“In a word, his life had already reached that stage when all that there is in a man is shrivelled and gasping for breath, when the bow of passion, drawn ever more feebly across the heartstrings, no longer evokes sweet music from the soul, when the touch of beauty no longer fans youthful ardour to scorching flames; and yet all those faded feelings respond to the sound of gold, listening to its illusory tinkling, allowing it, little by little and insensibly to lull them to sleep”
Is this about me?
Yes. It’s about me.
Life is time passed. Feelings have burnt out. There is no more fire, nor flames, only the ashes of former daring and distress, flights and fancies, both sleeping and waking. Instead, there is money in the bank and on the credit cards, jingling a dull lullaby softly to itself. Not that much money, more would be better, but it still has a nice ring to it, nicer than there used to be ten or so years ago, when there was no hope of any thousands of hard currency at all.
But, what is scariest of all is that this is the way it should be; that the soul really does find the seductive tunes that Gobseck and his miserly knight sang more satisfying than the rebellious rock’n’roll songs of the seventies over there and the eighties over here. Maybe it really is “all hail to the madman who plunges mankind into a golden slumber”?
Stop!
If these words can send shivers through my soul, making tears well up; if despite a simple-hearted acknowledgement of the pretty tinkle of piastres and dubloons, credit cards and profit, something in my soul shyly demands another music (even though piastres and dubloons are not the currency to pay for such a tune), would that mean … could everything be turned back? Perhaps even now, even though life has left its mark the touch of beauty can still chase away the pragmatist’s curse, the passionate bow can still be drawn right across the heartstrings to bring it back to life completely one more time with a single purpose, not fragmented in two or twenty pieces as it is now in its sleep? And if the soul can hear this now, and these words can transfix it now, then surely it has awoken already?
Another email arriving in the inbox makes the computer beep. An email that must be read now, answered now, dealt with now …
“Okay, I’ll think it through later, when I’ve finished work. For now I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. Now is not the time to stir them up. Sleep on, my soul! Work is where it’s at!”

In a word, by now his life has been skirting the years when all breath of spontaneity in a man has shriveled; when the mighty bow’s music has lost its ability to reach the soul and fails to coil its piercing sounds about the heart; when beauty’s touch no longer causes virginal powers to turn into fire and brimstone; instead, all these burnt-out senses perceive gold’s ringing more readily, heed more closely its seductive music, which, as they allow it, gradually and imperceptibly, puts them to sleep entirely.
Is it about me?
It’s about me.
Yes, my life is skirting that time. Yes, my senses are burned out. And none of your fire and brimstone in sight, just ashes of former trials and torments, soaring ascents and lofty glidings, whether in a dream or while awake. Meanwhile, the gold in all those bank accounts and on credit cards rings softly, putting me to sleep, drugging me. Not that there is a lot of it, I mean gold, one would wish for more, but there is some, ringing, no comparison with what used to be just ten years ago, when one could hardly dream of thousands in freely convertible currency.
But what’s truly awful is that this is the “normal course of events,” and this seductive music, whose leitmotifs had been hummed by Gobseck and the Miserly Knight, is a lot sweeter to the soul than the subversive rock-and-rolling airs caught in the seventies from “over there,” and overheard in the eighties “over here.” Perhaps, in a poet’s words, “ praise the madman, bestowing the blessing of a golden dream on our kind”?*

Stop!
What if within soul’s recesses these words do wring something, somewhere, where tears are born? What if after candidly confessing to all the sweetness of the music of piastres’ and doubloon’s, credit cards and credits, in spite of it all, something within this soul shyly commissions a different kind of music (while, truth be told, it cannot match the worth of those piastres and doubloons) - does that mean…. that it all can turn around? Does it mean that even at my age, having been thoroughly worked on by life, the touch of beauty is still capable of dispersing the charms of pragmatism, and the mighty bow can reach the soul completely and awaken it whole, with no part untouched, so that it would rise from its slumber, a wholesome soul, all in one piece, speaking in one tongue, not forked into two or twenty as it does now while asleep? And if my soul can hear all this and if these words can grip it to such an extent, could it mean that it’s wakeful already?
…A chirp from my computer signals a new message in my inbox. I must read this message right away, answer it immediately, act on it without delay…
“OK, I’ll think it through later, when I’m done with my work. Meanwhile, let’s “slumber” some more. No time for awakening yet. Rest up, my soul. I’m busy, love.”

* A popular quote from V. S. Kurochkin’s loose translation of Pierre Jean Béranger’s song “Madmen” – “Les fous.” In the original, the dream is a “happy” one, not “golden.” (T.N.)

"In short, his life had now reached that age where everything that once breathed impulsive blasts starts to shrivel up inside the man, where the mighty bowstring playing upon the soul grows more and more slack and no longer entwines the heart with piercing tones, where the touch of beauty no longer turns pristine potencies into fire and flame, but instead all the burnt-out feelings become more susceptible to the sound of gold, listening ever more closely to its enticing music and little by little imperceptibly allowing it to lull them completely to sleep."

That's about me?

That's about me.

And so life had reached those years. And feelings had burned out. And you had no fire or flame whatsoever, just the ashes of former braveries and agonies, takeoffs and flights while dreaming and awake. Meanwhile the gold in the accounts and credit cards jingles softly to itself, lulling and befuddling. It's not a whole not of gold, it'd be nice if there were more, but it still does jingle a good bit, totally unlike how it was even just ten years ago when nobody ever even dreamed of having so many thousands in freely convertible currency.

But the scariest thing is that this "normal flight pattern", this enticing music set to the tunes purred by Balzac's money-lender Gobseck and Pushkin's miserly knight, is actually much more pleasant to the soul than the rebellious rock-n-roll songs of the seventies "from over there" or of the eighties "from over here".

