The shattered vase has been glued back together, the flowers replaced, filled again with water. The water, however, enjoys a greater puissance: it pushes against the seams and threatens to return the vase to the shards it now discernibly consists of. . .
Do you know the moral of this tale?
I am, Reader, a superfluous man, a criminal, scourged by Experience, bearing the stripes of Memory, pilloried and scorned.
(Incidentally, the vase, once shattered, though it may have dated to dynasties long since lost to the dust, loses its value.)
1 comment:
But then, I have seen great men take so much joy in rebuilding fragmented pottery. They hold each shard beneath a microscope and grin as if to say, "This is not for a child's hands; this means too much." Even shattered vases can share beauty and meaning with the world, whether or not they are always understood.
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