improbable story
A Somewhat Improbable Story
by G. K. Chesterton from Tremendous Trifles (1909)
I cannot remember whether this tale is true or not. If I read it through very carefully I have a suspicion that I should come to the conclusion that it is not. But, unfortunately, I cannot read it through very carefully, because, you see, it is not written yet. The image and the idea of it clung to me through a great part of my boyhood; I may have dreamt it before I could talk; or told it to myself before I could read; or read it before I could remember. On the whole, however, I am certain that I did not read it, for children have very clear memories about things like that; and of the books which I was really fond I can still remember, not only the shape and bulk and binding, but even the position of the printed words on many of the pages. On the whole, I incline to the opinion that it happened to me before I was born.
At any rate, let us tell the story now with all the advantages of the atmosphere that has clung to it. You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half-hour’s vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one’s leisure is the most unbusiness-like of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotized by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man—it is called a watch-chain.
Now, among these there entered and sat down opposite to me a man who almost immediately opened an uninterrupted monologue. He was like all the other men in dress, yet he was startlingly opposite to them in all manner. He wore a high shiny hat and a long frock coat, but he wore them as such solemn things were meant to be worn; he wore the silk hat as if it were a mitre, and the frock coat as if it were the ephod of a high priest. He not only hung his hat up on the peg, but he seemed (such was his stateliness) almost to ask permission of the hat for doing so, and to apologize to the peg for making use of it. When he had sat down on a wooden chair with the air of one considering its feelings and given a sort of slight stoop or bow to the wooden table itself, as if it were an altar, I could not help some comment springing to my lips. For the man was a big, sanguine-faced, prosperous-looking man, and yet he treated everything with a care that almost amounted to nervousness.
For the sake of saying something to express my interest I said, “This furniture is fairly solid; but, of course, people do treat it much too carelessly.”
As I looked up doubtfully my eye caught his, and was fixed as his was fixed in an apocalyptic stare. I had thought him ordinary as he entered, save for his strange, cautious manner; but if the other people had seen him then they would have creamed and emptied the room. They did not see him, and they went on making a clatter with their forks, and a murmur with their conversation. But the man’s face was the face of a maniac.
“Did you mean anything particular by that remark?” he asked at least, and the blood crawled back slowly into his face.
“Nothing whatever,” I answered. “one does not mean anything here; it spoils people’s digestions.”
He limped back and wiped his broad forehead with a big handkerchief; and yet there seemed to be a sort of regret in his relief.
“I though perhaps,” he said in a low voice, “that another of them had gone wrong.”
“If you mean another digestion gone wrong,” I said, “I never heard of one here that went right. This is the heart of the Empire, and the other organs are in an equally bad way.”
“No, I mean another street gone wrong,” and he said heavily and quietly, “but as I suppose that doesn’t explain much to you, I think I shall have to tell you the story. I do so with all the less responsibility, because I know you won’t believe it. For forty years of my life I invariably left my office, which is in Leadenhall Street, at half-past five in the afternoon, taking with me an umbrella in the right hand an a bag in the left hand. For forty years two months and four days I passed out of the side office door, walked down the street on the left-hand side, took the first turning to the left and the third to the right, from where I bought and evening paper, followed the road on the right-hand side round two obtuse angles, and came out just outside a Metropolitan station, where I took a train home. For forty years two months and four days I fulfilled this course by accumulated habit: it was not a long street that I traversed, and it took me about for and a half minutes to do it. After forty years two months and four days, on the fifth day I went out in the same manner, with my umbrella in the right hand and my bag in the left, and I began to notice that walking along the familiar street tired me somewhat more than usual; and when I turned it I was convinced that I had turned down the wrong one. For now the street shot up quite a steep slant, such as one only sees in the hilly parts of London, and in this part there were no hills at all. yet it was not the wrong street; the name written on it was the same; the shuttered shops were the same; the lamp-posts and the whole look of the perspective was the same; only it was tilted upwards like a lit. Forgetting any trouble about breathlessness or fatigue I ran furiously forward, and reached the second of my accustomed turnings, which ought to bring me almost within sight of the station. And as I turned that corner I nearly fell on the pavement. For now the street went up straight in front of my face like a steep staircase or the side of a pyramid. There was not for miles round that place so much as a slope like that of Ludgate Hill. And this was a slope like that of the Matterhorn. The whole street had lifted itself like a single wave, and yet every speck and detail of it was the same, and I saw in the high distance, as at the top of an Alpine pass, picked out in pink letters the name over my paper shop.
