虫子游戈

Introduction: This article is a translation by the translator of Paul Park's short science fiction story “If Lions Could Speak: Imagining the Alien”, originally published in Lightspeed Magazine's April 2017 issue (Issue 83). However, the piece was published earlier in the author's first collection of stories “If Lions Could Speak and Other Stories” (2002). Any errors or omissions in the translation are my responsibility.

Many people have written about this topic, but in the end, they can only admit failure; what right do I have to claim success? The objections line up like police: extraterrestrial intelligence simply does not exist. So if we want to describe it, all we can think of is ourselves, and nothing else. What can we make aliens say, what feelings can we give them, what tools can we have them use? They are limited to our own words, feelings, and tools. Even if we can conceive of something different, how can we express it in a way that humans can understand? And if humans do not read our works, how can we sell them well?

You cannot think of anything beyond human thought. On the other hand, the concept of extraterrestrial intelligence is a creative source for many science fiction stories, and almost every writer tries to describe it, but this goal is actually difficult to achieve. You often see writers frustrated when creating alien stories, ultimately turning back to writing about humans. Extraterrestrial intelligence has become part of the writing landscape, something writers must experience or overcome, while also helping us understand certain issues about ourselves. The field of science fiction can be quite naturally divided into several major categories, but even so, they share commonalities in this regard.

For example, we have many stories about "they came here," that is, a high-tech race coming to Earth. Generally speaking, this race is aggressive. In most cases, it does not need to be overly emphasized that they are a bunch of murderers. As for humans, they start at a disadvantage but ultimately win, usually due to some emotional aspect, a "human trait" that the aggressors cannot match. Then comes the self-congratulation of humanity.

Another type of story is "we go there," where our technological level is superior to that of a simple, innocent, non-aggressive race. In these stories, humans are usually divided into two camps—those advocating violence and those who do not love violence, with the narrator belonging to the latter camp. But a contradictory situation arises: the more this human learns about the aliens, the more he believes in his most "human" instincts, which will ultimately lead to victory. Then comes the self-congratulation of humanity. In both types of stories, whether here or there, the growth that occurs is human growth. The aliens learn no lessons.

These are two major types of situations. There are also two other types:

Sometimes, when a writer imagines an alien race, he speculates on what humans would be like if they had the same form as the aliens. The writer might ask himself: what if there were two heads? What if there were six corresponding reproductive organs? Or what if there were lifespans of thousands of years? Sometimes writers take this form speculation very seriously; I mean, to arrive at these conditions based on human forms, they will spend effort setting up some pseudoscience. Other times, writers randomly choose the forms of extraterrestrial intelligence or consider them for plot effects.

In other cases, authors imagine extraterrestrial intelligence as an amplification, addition, or removal of certain psychological or emotional attributes of humans. In other words, these aliens are very similar to humans, but they are either extremely fearful of death or completely fearless, or they might suddenly fly into a rage. Or they might be just like you and me, except they have telepathic abilities or they actually have no soul. This type of alien usually resembles human form but has some subtle differences. For example, their ears might be pointed.

Based on these two situations of strange forms and almost human forms, there are two major types of speculative writing; if we overly simplify, we can call it the "American model." To reiterate, overly simplifying the definition: American science fiction is often plot-driven, and the aforementioned types of aliens can appropriately blend into the usual plot scenarios. In other words, the alien otherness can appear in many places in the story, as long as it does not threaten the story structure itself or make the plot irrelevant.

Let’s call the second type the "European model," but the more I think about it, the more foolish this distinction seems. But anyway—since we have established principles, we should stick to them: in the European model, the alien strangeness and our powerlessness in understanding them become the center of the story. If a writer does not mind depicting it this way, they might write a great story; two examples are the sentient ocean in “Solaris” and the illuminated crystal columns depicted by J.H. Rosny¹. However, to outsiders, these works are inevitably seen as incomprehensible oddities. The lack of means of communication becomes the theme of these stories, with all other plot elements and conclusions pushed aside. Yet even if you avoid the issues of anthropomorphism, emotional description, and inherent dislocation, you cannot describe extraterrestrial intelligence or communicate with it anymore. You simply push this part of the work onto your readers. In fact...

