Βιβλία σαν το «The Forerunner»

Δὲν εἶμαι ἕνας σοβαρὸς ἄνθρωπος· ἡ γνώμη μου θὰ ἔπρεπε νὰ μὴν εἶναι ὑπολογήσιμη ἀπὸ τοὺς συνανθρώπους μου, ὁ βίος μου θὰ ὤφειλε νὰ περνάει ἀπαρατήρητος παρ’ ὅλες τὶς προκλητικές, ἀνούσιες, φωνές του, νὰ μὴ σηκώνει τὴν περιέργεια πίσω του σὰν σκόνη. Εἶμαι ἕνα ζῶο χωρὶς ἀξιοπρέπεια. Οἱ ἀγάπες μου εἶναι φτηνές. Τρέφω ἕνα σπασμωδικὸ ἔρωτα γιὰ τὴν ὕπαρξή μου, γιὰ τούτη τὴν ὑπόθεση ποὺ δὲν ἐξοφλεῖται σὲ μιὰ μέρα μέσα· μήτε σ’ ἕνα μῆνα, μήτε σὲ χρόνο, καὶ μᾶς ἀκολουθεῖ πρὸς τὸ ἄπειρο μὲ τὸ περιττό βάρος της.

Involuntarily he made a gesture as if to ward it off with his hand. After all, he was afraid in his inmost heart of this mighty thing called passion. This storm-wind sweeping away everything settled and authorized and acquired in humanity as if it were dead leaves. He did not like it! This roaring flame squandering itself in its own smoke—no, he wanted to burn slowly.

Εἶναι ἀληθὲς ὅτι αἱ δύο κόραι τὸν εἶχον προσκαλέσει νὰ μετάσχῃ τῆς ἑσπερινῆς διασκεδάσεως, ἀλλὰ πῶς νὰ ὑπάγῃ αὐτός, δειλός, ἄπειρος τοῦ κόσμου, κακοφορεμένος, ἐν μέσῳ τόσων ἀγνώστων; Ἔπειτα πρὸς τὴν μίαν αὐτῶν, τὴν Κούλαν, ἔτρεφεν ἁβρὸν αἴσθημα ἐρωτικόν, καὶ ἦτο ζηλιάρης· δὲν θὰ ἠνείχετο νὰ τὴν βλέπῃ νὰ χορεύῃ μὲ τόσους καὶ τόσους… καὶ αὐτὸς νὰ μὴν ἠξεύρῃ εὐρωπαϊκὸν χορόν! Εἶχε δειπνήσει τὴν ἑβδόμην ὥραν κ᾽ ἐπειδὴ τὴν ἑσπέραν ἐκείνην ἐνωρὶς τὰ καφενεῖα ἔκλεισαν, ᾐσθάνετο δὲ καὶ ἐλαφρὸν πόνον εἰς τοὺς ὀδόντας, ἀπεσύρθη ἀπὸ τῆς ὀγδόης εἰς τὸ δωμάτιόν του μὲ τὸ παράπονον ἐκεῖνο, οἷον ὁ ξένος ἔχει μέσα του εἰς τοιαύτας ἡμέρας. Ἀλλ᾽ ἅμα ἔφθασεν εἰς τὸ δωμάτιον, ἡ λύπη του διεσκεδάσθη, καὶ τώρα, ἐξηπλωμένος ἐπὶ τῆς κλίνης του ἐρρέμβαζε κ᾽ ἐπαρηγορεῖτο, σκεπτόμενος ὅτι αὐτὸς ἦτο ἀναμφιβόλως ὁ εὐδαιμονέστερος, διότι χωρὶς νὰ παρευρίσκεται εἰς καμμίαν διασκέδασιν, μετεῖχε τριῶν ἢ τεσσάρων συγχρόνως.

It seems then that men and women are equally at fault. It seems that a profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. And why, if this—and much more than this is true, why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to us—why indeed?

But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury than I was aware of. It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more experience would doubtless have denied herself. And yet, how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me. It was wrong to be so joyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do His will the pleasure and the business of my life; but faith was weak, and passion was too strong.

Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself even for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she for a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy true wife for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human affections—not that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly close again.