“I ran on and on blindly now, passing all the shops and coming to a part of the road where there was a long grey row of private houses. I had, I know not why, and irrational feeling that I was a long iron bridge in empty space. An impulse seized me, and I pulled up the iron trap of a coal-hole. Looking down through it I saw empty space and the stairs.
“When I looked up again a man was standing in his front garden, having apparently come out of his house; he was leaning over the railings and gazing at me. We were all alone on that nightmare road; his face was in shadow; his dress was dark and ordinary; but when I saw him standing so perfectly still I knew somehow that he was not of this world. And the stars behind his head were larger and fiercer than ought to be endured by the eyes of men.
“‘If you are a kind angel,’ I said, ‘or a wise devil, or have anything in common with mankind, tell me what is this street possessed of devils.’
“After a long silence he said, ‘What do you say that it is?’
“‘It is Bumpton Street, of course,’ I snapped. ‘It goes to Oldgate Station.’
“‘Yes, he admitted gravely; ‘it goes there sometimes. Just now, however, it is going to heaven.’
“‘To heaven?’ I said. ‘Why?’
“‘It is going to heaven for justice,’ he replied. ‘You must have treated it badly. Remember always that there is one thing that cannot be endured by anybody or anything. That one unendurable thing is to be overworked and also neglected. For instance, you can overwork women—everybody does. But you can’t neglect women—I defy you to. At the same time, you can neglect tramps and gypsies and all the apparent refuse of the State so long as you do not overwork it. But no beast of the field, no horse, no dog can endure long to be asked to do more than his work and yet have less than his honour. It is the same with streets. You have worked this street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have gone quietly. but at least the street has grown tired of your tireless insolence; and it is bucking and rearing its head to heaven. Have you never sat on a bucking horse?’
“I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven. But in a moment my sanity returned, and I said, ‘But this is all nonsense. Streets go to the place they have to go. A street must always go to its end.’
“‘Why do you think so of a street?’ he asked, standing very still.
“‘Because I have always seen it do the same thing,’ I replied, in reasonable anger. ‘Day after day, year after year, it has always gone to Oldgate Station; day after …’
“I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in revolt.
“‘And you?’ he cried terribly. ‘What do you think the road thinks of you? Does the road think you are alive? Are you alive? Day after day, year after year, you have gone to Oldgate Station …’ Since then I have respected the things called inanimate.”
And bowing slightly to the mustard-pot, the man in the restaurant withdrew.
improbable story
A Somewhat Improbable Story
by G. K. Chesterton from Tremendous Trifles (1909)
I cannot remember whether this tale is true or not. If I read it through very carefully I have a suspicion that I should come to the conclusion that it is not. But, unfortunately, I cannot read it through very carefully, because, you see, it is not written yet. The image and the idea of it clung to me through a great part of my boyhood; I may have dreamt it before I could talk; or told it to myself before I could read; or read it before I could remember. On the whole, however, I am certain that I did not read it, for children have very clear memories about things like that; and of the books which I was really fond I can still remember, not only the shape and bulk and binding, but even the position of the printed words on many of the pages. On the whole, I incline to the opinion that it happened to me before I was born.
At any rate, let us tell the story now with all the advantages of the atmosphere that has clung to it. You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half-hour’s vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one’s leisure is the most unbusiness-like of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotized by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man—it is called a watch-chain.
Now, among these there entered and sat down opposite to me a man who almost immediately opened an uninterrupted monologue. He was like all the other men in dress, yet he was startlingly opposite to them in all manner. He wore a high shiny hat and a long frock coat, but he wore them as such solemn things were meant to be worn; he wore the silk hat as if it were a mitre, and the frock coat as if it were the ephod of a high priest. He not only hung his hat up on the peg, but he seemed (such was his stateliness) almost to ask permission of the hat for doing so, and to apologize to the peg for making use of it. When he had sat down on a wooden chair with the air of one considering its feelings and given a sort of slight stoop or bow to the wooden table itself, as if it were an altar, I could not help some comment springing to my lips. For the man was a big, sanguine-faced, prosperous-looking man, and yet he treated everything with a care that almost amounted to nervousness.