••••

At this moment, thinking of these lazy European writers makes me feel a surge of anger. I no longer look at this draft, glancing over at Laura, who is standing in the doorway. It is late, and I am sitting at my desk. She has been watching television—the laughter and applause occasionally remind me of this—and now she is here, standing there in a white nightgown. She is here to disturb me, which makes me breathe a sigh of relief.

I have been feeling arrhythmic all day; I think it is the pressure of abstract thinking, which is very unnatural for me. I haven’t talked to Laura about my symptoms because she has hypochondria. Nevertheless, having her around relaxes me a lot. Even in the worst-case scenario, she can take me to the hospital. But how sad it would be if I had a heart attack at my desk while my wife was downstairs in another room, unaware!

At first, she said nothing, just leaning against the doorframe while I pretended to work. I didn’t look up again. I didn’t look into her eyes. We had a fight that day. I was going to Berlin, and she was angry about it, angry because I made plans without asking her and didn’t even think that she might want to go too. But her condition has worsened over the past year, and in the last six months, she has canceled all plans at the last minute without warning: even visiting friends or going to the movies (which happened recently). I was also annoyed and booked a one-way ticket, which hurt her feelings. It felt like I didn’t trust her, but I really didn’t. Of course, she is afraid of being alone for a week.

Now she stands there, and I feel guilty for ignoring her. The reason I ignored her is that I feel guilty about the ticket; whether it is psychological or not, her symptoms are real. Indeed. I should pretend to trust her more.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asks, and I try to figure out what she means. Does she want me to come? Normally, I would think that way, but there is something else in her tone, as if she might prefer to lie under the covers sleepless while I work in another room. Maybe she will come over at two in the morning or four in the morning to linger beside me, each time more agitated and distracted, each time frowning under the glaring electric light.

As I wrestled with this question, she left for the bathroom. I leaned back in my chair. But my train of thought had been interrupted, and now despair had become a threat, ready to crush my thesis argument. In a world where other humans are mysterious, and we find it difficult to understand ourselves, how can we discuss this topic? Just writing down our feelings from ten minutes ago requires immense imagination.

As if released by this negative train of thought, I had a new idea. I had been avoiding them because the paper I planned was an optimistic piece: asserting impossibility at the beginning while suggesting or even stating that we could reasonably depict alien consciousness. But my optimism depends on not remembering the past, on facing the future. Years ago, I wrote a novel, and I had high hopes for it.

Most of the books I write do not start from any ideas in my mind. But this one began with an idea, a plot, which I wrote at the beginning of the book. I wanted to write the ultimate story of alien intelligence, and my plan was this: throughout the progression of the book, the viewpoint character would undergo a transformation from human to alien, guiding the reader through a gradually alienated consciousness.

On a planet long colonized by humans, through genetic splicing, plastic surgery, and most importantly, the daily psychiatric medication she takes, a member of the indigenous race is transformed into a human female. This medication shuts down certain functional areas of the brain and adjusts the remaining brain functions to operate only within the range of typical human mental activity. This woman is a social elite of her own race, and to her, those members of her race who do not use the medication are terrifying and incomprehensible, just as they are in the eyes of us humans.

But at the beginning of this novel, the young woman’s supply of medication is cut off. By the end of the novel, she has become a different kind of being, with a different way of thinking. Because she is the viewpoint character, the reader can witness her internal transformation and adapt to the process. I imagined that anyone who picks up this book and reads the last chapter, if that reader has not read the rest, will be completely unable to understand it. The book would gradually introduce new vocabulary to describe words, feelings, and concepts throughout its progression.

The final published text did not achieve such ambition.

