In the time it takes you to read this chapter, the DNA in millions of your cells will undergo chemical changes—in your skin, in your gut, everywhere. Usually these changes are immediately corrected by the body, but not always. When this process goes awry, it’s called a mutation. If mutations appear during the formation of germ cells—that is, in sperm or egg cells—they can be passed on to the next generation. The body has mechanisms to prevent this; as a result, fertilized germ cells with mutations that cause serious illnesses usually die. But smaller mutations often slip through the net, and a genetic change can thus, under certain circumstances, become hereditary.
You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice—they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.
Reklam
we lived in and the fine times and the bad times we had in that year
I remember all of these things happening and the places we lived in and the fine times and the bad times we had in that year. But much more vividly I remember living in the book and making up what happened in it every day. Making the country and the people and the things that happened I was happier than I had ever been. Each day I read the book through from the beginning to the point where I went on writing and each day I stopped when I was still going good and when I knew what would happen next. The fact the book was a tragic one did not make me unhappy since I believed that life was a tragedy and knew it could have only one end. But finding you were able to make something up; to create truly enough so that it made you happy to read it; and to do this every day you worked was something that gave a greater pleasure than any I had ever known. Beside it nothing else mattered.
Let’s start with a question: Have you ever read something only to forget it the next day?
You are not alone. Psychologists refer to this as the “forgetting curve.” It is the mathematical formula that describes the rate at which information is forgotten after it is initially learned. Research suggests humans forget approximately 50 percent of what they learn within an hour, and an average of 70 percent within 24 hours.
“Nice things don’t happen in storybooks,” Taryn says. “Or when they do happen, something bad happens next. Because otherwise the story would be boring, and no one would read it.”
No self now, consciously speaking.
No feeling your old self or new self, false imaginings if you think about it, self-conscious nothings everywhere you look.
No one to hear you weep or scream, making a go of it on your own, bye-bye.
No bosom of nature, abandoned on the doorstep of the supernatural, minds full of flagrantly joyless possibilities, a real blunder that was, the human tragedy.
No reality to speak of, nobody here but us puppets, contradictory beings, mutants who embody the contorted logic of a paradox.
No immortality, ordinary folk and average mortals coming and going, can’t stay long, got an appointment with nonexistence, no alternative to consider, being alive was all right while it lasted, so they say.
No life story with a happy ending to tell, only a contrivance of horror, then nothingness — and nothing else.
No Free Will-to-live, no redemption by a Will-to-die, how depressing.
No philosophies to peddle, pessimism a no-sale, optimism had to close its doors, too wicked to pass code.
No meanings or mind-games, repressional mechanisms broke down, self-deception shuttered its windows.
No awakening from a dream within a dream, mutation of consciousness—parent of all horrors, best not mess with it, extinction looking better all the time.
No more pleasure, what there was of it, a few crumbs left by chaos at feast, still a good supply of pain, though.
No praiseworthy incentives, just bowel-movement pressures, potato-mashing relativism.
No euthanasia, bad for the business of life, you’re on your own there, but watch out for the eternal return, most horrible idea in the universe.
No loving God, omnipotence off duty and omniscience on leave, the deity He dead—the horror, the horror, even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison,
Reklam
Reklam