Selections from FM GALICIA

24.01

The greatest joy a person, or any other living thing, can possess is com­munication. No matter what some may think, it is through commu­nication that all things having to do with happiness come together. Without communication, everything loses its sense, and no pleasures can bring it back. That is why anything having to do with poor commu­nication always results in drama. And complete misunderstanding—in a tragedy. There are various types of misunderstanding—on purpose or not on purpose, sudden or drawn out, fleeting or endless, radical or compromising. They’re all tragic. And, first and foremost, they are based on an opposition of desires and intentions—this is the first level of misunderstanding. The second level is more complicated—when interests are common but there are different world views and manners of coexistence. And even higher is the level on which everything con­curs, except for an understanding of words—meanings, shades, empha­ses, the history of a word and its various synonyms.

These tragedies are the most unpleasant ones, and there is almost no way out of such a situation. What’s the saddest is when everybody thinks that they’ve done everything they could to understand someone else and to make themselves as easily understood as possible. What remains, then, is nothing but sorrow, reproach and distrust. I once knew a turtle. And I knew its owners. Both the owners and the turtle were very pleasant and loved one another; they did all they could to make sure that everyone was satisfied and happy. I remember the look that turtle had when it communicated with its owners. But one day the turtle carelessly crawled to the edge of the balcony and fell helplessly down onto the pavement. Luckily, it was found right away and taken back home. As it turned out, it was still alive—the shell had been only chipped a little bit. They treated it and it seemed like everything was back to normal. But something was not quite right—happiness had dis­appeared. At first the turtle became indifferent and soon, as a result, so did the people.

Gone were communication, contact, and understanding. Remaining were sorrow, reproach and distrust. And that is how they lived. On one occasion, I gazed into the turtle’s eyes for a long time and came to understand everything. It had become different—having fallen, the turtle had damaged its brain. Permanently. Simply put, it had gone crazy. And we could not know what was going on in its head—per­haps total darkness, perhaps the brightest of search-lights, maybe it had forgotten everything or, maybe it had excruciating headaches every night. Maybe it tickled between its brain and its skull, or maybe all sounds and smells irritated it. We could not know. We could not come to an understanding. We could not advise. We could not save it because we could not fully communicate. It, by the way, will live for another 240 years. With all of the above, but without us.

Translated by Mark Andryczyk