Now I find myself listening to the sound of Laura cleaning her teeth. It is a delicate process that lasts ten minutes and requires specialized equipment. That sound irritates me—a strange clattering noise. When I first met her, she brushed her teeth like everyone else. In every way, she is a perfectly normal person.

Soon she was once again standing barefoot in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. I looked up at her and smiled. “How’s it going?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I’m wondering if I should talk about ‘Coelestis’².”

“I love that book.”

I was taken aback and looked up. What did she mean by that? She stood shivering in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly to her elbows, but I didn’t feel cold. “It didn’t achieve what I wanted,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“No conceptual breakthroughs.”

She laughed. “You’re lucky; that’s not why people read books.”

I felt a bit annoyed and said nothing, while she continued: “Stories are not meant to be places for conceptual breakthroughs.” People read to feel things, which is different from understanding things. Perhaps it is even the opposite. If people cared about understanding things, they would read academic papers for fun.”

“Well, what I’m writing is an academic paper,” I said, “I want to talk about those things that are not yet known.”

“So how’s that going?”

I ignored the question and didn’t answer.

Laura walked into the room, pushed some of my papers aside, and curled up on the bed behind me. When she pulled her legs up onto the bed, I saw they were long and slender. “I can’t believe you’re going to Germany in the middle of summer,” she said, “the scenery there is just perfect at this time.”

I turned my chair to face her. There were a few notepads beside her, and she was brushing them off the pillow. She picked one up. “If lions could speak,” she read, “we wouldn’t have the ability to understand them.”

“If in doubt, quote Wittgenstein,” I sighed.

The issue with Laura’s question and the core issue in our relationship is that she is much smarter than I am. “Or just the opposite of Wittgenstein,” she immediately countered. “Anything that cannot be said, you must express indirectly and obliquely—that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Laura suffers from insomnia and other ailments. She is very tired during the day but full of energy after midnight. Under the light by the window, her cheeks glow red, and her fingers move restlessly. She has a habit of playing with a strand of hair beneath her ear. When she looks at me, her eyes are focused and eager. At that moment, I imagine if she could sit down and write “If Lions Could Speak,” she could finish it in about twenty minutes.

For most of her life, her critical skills have been directed outward. She has helped me understand the world, myself, and even my work. But over the past year, I have watched her turn these analytical weapons on herself, which I think has caused serious harm, but she wouldn’t say so.

She is naturally independent and suspicious, and now she has a psychotherapist, an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, a support group, and a herbalist. It’s as if she is a temperamental race car that needs a team of experts to ensure she can hit the road.

She is unemployed and has lost interest in her surroundings. So have I; since I started relying on her, I often feel like I am wandering in the fog of social currents, easily hurt by sudden appearances. So when I now hear her tentatively entering the world of thought, I feel a doubtful sense of relief; after all, she used to be very eager to play with the world of thought. “You know, novels are an indirect art form. They are not suitable for discussing politics or theory or any form of conceptual thought. Otherwise, they are just pretending to talk about these things because their true subject cannot be clearly conveyed—I mean feelings and emotions. It’s like a magic trick. You present something in your hand, and you try to make it beautiful. But the power to do these things comes from somewhere else—I swear to God, you know this! Why do you indulge me? Don’t indulge me.” Her tears suddenly flowed.

It is moments like these, sharing joy and pain, that make us feel closest to others. But when someone is suddenly seized by emotions we cannot comprehend, it is easy to feel alienated. I sit in my chair, slowly rocking back and forth, studying the tears on Laura’s cheeks and her glistening eyes. In such moments, I become aware of my body—my sweaty palms pressing against the chair.

Most people know that after a few simple repetitions, ordinary words like “helmet” or “nice” lose all meaning. For me, what Laura is saying now sounds like that. I stare at her mouth, that beautiful, full mouth with a set of lovely white teeth.

