Afterword


After a story is told there are some moments of silence. Then words begin again. Because you woud always like to know a little more. Not exactly more story. Not necessarily, on the other hand, an exegesis. Just something to go on with. After all, stories end but you have to proceed with the rest of the day. You have to shift your weight, raise your eyes, notice the sound of traffic again, maybe go out for cigarettes. A coldness begins to spread through you at the thought; a wish forms. Perhaps it is something about me you would like to know - not that you have any specific questions, but still, that would be better than nothing. I could pour you a glass of wine and go on talking about the sun still upon the mountains outside the window or my theory of adjectives or some shameful thing I have done in the past, and none of us would have to leave just yet.

You do not know how this vague wish of yours fills me with fear. I have been aware of it from the beginning, I must be frank about this, I have worn it around my throat like a fox collar since the moment I said "Vediamo." Just then I felt your body tense for a story, and for something else. You tracked and peered and stalked it through page after page. Now here we are. Little snouts wake and bite in.

But could you tell me, what is so terrible about stepping off the end of a story? Let us look more closely at this moment that gathers at the place called the end. Up until this time, you have been fairly succesful at holding back your tears, and suddenly you feel brokenhearted. It is not that you loved Anna, or look upon me as a friend, or hate your own life particularly. But there is a moment of uncovering, and of covering, which happens very fast and you seem to be losing track of something. It is almost as if you hear a key turn in the lock. Which side of the door are you on? You do not know. Which side am I on? It is up to me to tell you - at least, that is what other brave, wise and upright men have done in a similar position. For example, Sokrates:

The man who had administered the poison laid his hands on him and after a while examined his feet and legs, then pinched his foot hard and asked if he felt it. Sokrates said "No." And after that, his thighs; and passing upward in this way he showed us that he was growing cold and rigid. And again he touched him and said that when it reached his heart he would be gone. The coldness by now was almost to the middle of his body and he uncovered himself - for he had covered his head - and said (what was his last utterance) "Krito, we owe a cock to Asklepios: pay it back and don't forget." "That," said Krito, "will be done, but now see if you have anything else you want to say." Sokrates made no further answer. Some time went by; he stirred. The man uncovered him and his eyes were fixed. When Krito saw this, he closed his mouth and eyes.

(Plato, Phaedo 118)

A cock for Asklepios: What a courtly gesture it is with whcih Sokrates ushers his guests out into the evening air, pointing the way for them (they have had quite a bit to drink). We hardly know such hospitality nowadays. And yet, having held you in my company so long, I find I do have something to give you. Not the mysterious, intimate and consoling data you would have wished, but something to go on with, and in all likelihood the best I can do. It is simply the fact, as you go down the stairs and walk in dark streets, as you see forms, as you marry or speak sharply or wait for a train, as you begin imagination, as you look at every mark, simply the fact of my eyes in your back.

from Anne Carson, 'Canicula di Anna', in Plainwater.