Chapter 50 a jaded man's utopia

Utopia is a Greek word meaning a place without. Quevedo No two hills are the same, but plains are exactly the same anywhere in the world.I am walking on a road in the plain.I'm not particularly curious to know if I'm in Oklahoma, or Texas, or what the literati call the pampa.There was no light on either side.As usual, I recited lines from Emilio Oribe at my leisure: The dreadful plain stretches as far as the eye can see, Approaching the Brazilian border.The image of the plain in the verses keeps increasing and getting bigger and bigger. The road under my feet was rough and uneven.It started to rain.I saw the lights of a house two or three hundred meters away.The house is rectangular and low, surrounded by trees.It was a man who answered the door for me.The height almost frightens me.He is wearing gray clothes.I think he is waiting for someone.The door didn't have a security lock.

We entered a long room with wooden walls.A yellow lamp hung from the ceiling.For some reason, the table in the room struck me as strange.There is a timer hourglass on the table. Except for seeing it on copper engravings, this is the first time I have seen the real thing.The man pointed to a chair for me to sit on. I tried several languages, but the other party couldn't understand.He spoke in Latin.I pieced together the Latin I had learned in college and talked to him. "From your attire," he said to me, "you are from another century. Diversification of languages ​​has brought diversity of peoples and even wars; the world has returned to the age of Latin. Some fear it will Regression to French, Occitan, or Papiamento, but the danger is not imminent. Besides, I am neither interested in the past nor in the future."

I didn't answer, and he went on: "If you don't hate watching other people eat, can you stay with me?" I understood that he noticed my uneasiness, so I said yes. We went through a corridor with a side door to a small kitchen with all metal utensils.We returned with a big dinner: bowls of popcorn, a bunch of grapes, an unknown fruit that tasted like a fig, and a jug of water.It seems to me that there is no bread.The master's face is well-defined, and his eyes are a little strange.I never saw that serious, pale face again, but I never forgot it.He was expressionless when he spoke.

I had difficulty expressing myself in Latin, but at last I said to him: "Isn't it surprising you that I suddenly appeared?" "No," he said back. "Such visits occur every century. The stay will not be long; you will be home by tomorrow at the latest." His confident tone reassured me.I think I should introduce myself to him; "I am Odoro Acevedo. I was born in Buenos Aires in 1897. I am seventy years old. I am a professor of English and American literature and I write fantasy stories." "I've read two fantasies of yours," said he, "and I'm not badly impressed. One is 'The Voyage of Captain Lemuel Gulliver', which many believe to be true, and the other is 'The Voyage of Captain Lemuel Gulliver'. Theological Integration". But we don't talk about facts. No one cares about facts these days. They are just fictions and starting points for reasoning. We are taught in schools the art of doubt and forgetting. Especially forgetting everything that is personal and local. We live in continuity time, but we try to live in a state of eternity. The past has bequeathed us names, but language has a tendency to forget them. We shy away from useless precise accounts. There are no chronologies, no histories, no statistics. You say your name is Odoro; I cannot tell you what I am, for people only call me someone."

"Then what's your father's name?" "Nothing." I see shelves on one wall.I opened a book at random; the letters in it were handwritten, and the strokes were clear, but incomprehensible.Those strong lines remind me of the old Nordic Luna alphabet, but the Luna alphabet is only used for inscriptions.I think that people in the future will not only be taller than us, but also more capable than us.I instinctively looked at the man's slender fingers. He said, "Now I'll show you something you've never seen before." He carefully handed me a copy of More's, printed in Basel, Switzerland, in 1518, missing some pages and illustrations.

I said without a show: "It's a printed book. I have more than two thousand copies at home, though not as old and valuable as this one." I read the title of the book aloud. The other party smiled. "No one can read two thousand books. I have lived for four centuries and only read five or six. Besides, the important thing is not to read, but to learn from the past. The printing industry has been banned, it is one of the worst evils, It is easy to multiply to a dizzying degree the number of books which have no necessity to circulate." "In my strange yesterday," I said, "there was a widespread superstition that so many things happened between each afternoon and the next morning that it seemed dishonorable not to know them. The earth is full of collective Phantom, Canada, Brazil, Belgian Congo, and the European Common Market. The previous history of those platonic entities is hardly known to anyone, but everyone can tell a lot about the last Congress of Educators, the imminent severance of diplomatic relations between the two countries by the Secretary Presidential proclamations drafted by his secretary, all cautious and vague.