“Sometimes I feel like you’re not a real human. I mean feelings and sensations—I mean, do you have any feelings at all? Why don’t you speak? Please say something. You seem so far away from me right now.”

Studying her, trying to understand her, my work has filled in further disadvantages, which would not surprise a perceptive reader. Laura is right—I have no humanity. I am a hollow man, a facade of a circle. You could even say that the concept of “Paul Park” is also wrong, a role I am increasingly unable to fulfill. My heart races, and I sit motionless in my chair, as if her words trigger my anxiety. Perhaps her words have done this to me before—it’s not the first time.

When I say “hollow man,” I mean it literally. Sometimes my inner self feels like a captive, my humanity frozen and confined to a small space. My bodily functions seem to be executed by other forces, and I can only watch helplessly. I see them crawling along my synapses, moving my lips, tongue, and hands. When they stop doing these tasks and start arguing with each other, I can do nothing.

“I just wish I could feel some empathy,” Laura says, “just a little human warmth. I know my problems tire you out—well, I’m tired too. Do you think I enjoy going through these things over and over? I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling like I’m suffocating. So when you say you want to go on a trip without me, I feel so hurt. Because I fear you might never come back. And if you really do intend to leave me forever, you would say something like that. Just a cold, blunt statement: ‘I’ll go alone.’ There would be no room for discussion.”

What is she saying? At such moments, I can hear the noisy voices inside me, which began years ago when I wrote “Coelestis.” “Good book,” they say, “bad book.” In those hours when I racked my brain over the issue of alien intelligence, it was as if I had opened myself to the overflow from above³. Over time, they came alive within me and multiplied because I welcomed them in. I would give them cute little names. Because they are, or at least I think they are, products of my own imagination, I never thought they would unite or conspire against me and turn me into a prisoner, while they would destroy my life. No wonder Laura’s condition has worsened and become more neurotic. I failed to protect her.

One of them comes from a planet I call Lepton⁴. When we search for extraterrestrial intelligent beings, we hope to contact some larger existence, roughly the same size as ourselves. But those beings moving within me are very small. For example, one of them, her name is “Moonlight,” is now shining as she moves through the wind chamber of my lungs, where a meeting is taking place. She moves toward the speaker’s chair, which is just right for her. A tiny crystal vial hangs in the air, containing a glowing speck that flickers like a firefly.

In the crowded hall, there is now only silence, as the representatives take their places. Moonlight focuses all her attention on that glowing speck; she is the important figure here, revered. An image appears in every micro-consciousness, also appearing in my consciousness. On the faintly glowing pedestal behind the crystal vial, a giant figure is taking shape, and I recognize that it is myself.

The representatives spend a lot of time discussing these images. For them, my problems and thought processes are a source of fascinating anecdotes. In describing me, each consciousness has its own way of describing, and I feel that Moonlight’s description is the best: this character is trapped in a cage, moving slowly because he is shackled. He is asleep. He often sleeps.

As the image itself suggests—I guess this is true for all our consciousness—thoughts also emerge. I think, in this group, “thought” is constant, perhaps only one. I call this character “Proteus monster”⁵, because its extraordinary aspect is not its actual form—it is embarrassingly naked; but in the way it changes: continuously yet imperceptibly. But not imperceptibly—this feeling is like staring at the minute hand on a clock. Sometimes this character is covered in hair, then its hair gradually recedes and is absorbed. Or sometimes it is huge and fat, then the flesh flows away. Sometimes it has a heavy and fierce appearance, and sometimes it is soft and gentle. Sometimes it grows claws or scales, looking at first glance like a lizard or a bear. But I can always recognize myself.

Now I see the creature’s jaw soften, as if the bones inside are melting. I see its chest slowly expand. But now Moonlight has pulled my thoughts away, and I am looking at something else on the pedestal, a small computer or mechanism—a cube about three feet on each side. It is beeping, and the lights are flashing.