For the sake of saying something to express my interest I said, “This furniture is fairly solid; but, of course, people do treat it much too carelessly.”
As I looked up doubtfully my eye caught his, and was fixed as his was fixed in an apocalyptic stare. I had thought him ordinary as he entered, save for his strange, cautious manner; but if the other people had seen him then they would have creamed and emptied the room. They did not see him, and they went on making a clatter with their forks, and a murmur with their conversation. But the man’s face was the face of a maniac.
“Did you mean anything particular by that remark?” he asked at least, and the blood crawled back slowly into his face.
“Nothing whatever,” I answered. “one does not mean anything here; it spoils people’s digestions.”
He limped back and wiped his broad forehead with a big handkerchief; and yet there seemed to be a sort of regret in his relief.
“I though perhaps,” he said in a low voice, “that another of them had gone wrong.”
“If you mean another digestion gone wrong,” I said, “I never heard of one here that went right. This is the heart of the Empire, and the other organs are in an equally bad way.”
storia improbabile
Una Storia Alquanto Improbabile
di G. K. Chesterton da Tremendous Trifles (1909)
Non riesco a ricordare se questo racconto sia vero o no. Se lo rileggessi con molta attenzione, ho il sospetto che giungerei alla conclusione che non lo è. Ma, purtroppo, non posso rileggerlo con molta attenzione perché, vedete, non è ancora scritto. L’immagine e l’idea di esso mi si aggrapparono addosso per gran parte della mia fanciullezza; forse lo sognai prima di saper parlare; o me lo raccontai prima di saper leggere; o lo lessi prima di saper ricordare. Nel complesso, tuttavia, sono certo di non averlo letto, perché i bambini hanno ricordi molto nitidi di cose simili; e dei libri di cui ero davvero ghiotto rammento ancora, non solo la forma, la mole e la rilegatura, ma perfino la posizione delle parole stampate su molte delle pagine. Nel complesso, propendo per l’opinione che mi sia accaduto prima di nascere.
A ogni modo, raccontiamo ora la storia con tutti i vantaggi dell’atmosfera che le è rimasta attaccata. Potete immaginarmi, per amor di discussione, seduto a pranzo in uno di quei ristoranti a pasto rapido nella Città dove gli uomini consumano il cibo così in fretta che esso perde ogni qualità di cibo, e si prendono la loro mezz’ora di svago così in fretta che essa perde ogni qualità di svago; affrettarsi durante il proprio svago è la più poco pratica delle azioni. Portavano tutti alti cilindri lucenti, come se non potessero perdere un istante nemmeno per appenderli a un gancio, e avevano tutti un occhio un po’ sviato, ipnotizzato dall’enorme occhio dell’orologio. Insomma, erano gli schiavi della schiavitù moderna, se ne udivano tintinnare le catene. Ciascuno era, di fatto, legato da una catena; la catena più pesante mai legata a un uomo — si chiama catena da orologio.
Ora, tra costoro, ne entrò e si sedette di fronte a me uno che quasi subito diede avvio a un monologo ininterrotto. Nell’abito era come tutti gli altri uomini, eppure ne era sorprendentemente l’opposto in ogni modo. Portava un alto cilindro lucente e una lunga finanziera, ma li portava come tali cose solenni erano fatte per essere portate; portava il cappello di seta come se fosse una mitra, e la finanziera come se fosse l’efod di un sommo sacerdote. Non solo appese il cappello al gancio, ma sembrava (tale era la sua maestosità) quasi chiedere permesso al cappello per farlo, e scusarsi col gancio per servirsene. Quando si fu seduto su una sedia di legno con l’aria di chi ne considera i sentimenti, e ebbe rivolto una sorta di lieve inchino o riverenza al tavolo di legno stesso, come se fosse un altare, non potei fare a meno di lasciarmi sfuggire qualche commento. Perché l’uomo era un uomo grande, dal volto sanguigno e dall’aria prospera, eppure trattava ogni cosa con una cura che rasentava quasi il nervosismo.
