You are on page 1of 1

Salamn Rushdie

Language is courage: the ability to conceive a thought, to speak it, and by doing so to make it
true.
Whenever someone who knows you disappears, you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as
you were seen, as you were judged to be. Lover or enemy, mother or friend, those who know us
construct us, and their several knowings slant the different facets of our characters like diamondcutter's tools. Each such loss is a step leading to the grave, where all versions blend and end.
I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of
everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was
affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I'm gone which would not have happened if I
had not come.
What kind of idea are you? Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accomodates itself
to society, aims to find a niche, to survive; or are you the cussed, bloody-minded, ramrod-backed
type of damnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze? The kind that will
almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of hundred, be smashed to bits; but, the hundredth time,
will change the world.
Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.
Not all possibilities are open to us. The world is finite; our hopes spill over its rim.
When you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible.
Everest silences you...when you come down, nothing seems worth saying, nothing at all. You
find the nothingness wrapping you up, like a sound. Non-being. You can't keep it up, of course.
the world rushes in soon enough. What shuts you up is, I think, the sight you've had of
perfection: why speak if you can't manage perfect thoughts, perfect sentences? It feels like a
betrayal of what you've been through. But it fades; you accept that certain compromises,
closures, are required if you're to continue.