From Moonlight, I sense that something is wrong. I am completely clueless about machinery. But the clicking sound has weakened, and the lights are dimmer than before—I can see it now. Others can see it too. One of the representatives—I call him Aray⁶—stands on his chair, waving his claws.

Moonlight is effective because she does not tell you what to think. That urgency comes from within. It’s as if projected onto a screen at the top of the hall, I can see Laura through my eyes, and I see her beautiful mouth. There is a spot above her lips. I hear her voice echoing in the empty space of my heart, while everything is still. The ganglia twist and turn in the shadows, but it has no effect. I cannot move my arms.

“Is it too much to ask to see some humanity from you? I just want a few words, a little comfort. How long has it been since you kissed me or held me in your arms? I swear I feel like you’re sometimes a robot. Either because you really think nothing at all, or because you’re monitoring me—recording data to use against me—talk to me! Speak! We walk around this house together, sometimes we don’t say a word to each other all day, and it feels like I’m starving. It feels like I’m starving to death.”

I blinked. In the conference hall below me, there is now chaos, and I see the reason. Six colored light panels are arranged at the top of that cube, and now two of them have gone out. The remaining lights are dim. The prisoner in the cage seems to have swollen into a balloon. Next to the shackles, the flesh around his wrists and ankles is swollen.

Aray waves his antennae. His claws make a harsh scratching sound against the hard shell, and I can also hear his frequency that is almost inaudible, screaming, “Kill!” he says, “You go kill!” and so on. I quite like him because he is predictable. I feel my fingers twitching and spasming on the armrest of my chair, as if they have their own ideas. Laura is a beautiful woman, especially her arms and neck, delicate and fair. I think she wants me to touch her. I would touch her.

Many of the representatives come from races with some singular high technology, but Aray does not. He likes gadgets. Gadgets hover around him, tiny machines made of a few molecules—I guess they are self-defense devices. When he moves his body, they move around his legs and claws. In some ways, he resembles a small lobster.

Moonlight comforts him, showing him images I cannot see. But he is very annoyed by this. Suddenly, a swarm of tiny mechanical insects rushes toward the crystal vial. But when they get too close, they burst with a bang; they are killed by some current in the air. Other mechanical insects form like eggs in the folds of Aray’s tail.

In the past, sometimes late at night, I would lie awake next to Laura, listening to her snoring, while Moonlight would take me on a tour of this hall, introducing the representatives as they spoke. I would watch a small creature climb onto the speaker’s chair. Information would automatically appear; that was Moonlight’s job. When I was learning, this creature seemed to swell and grow, and I would notice its details. “Look there, you see? No eyes, no mouth—he relies entirely on smell. Those are the emitters and receivers in rows beneath his wings. When you speak, you can see them open and close like barnacles. They turn words into smells so he can understand. Don’t fart—he’ll think you’re crazy.”

No, that voice is not Moonlight’s, although it often appears with her. I call this voice Dorothy⁷. She speaks with a vaguely continental accent—perhaps a French accent. She has none of Moonlight’s calm objectivity; she is always looking for fun. She chatters in my ear: “That guy is an idiot. Don’t take it to heart.” But I have never seen her. She is one of those seemingly disembodied existences. Even so, it’s strange that she speaks English with such a heavy accent. It was she who suggested all these creatures’ names.

Now Moonlight has vacated the chair. At this moment, another creature has taken shape, a small human figure, whom Dorothy calls the worker bee.

“Oh dear,” she says, “we really need him.”

The worker bee’s mouth has no teeth, and he speaks softly, “I... this should be obvious, clear... clear... clear, easy... easy to... understand...”

The translators sit in a circle on the floor. Whenever words come in, they start chattering and gesturing. But when the worker bee speaks, they remain silent, just waiting. “... We are approaching, encountering, or causing a crisis or disaster. A catastrophe. What I mean or refer to or want to express is the life or existence of our host, our victim, our friend, our experiment... subject... has always been so... so... so good... eager to accept our... dying... dead...”