Per dire qualcosa che esprimesse il mio interesse dissi: “Questo mobilio è piuttosto solido; ma, certo, la gente lo tratta con troppa noncuranza.”
Mentre alzavo lo sguardo dubbioso, il mio occhio incontrò il suo, e vi restò fisso com’era fisso il suo in uno sguardo apocalittico. L’avevo creduto ordinario quando era entrato, salvo per i suoi modi strani e guardinghi; ma se le altre persone l’avessero visto allora, avrebbero strillato e svuotato la stanza. Non lo videro, e continuarono a fare un fracasso con le forchette, e un mormorio con la loro conversazione. Ma il volto dell’uomo era il volto di un maniaco.
“Intendeva qualcosa di particolare con quell’osservazione?” chiese infine, e il sangue rifluì lentamente nel suo volto.
“Assolutamente nulla,” risposi. “Qui non si intende mai nulla; rovina la digestione alla gente.”
Si ritrasse zoppicando e si asciugò l’ampia fronte con un gran fazzoletto; eppure pareva esserci una sorta di rammarico nel suo sollievo.
“Temevo forse,” disse a voce bassa, “che un altro di loro fosse andato storto.”
“Se intende un’altra digestione andata storta,” dissi, “non ne ho mai sentita una, qui, che sia andata per il verso giusto. Questo è il cuore dell’Impero, e gli altri organi sono messi altrettanto male.”
“No, I mean another street gone wrong,” and he said heavily and quietly, “but as I suppose that doesn’t explain much to you, I think I shall have to tell you the story. I do so with all the less responsibility, because I know you won’t believe it. For forty years of my life I invariably left my office, which is in Leadenhall Street, at half-past five in the afternoon, taking with me an umbrella in the right hand an a bag in the left hand. For forty years two months and four days I passed out of the side office door, walked down the street on the left-hand side, took the first turning to the left and the third to the right, from where I bought and evening paper, followed the road on the right-hand side round two obtuse angles, and came out just outside a Metropolitan station, where I took a train home. For forty years two months and four days I fulfilled this course by accumulated habit: it was not a long street that I traversed, and it took me about for and a half minutes to do it. After forty years two months and four days, on the fifth day I went out in the same manner, with my umbrella in the right hand and my bag in the left, and I began to notice that walking along the familiar street tired me somewhat more than usual; and when I turned it I was convinced that I had turned down the wrong one. For now the street shot up quite a steep slant, such as one only sees in the hilly parts of London, and in this part there were no hills at all. yet it was not the wrong street; the name written on it was the same; the shuttered shops were the same; the lamp-posts and the whole look of the perspective was the same; only it was tilted upwards like a lit. Forgetting any trouble about breathlessness or fatigue I ran furiously forward, and reached the second of my accustomed turnings, which ought to bring me almost within sight of the station. And as I turned that corner I nearly fell on the pavement. For now the street went up straight in front of my face like a steep staircase or the side of a pyramid. There was not for miles round that place so much as a slope like that of Ludgate Hill. And this was a slope like that of the Matterhorn. The whole street had lifted itself like a single wave, and yet every speck and detail of it was the same, and I saw in the high distance, as at the top of an Alpine pass, picked out in pink letters the name over my paper shop.
“I ran on and on blindly now, passing all the shops and coming to a part of the road where there was a long grey row of private houses. I had, I know not why, and irrational feeling that I was a long iron bridge in empty space. An impulse seized me, and I pulled up the iron trap of a coal-hole. Looking down through it I saw empty space and the stairs.
“When I looked up again a man was standing in his front garden, having apparently come out of his house; he was leaning over the railings and gazing at me. We were all alone on that nightmare road; his face was in shadow; his dress was dark and ordinary; but when I saw him standing so perfectly still I knew somehow that he was not of this world. And the stars behind his head were larger and fiercer than ought to be endured by the eyes of men.
“‘If you are a kind angel,’ I said, ‘or a wise devil, or have anything in common with mankind, tell me what is this street possessed of devils.’
