Like before Fowles, one month ago, I find myself speechless when confronted with beauty. My cynic self tells this might be due to our lives so bereft of all think pleasant, but before this beauty, even my self ceases to be cynical.
To better understand the reason this story left such a deep mark upon my soul, I should resort to more thorough explanations. Since longer than I can mark as a distinct point in time, the things I see sadden me. The misery, pain, humiliation. They enrage me, a deep silent painful feeling. A feeling which is not and never will be directed to my fellow humans. Yes. Human pain does not impress me, as I have passed long ago that final frontier of fatality, considering that we deserve every bad thing our fate sends us. Every reaction has it's cause in our greedy meddling, we should not, nay, we haven't the right to complain, nor plea for compassion nor sentiment. We do not deserve what this Great Spirit we call Earth has offered us so generously. I, thus, have reached the ultimate conclusion, same as Miyazaki, who put it in Nausicaa's words: everything is a lie, there isn't any truth neither in our noble causes nor in our filthy means; civilization, culture, humanity are nothing but the perverted imagination of our pervert minds, have not even the value of the smallest of maggots; we are but the cancer that pollute this world. Yes, the very same words used by the Matrix to describe us, such deep hurtful truth. I, by contrast with Nausicaa, have a cynical mind, and go further within my nihilistic beliefs: I believe there is no point of change anymore, the sooner we get to the end, the better for this world. It has endured enough.
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