One day a snake curls itself
round the waist of a Kaffer woman. We take it in our hand, swing it round
and round, and fling it on the ground--dead. Every one looks at us with
eyes of admiration. We almost laugh. Is it wonderful to risk that for
which we care nothing?
In truth, nothing matters. This dirty little world full of confusion, and
the blue rag, stretched overhead for a sky, is so low we could touch it
with our hand.
Existence is a great pot, and the old Fate who stirs it round cares nothing
what rises to the top and what goes down, and laughs when the bubbles
burst. And we do not care. Let it boil about. Why should we trouble
ourselves? Nevertheless the physical sensations are real. Hunger hurts,
and thirst, therefore we eat and drink: inaction pains us, therefore we
work like galley-slaves. No one demands it, but we set ourselves to build
a great dam in red sand beyond the graves. In the grey dawn before the
sheep are let out we work at it. All day, while the young ostriches we
tend feed about us, we work on through the fiercest heat. The people
wonder what new spirit has seized us now. They do not know we are working
for life. We bear the greatest stones, and feel a satisfaction when we
stagger under them, and are hurt by a pang that shoots through our chest.
While we eat our dinner we carry on baskets full of earth, as though the
devil drove us.
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