“After a long silence he said, ‘What do you say that it is?’
“‘It is Bumpton Street, of course,’ I snapped. ‘It goes to Oldgate Station.’
“‘Yes, he admitted gravely; ‘it goes there sometimes. Just now, however, it is going to heaven.’
“‘To heaven?’ I said. ‘Why?’
“‘It is going to heaven for justice,’ he replied. ‘You must have treated it badly. Remember always that there is one thing that cannot be endured by anybody or anything. That one unendurable thing is to be overworked and also neglected. For instance, you can overwork women—everybody does. But you can’t neglect women—I defy you to. At the same time, you can neglect tramps and gypsies and all the apparent refuse of the State so long as you do not overwork it. But no beast of the field, no horse, no dog can endure long to be asked to do more than his work and yet have less than his honour. It is the same with streets. You have worked this street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have gone quietly. but at least the street has grown tired of your tireless insolence; and it is bucking and rearing its head to heaven. Have you never sat on a bucking horse?’
“I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven. But in a moment my sanity returned, and I said, ‘But this is all nonsense. Streets go to the place they have to go. A street must always go to its end.’
“‘Why do you think so of a street?’ he asked, standing very still.
“‘Because I have always seen it do the same thing,’ I replied, in reasonable anger. ‘Day after day, year after year, it has always gone to Oldgate Station; day after …’
“I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in revolt.
“‘And you?’ he cried terribly. ‘What do you think the road thinks of you? Does the road think you are alive? Are you alive? Day after day, year after year, you have gone to Oldgate Station …’ Since then I have respected the things called inanimate.”
And bowing slightly to the mustard-pot, the man in the restaurant withdrew.
«No, intendo un’altra strada andata a male», e disse, pesante e tranquillo, «ma poiché suppongo che ciò non vi spieghi gran che, credo che dovrò raccontarvi la storia. Lo faccio con tanta minore responsabilità in quanto so che non mi crederete. Per quarant’anni della mia vita ho invariabilmente lasciato il mio ufficio, che è in Leadenhall Street, alle cinque e mezza del pomeriggio, portando con me un ombrello nella mano destra e una borsa nella sinistra. Per quarant’anni, due mesi e quattro giorni sono uscito dalla porta laterale dell’ufficio, ho percorso la strada sul lato sinistro, ho preso la prima svolta a sinistra e la terza a destra, di là dove compravo un giornale della sera, ho seguito la via sul lato destro attorno a due angoli ottusi, e sono sbucato proprio fuori da una stazione della Metropolitana, dove prendevo un treno per casa. Per quarant’anni, due mesi e quattro giorni ho compiuto questo tragitto per abitudine accumulata: non era una strada lunga quella che percorrevo, e mi ci volevano circa quattro minuti e mezzo a farla. Dopo quarant’anni, due mesi e quattro giorni, il quinto giorno uscii nel medesimo modo, con l’ombrello nella mano destra e la borsa nella sinistra, e cominciai ad accorgermi che il camminare lungo la strada familiare mi stancava un po’ più del solito; e quando la svoltai fui convinto d’aver imboccato quella sbagliata. Poiché ora la strada saliva con una pendenza assai ripida, come se ne vedono soltanto nelle parti collinose di Londra, e in quel quartiere non v’erano colline affatto. Eppure non era la strada sbagliata; il nome scritto su di essa era il medesimo; le botteghe con le imposte chiuse erano le medesime; i lampioni e l’intero aspetto della prospettiva erano i medesimi; solo che era inclinata all’insù come un coperchio sollevato. Dimenticando ogni fastidio d’affanno o di fatica corsi furiosamente in avanti, e raggiunsi la seconda delle mie svolte consuete, che avrebbe dovuto portarmi quasi in vista della stazione. E come svoltai quell’angolo per poco non caddi sul marciapiede. Poiché ora la strada saliva dritta davanti alla mia faccia come una ripida scalinata o il fianco di una piramide. Non v’era, per miglia all’intorno di quel luogo, tanto quanto una salita simile a quella di Ludgate Hill. E questa era una salita come quella del Cervino. L’intera strada si era sollevata come una singola onda, eppure ogni granello e ogni particolare di essa era il medesimo, e vidi in alto, in lontananza, come alla sommità di un passo alpino, spiccare in lettere rosa il nome sopra la mia edicola.