"The purpose of these files is to be forgotten, because within a few hours other trivial matters will erase them.Among all walks of life, the work of politicians is undoubtedly the most conspicuous.Ambassadors or ministers seem to be handicapped. From east to west, there are long ostentatious convoys, surrounded by motorcyclists and entourages, and eager photographers are waiting.My mother used to say these people looked like they had a broken leg.Images and words printed on paper are more real than the things themselves.Only what is published is true.To be is to be perceived, which is the principle, means, and end of our unique worldview.In my day yesterday, people were naive; the manufacturer said the product was good and repeated it, and they believed it.Robbery was a common occurrence, though it was well known that having money did not bring happiness or peace. "

"Money?" he interjected. "Poverty is unbearable, richness is the most uncomfortable form of vulgarity, and now no one is immune to being rich or poor. Everyone does his own thing." "Like a Rabbi," I said. He didn't seem to understand the meaning of this sentence, and continued to speak on his own. "The city is gone too. I was curious to explore the Gulf of Blanca, and judging from the ruins there, there are not many things that have been lost. There is no property, and there is no inheritance. A person who lives to a hundred years old has matured When he was young, he was ready to face himself, to face loneliness. He had already given birth to a son."

"A son?" I asked. "Yes, only one. It is inappropriate to encourage human beings to reproduce. Some people think that gods have cosmic consciousness, but no one is sure whether gods exist. I heard that there are currently discussions about the pros and cons of people all over the world committing suicide gradually or at the same time. But Let's get back to our topic." I agreed. "After reaching the age of one hundred, man is free from love and friendship. Sickness and involuntary death are no longer a threat to him. He pursues a trade, studies philosophy, mathematics, or plays chess alone. He can kill himself if he chooses. Man has He is the master of his own life, and of course he can also master his own death."

"Is this a quote?" I asked him. "Of course. We're left with quotations. Language itself is systematic quotations." "What about spaceflight, the feat of my day?" I said. "We gave up that kind of navigation centuries ago. Space travel is amazing, but we can't escape the here and now." He smiled and added: "Besides, any travel is cosmic. Going from one planet to another is no different than going from here to the farm on the opposite side. It's also a space voyage when you enter this room." "Indeed," I said back. "People also talked about chemicals and animals."

The man turned away and looked out the window.The plain outside was covered with snow, silent in the moonlight. I mustered up the courage to ask again: "Are there still museums and libraries?" "No. In addition to writing elegies, we have to forget yesterday. Commemorative events, centennials, and statues of the dead are gone. Everyone needs to create science, literature and art by themselves." "In that case, each must be his own Shaw, Jesus Christ, and Archimedes." He nodded in agreement.I asked again: "What about the government?" "According to tradition, the government gradually falls into disuse. The government holds elections, declares war, collects taxes, confiscates property, orders arrests, imposes censorship, but no one in the world listens to it. The press no longer publishes articles of government dignitaries and photographs. They had to look for honest careers; some made good buffoons, some good doctors. Of course, the reality is more complicated than I say." He changed his voice and said: "I built this house, just like the others. I made the furniture and the utensils. I worked the fields. I've never seen anyone else do them better. I'll show you something." I followed him into an adjoining room.He lights a lamp that also hangs from the ceiling.In the corner was a harp with only a few strings left.There is a rectangular canvas hanging on the wall, mainly in yellow. "This is my work," he announced. I looked at those canvases, and stopped in front of the smallest one. The figure on the canvas was probably a sunset scene, with an infinitely profound artistic conception. "Take it if you like, as a memento of a future friend," he said quietly. I thanked him, but the other canvases made me feel awkward.I can't say they're blank, but they're close to being blank. "You can't see the color with your old eyes." His slender fingers plucked the strings of the harp, and I could hardly hear the sound. Then there was a knock on the door. A tall woman entered the house with three or four men.It may be said that they were brothers, or of a similar age, my master spoke first to the woman: "I expected you to come tonight. Have you seen Nils?" "I see you sometimes. You are still drawing." "Hopefully it's better than your father's." Manuscripts, pictures, furniture, utensils; nothing remained in the house. The woman carries with the men.I had no strength, could not help them, and felt ashamed.No one closed the door and we moved our things out.I found out that the roof is double pitched. After fifteen minutes of walking, we turned left.In the distance there is a tower-shaped building with a round vault. "That's the crematorium," someone said. "It contains the death chamber. The inventor is said to be a philanthropist, probably named Adolf Hitler." The size of the gatekeeper did not surprise me, and he opened the iron bars for us. My master muttered something.He raised his hand goodbye before going in. "The snow hasn't stopped yet," said the woman. In my office on Mexico Street, I keep the canvas that someone painted thousands of years later, the canvas and the paint are common in the world today.