Mr. David
Senenmut, Architect
That day the
newly divorced wife of young architect David Senenmut felt especially
lonely. She knew exactly what to do. First she cast a glance at the two
rivers. That morning the clouds failed to cross the water. They twisted
their way against the stream along the right bank of the Danube and rode
the winds at its meeting point with the Sava. The former Mrs. Senenmut
unpacked a little box wrapped in gold paper with feverish fingers. Inside
lay something magical, the purpose of which she had not at once been able
to guess in the crystal store where she had bought it the day before.
It was a beautiful glass snail filled with pink powder and sealed with
pink wax with a wick in the center. It looked like a festive candle. It
was a gift for her ex-husband. At one point she wanted to write a kind
of dedication on the snail’s shell, but she thought better of it.
She had no faith in words.
She knew that language is only a map of man’s thoughts, feelings,
and memories . . . “Like all maps,” she thought,
“language is a picture of what is to be represented but reduced
hundreds of thousands of times. A vastly miniaturized picture of human
feelings, thoughts, and memories. On that map seas are not salt, rivers
do not flow, mountains are flat, and snow is not cold. Instead of hurricanes
and storms only a tiny cluster of winds is drawn . . .”
|