«Corsi avanti e avanti, ormai alla cieca, oltrepassando tutte le botteghe e giungendo a un tratto della via dove v’era una lunga fila grigia di case private. Avevo, non so perché, l’irrazionale sensazione d’essere su un lungo ponte di ferro nello spazio vuoto. Un impulso mi afferrò, e sollevai la botola di ferro di una carbonaia. Guardando giù attraverso di essa vidi lo spazio vuoto e le stelle.
«Quando alzai di nuovo lo sguardo, un uomo se ne stava nel suo giardino antistante, essendo a quanto pareva uscito dalla sua casa; era appoggiato alla ringhiera e mi fissava. Eravamo tutti soli su quella strada da incubo; il suo volto era nell’ombra; il suo abito era scuro e comune; ma quando lo vidi star fermo così perfettamente, seppi in qualche modo che egli non era di questo mondo. E le stelle dietro il suo capo erano più grandi e più fiere di quanto possano sopportare gli occhi degli uomini.
«“Se sei un angelo benigno”, dissi, “o un diavolo saggio, o hai qualcosa in comune col genere umano, dimmi che cos’è questa strada posseduta dai demoni”.
«Dopo un lungo silenzio disse: “Che cosa dici tu che sia?”.
«“È Bumpton Street, naturalmente”, scattai. “Va alla stazione di Oldgate”.
«“Sì”, ammise con gravità; “va là qualche volta. Proprio ora, però, sta andando in cielo”.
«“In cielo?”, dissi. “Perché?”.
«“Sta andando in cielo per ottenere giustizia”, rispose. «Devi averla trattata male. Ricòrdati sempre che c’è una cosa che nessuno e niente può sopportare. Quell’unica cosa insopportabile è essere sovraccaricati di lavoro e insieme trascurati. Per esempio, puoi sovraccaricare le donne di lavoro: lo fanno tutti. Ma non puoi trascurare le donne: ti sfido a farlo. Al tempo stesso, puoi trascurare i vagabondi e gli zingari e tutto l’apparente rifiuto dello Stato, purché non lo sovraccarichi di lavoro. Ma nessuna bestia dei campi, nessun cavallo, nessun cane può sopportare a lungo che gli si chieda di fare più del suo lavoro e insieme di avere meno del suo onore. Lo stesso vale per le strade. Tu hai sfruttato questa strada fino alla morte, eppure non ti sei mai ricordato della sua esistenza. Se tu avessi una sana democrazia, anche solo di pagani, avrebbero adornato questa strada di ghirlande e le avrebbero dato il nome di un dio. Allora sarebbe andata via quieta. Ma almeno la strada si è stancata della tua instancabile insolenza; e s’impenna e leva il capo verso il cielo. Non sei mai stato in sella a un cavallo che s’impenna?”.
«Guardai la lunga strada grigia, e per un momento mi parve esattamente simile al lungo collo grigio di un cavallo lanciato verso il cielo. Ma in un attimo la mia ragione ritornò, e dissi: “Ma questa è tutta un’assurdità. Le strade vanno al luogo dove devono andare. Una strada deve sempre giungere alla sua fine”.
«“Perché la pensi così di una strada?”, chiese, restando immobilissimo.
«“Perché l’ho sempre vista fare la medesima cosa”, risposi, in ragionevole collera. “Giorno dopo giorno, anno dopo anno, è sempre andata alla stazione di Oldgate; giorno dopo…”.
«Mi fermai, perché egli aveva levato il capo con la furia della strada in rivolta.
«“E tu?”, gridò terribilmente. “Che cosa pensi che la strada pensi di te? Pensa forse la strada che tu sia vivo? Sei tu vivo? Giorno dopo giorno, anno dopo anno, sei andato alla stazione di Oldgate…”. Da allora ho rispettato le cose dette inanimate».
E inchinandosi leggermente al vasetto della senape, l’uomo nel ristorante si ritirò.