Maybe we should "honor the madman who evokes in mankind the dream of gold"?

Stop!

But if these words still squeeze something too tight somewhere in that part of the soul from where teardrops flow - if, after recognizing up-front all the charms of the music of piasters and dubloons, credit cards and credit lines, something in this soul still humbly requests a different sort of music (while of course having nothing with which to pay back those piasters and dubloons) - then that means... everything can go back to the way it used to be? That means that even at this age which life has indeed most definitely reached, the touch of beauty can still break the spell of pragmatism, the mighty bowstring can still play unbroken upon the entire soul and awaken it completely, down to its very depths, so that it rouses from its sleep all in one piece, as a single entity, not two-faced or twenty-faced the way it is now in its slumber? And if the soul can hear all this and can be pinched awake by these words in this way, then hasn't it already awoken? ...

...A beep was heard on the computer from an email received in the working folder. This email had to be read right away, answered right away and acted on right away...

"Fine, I'll think it over later, once I've sorted out the work. But for now, let's 'snooze' a little longer. There's still a while till it's time to get up. Get some sleep, my soul. There's a job to be done, dear heart of mine!"

“In a word, his life has already touched those years when everything, exhaling with a great rush of air, shrinks in a man; when the powerful bow of a violin touches the soul more delicately and does not wind itself with shrill sounds around the heart; when the touch of beauty has not yet sent the virginal forces up in flames, but all the burned-out emotions become more accessible to the sound of gold, listen most attentively to its alluring music and, little by little, imperceptibly allow themselves to be lulled to sleep by it.”
Is this about me?
Of course it’s about me.
Life has touched those years. And my emotions have burned up. None of this “going up in flames”; just the ashes of former daring and suffering, take-offs and flights into dreams and fantasy. Gold in bank accounts and on credit cards jingles quietly, weakening and stupefying you. There’s not a whole lot of it, this gold; one would always like a little more, but even a little bit jingles; it just doesn’t compare with even ten years ago, when such piles of freely convertible currency were never dreamed about.
But the most frightening thing is that this is “full speed ahead”, that this alluring music set to tunes hummed by Gobseck and the miserly knight is actually far more agreeable to the soul than rebellious rock’n’roll melodies that came “from there” in the seventies and “from here” in the eighties. Perhaps it is “a salute to the lunatic who evokes the golden dream for humanity”?
Stop!
But if these words pinch you somewhere there in your soul, where the tears come from; if in candidly acknowledging all the pleasantness of the music of piastres and doubloons, of banknotes and credits, still something in that soul of yours modestly requests a different song (of course there’s no need to shower it with these piastres and doubloons) does this mean… everything can be turned completely around? Does this mean that in these years, which life has ever so reliably touched, that the touch of beauty can still dispel the charms of pragmatism? That the powerful bow can still touch the soul completely and wake the whole of it up, leaving nothing behind so that it wakes up from its dream as a complete soul – in one copy, not two or twelve as it is now in its sleep? And if the soul can already hear this – thus these words are able to pinch it – has it not already awoken?
My computer chirps as a letter arrives in my inbox. I have to read this letter right away, have to answer it right away, have to work on it right away…
“All right, I’ll think about this later, after I’ve taken care of work. For now let’s ‘sleep’ a little more. There’s no time to get up. Sleep, my soul – oh, Dela, my dear!”

“In a word, his life had already reached those years when everything smacking of impulsiveness dries up inside a person, when the mighty bow ever more weakly draws across the soul and does not relent from its piercing sounds near the heart, when an encounter with beauty no longer transforms virginal forces into fire and flame – but all the burnt-out feelings become something akin to the sound of gold, when they are attended to more attentively in that beguiling music, and little by little imperceptibly allow her to hear herself.”
Me?
Me.
Now life had reached those years. And the feelings burned out. Not to mention any fire or flame, but only the ash of former dares and torments, of flights and fancies both dreaming and waking. And the gold in the accounts and on the credit cards jingled softly as it slipped away and befuddled. There wasn't much of it - the gold; it would have been nice to have more, but something jingled regardless of what had been even ten years ago, when a thousand units of freely convertible currency was unheard of even in one's wildest dreams.
But the scariest thing was that this "normal flight" meant beguiling music to tunes hummed by Gobseck and a miserly knight, which was really much more pleasing to the soul than the rebellious rock-n-roll ditties “from There” of the seventies or the “from Here” of the eighties.
Perhaps, “honor to the fool, who imparts to humanity a golden dream?"
Whoa!
But if these words, nevertheless, squeeze something somewhere there in the soul where tears come from – if in pure-hearted recognition of all the pleasantness of the music of piaster and doubloons, of debits and credits – something in this soul should, nonetheless, humbly request some other music (truth be told, those piasters and doubloons wouldn’t pay for anything anyway), would that mean... everything might be reversed?
Could that mean that in these years too, which life had already so confidently touched, an encounter with beauty could, nevertheless, disperse the charms of pragmatism? That the mighty bow could draw across the entire soul at once and wake her up entirely, leaving nothing out, so that she would awake from her dream as a soul intact, in a single volume and not some two-part or twenty-part soul - like she was now in her dream? And if the soul could hear all of this and these words could stir her so, then could she not have already awakened?...
…The computer beeped that a letter had been received in the in-box. This letter needed to be read right away. It needed to be answered right away. And right away needed to be dealt with…
“Alright, I’ll think about it later, when I collect myself from work. But for now, let's 'sleep' a little more. Now's not the time to get up. Sleep, my soul. There's work to be done, my dear!”