beautiful child , hasten to shut
your sweet-natured eyes in horror extreme.
That’s why they sting , the straw and the hay ,
Because your bright eyes are shimmering still.
Hasten to close them , so sleep at least may
offer its remedy for every ill.
Sleep , do not cry , oh my sweet Jesus ,
sleep , do not cry , my beloved Redeemer…
One Sunday, Papà, a soccer fan and a bit disappointed in that son of his who spends his days ruining his eyes over books, takes me to a match. It is a minor contest, the stands are nearly empty, speckled with the colors of the few onlookers, blotches on white bleachers that are scorching hot in the sun. The game is stopped by a referee’s whistle, one captain protests the call, the other players move around the field aimlessly. Two colors of jerseys in disarray, bored athletes milling about a green field, a scattered mess. Everything stalls. What happens unreels now in slow motion, as in a parochial movie theater when the sound suddenly cuts off with a meow , movements become more careful, then jerk frame by frame to a stop on a single image, which dissolves on the screen like melting wax.
And in that moment I experience a revelation.
I realize now that it was a painful sense that the world is purposeless, the lazy fruit of a misunderstanding, but in that moment I was able to translate what I felt only as: "God does not exist."
I leave the match in the grip of lacerating regrets and run straight to confession. The fiery confessor from my previous visit now smiles, indulgent and benevolent, asks me how I got such a silly notion in my head, mentions the beauty of nature, which points to a creative and ordering will, then talks at length about the consensus gentium: "My child, the greatest writers, Dante, Manzoni, Salvaneschi, have believed in God, and great mathematicians like Fantappie, and you want to be lesser?" The consensus of people, for the moment, calms me. It must have been the match’s fault. Paola told me I never went to soccer matches, at most I would watch the finals of the World Cup on television.
In the menacing comfort of dark naves, fleeing the evils of the century, I spend my days in icy ardors, in which even Christmas carols, and what had been the comforting crèche of my childhood, become the birth of the Child into the horrors of the world:
Sleep , do not cry , oh my sweet Jesus ,
sleep , do not cry , my beloved Redeemer…
Oh beautiful child , hasten to shut
your sweet-natured eyes in horror extreme.
That’s why they sting , the straw and the hay ,
Because your bright eyes are shimmering still.
Hasten to close them , so sleep at least may
offer its remedy for every ill.
Sleep , do not cry , oh my sweet Jesus ,
sleep , do not cry , my beloved Redeemer…
One Sunday, Papà, a soccer fan and a bit disappointed in that son of his who spends his days ruining his eyes over books, takes me to a match. It is a minor contest, the stands are nearly empty, speckled with the colors of the few onlookers, blotches on white bleachers that are scorching hot in the sun. The game is stopped by a referee’s whistle, one captain protests the call, the other players move around the field aimlessly. Two colors of jerseys in disarray, bored athletes milling about a green field, a scattered mess. Everything stalls. What happens unreels now in slow motion, as in a parochial movie theater when the sound suddenly cuts off with a meow , movements become more careful, then jerk frame by frame to a stop on a single image, which dissolves on the screen like melting wax.
And in that moment I experience a revelation.
I realize now that it was a painful sense that the world is purposeless, the lazy fruit of a misunderstanding, but in that moment I was able to translate what I felt only as: "God does not exist."
I leave the match in the grip of lacerating regrets and run straight to confession. The fiery confessor from my previous visit now smiles, indulgent and benevolent, asks me how I got such a silly notion in my head, mentions the beauty of nature, which points to a creative and ordering will, then talks at length about the consensus gentium: "My child, the greatest writers, Dante, Manzoni, Salvaneschi, have believed in God, and great mathematicians like Fantappie, and you want to be lesser?" The consensus of people, for the moment, calms me. It must have been the match’s fault. Paola told me I never went to soccer matches, at most I would watch the finals of the World Cup on television.