Behind him, the prisoner wakes up. The flesh around his shackles has swollen, and his hands and feet are bleeding. “Ow,” he says, “it hurts so much.” As always, he, his words, and his evident sincerity make me feel embarrassed. Tears slide down his face. He is simple-minded and does not feel embarrassed. Sometimes I see him masturbating, which silences some creatures but makes others cheer.

His arms and shoulders look like mountains, but he still cannot break free from the chains. Blood drips from his fingers. Fangs have grown in his mouth, and he begins to bite his wrists while gripping his feet. The computer beside him flashes, and the screen above suddenly lights up.

My family has heart problems, and my heart is now racing. The soft walls of the conference hall make ominous crashing sounds, but now my breathing is gradually calming down. “Okay, okay, I get your point,” Laura says, “I know you well; I know when you feel hurt. I know part of it is my fault. When you do this, I can’t help but get close to you because it breaks my heart. But afterward, I know you’ll fall into a passive-aggressive vicious cycle—that’s our death; can you see that?”

“Kill, kill,” Aray urges, and I feel the twitching of my fingers once again. The tiny mechanical insects swarm out, grabbing the worker bee and dragging him back to the chair as he kicks and punches. I see Moonlight flashing; she wants to control this increasingly chaotic scene: in the curved rows of seats, the representatives are discussing how serious this situation is and the risks to themselves. Some of the louder representatives have already started fighting. The space in front of the speaker’s chair is filled with struggling little bodies. I recognize the cow dung and the snake; in fact, it was Dorothy who made me notice them. The snake exists only in one-dimensional space, making it easy for him to hide. He and his opponent are fighting fiercely but not touching each other at any point.

“And the idiots are still sitting in their seats,” Dorothy continues to shout in the voice of a sports commentator. She refers to the lower circle of seats reserved for representatives with limited time. Some representatives appear and disappear intermittently. Some are as slow as stones: all living beings exist for them like the minute hand. Others live like fruit flies, some even faster. Some representatives experience time flowing backward—they know how this story will end but blindly grope for its initial conditions. There’s one from a planet with no time at all because the gravity there is so strong.

Dorothy calls him Mr. Magoo⁸. He is a short, plump little guy from a world without causality, and because of this background, these accusations always leave him feeling confused. But now, for the first time in history, he nods and smiles: this is a bad sign. Looking at him, I can feel how serious my situation is. The sound of my heartbeat is like the sound of a crash and waves crashing against the shore, and the soft floor trembles beneath us. “Ah, oh,” Dorothy says, as a swirling circle, a vortex made of colorful wind, takes shape in the wind chamber. All representatives stop speaking and fighting; the vortex emits a roaring sound. This vortex made of wind or smoke or cloud transforms into a series of subtle hues: gray rose, black lavender, while strange scents waft toward us. And at the center of this spiral, lights flicker, and all the representatives stand still. They cannot move, but Aray can; he climbs down from his chair. He holds wrenches and screwdrivers in many of his hands.

Above that vortex, we hear Laura’s voice. “Okay,” she says, “just sit there. If you really want to hurt me, just close your eyes directly—that’s right, just like that. Those things I haven’t told anyone except my therapist, why don’t you sleep when I tell you? And I don’t even remember what I said to her; I only remembered when she brought me up—do you think people just become who they are now for no reason? Just a mix of desires and thoughts? Yes, that’s what you think, I know you do, because you have no way to examine your own heart. Something is closed off in you—I pity you. I really pity you. I pity you because while I get better, you will never get better. You will never progress. You will never change. But I know that what I went through in the past made me who I am now—there are causes and effects, one after another. But if you knew what really happened, then you could change. So let me tell you what brought me here, to this place where I live with such a closed-off man, who actually closes his eyes when I talk to him, closing his eyes in pain just because I’m talking to him. It doesn’t matter anymore. Let me tell you…”

Laura’s voice gradually fades, and now I can no longer hear it. I can only hear the howling wind and the trembling of the walls. And I do not close my eyes. I am watching the closed cage on the pedestal, where the animal or human has now become very large. He is crying from the pain caused by the iron hoop. Tears flow down his hairy cheeks. But at the same time, he is very angry; his nostrils flare, saliva flies, his fangs clack together, and he grips the bars of the cage tightly, shaking his body back and forth with force until the cage shakes with him. As the cage tips over, it makes an ominous crashing sound, and at the same time, the chains snap, and the shackles break. The colorful vortex spins in the center of the room, with only Aray moving; he climbs up to the pedestal. Now he is in front of that flashing cube, and he uses the screwdriver to break the top cover of the cube, then stretches his claws into the chamber; I can see the cables being pulled apart inside. The lights go out, and the giant in the cage clings to his left side, swaying unsteadily, then falls. As he falls, he begins to shrink and soften. He is dead; he is like a doughy, hairless version of me.

With the collapse and fall of this hollow man, chaos ensues. The roof collapses. The conference hall is plunged into darkness. Lights and flashes appear as the representatives scatter to escape. They block my throat, so I cannot breathe. Even in such a disaster, some representatives still say goodbye to me before the flashes leave. “Oh, I’m leaving, I’m leaving, I’m leaving—this time has been good.” They say, “A sweet home full of joy. A sweet place to live.” But some representatives are trapped, some are crushed to death. The trembling of the walls stops.

Another one escapes; she buzzes like a tiny bee, her voice so small I can barely hear it. She manages to pass through the jungle in my nose. “This time has been good,” she says, then flies out, passing in front of the computer screen, where the words “If Lions Could Speak” emit a reproachful light, an article that can no longer be completed. Laura cannot see it and will not look. Now she finally begins to worry as the window cracks; she is very surprised: a small hole like a bullet hole creates a crack in the glass. Then the little bee flies up into the dark night sky, battling the heavy, muddy air and gravity; she is a tiny point of light, rising and gaining speed, accumulating mass, filling with hydrogen fuel for a long journey. Then she enters a brighter path, passing through the atmosphere, beginning a long journey through space. Looking back, she can see the unfolding world, but not the blue sphere beneath the clouds—not at all like that. The way she sees this world is completely different; she sees a world that strips away the illusion of human self-reference, those pretentious projections and imagined things. She sees a vast, flat plain covered with a layer of thick, sticky jelly—no, in fact, she does not see such a sight. She sees an inverted bowl, its surface covered with water spouts—not that either. She sees a glaring slab of stone recording certain numerical constants—not possible. She does not see a world but billions of worlds, each one closed off, tightly locked, silent—no. She sees a breathtaking paradise, with lakes and mountains and warm winds, where huge men and women revel in the long grass—no, personally, I do not believe that what she saw was like this. Of course, here we have reached the limits of this story, a boundary that even death cannot penetrate, unless it actually can. Outside this world, there is a skin made of mirrors, and our little companion is pressing against it, pushing it outward; it struggles to press, eager to go home.

This is where the story should end, or rather where it ought to end. It cannot end with even the tiniest crack in that mirrored skin, nor can it end with that little creature flickering through that skin. But it is certain that on the other side, she will fly very fast. Perhaps at every multiple of the speed of light, she will stop again, waiting for our imagination to catch up with her. Perhaps in the distant future, she will safely land. There will be a magical, colorless forest, with only gray-white leaves falling from gray-white hills—not surprising to her. Under these trees, there will be tawny beasts with fur roaring. They will open their mouths: “Let’s open our eyes here. Egg breaks, egg doesn’t break. For all those drifting in the pool of bitter water, help is a generous noise. Birds fly around, then fly around again, and if you take a step, there will be stairs. If you touch, something will happen. The luck of all the fortunate.” They say, and we will almost understand.

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