As they say, it must have been a brave man who first ate an oyster. What they don't tell you is how hungry he was; but anyway, the first man to eat an oyster and tell his friends about it was the real hero. That's what's gotten us where we are, whether we like it here or not, our instinct for passing on our knowledge. And more than just information like - what happens when you put lemon juice and milk in your tea - now everyone knows the consequences of whistling Mozart in a graveyard past midnight, and there's no need for anyone else to find out what happens in person. As soon as a child understands speech, his parents fill him up with the accumulated knowledge of the ages - don't put your hand on a stove, don't fall asleep with your eyes open or you'll be blind in your dreams and won't be able to find your way back to your body - those sorts of things. Unfortunately, many of the stories you hear are so strange, it's not clear if you should believe them or not - like the well-known prescription for living your next life as a tree (just before you die, you swallow a seed and a grain of dirt from the grave you will be buried in - and it's best to be buried secretly, so your enemies won't turn you into a rocking chair or kindling.) True or not, the finest trees grow from graves. But it's not even clear to everybody that it's best to be a tree (though most people think so - there's no place as shady as a graveyard). That's often the problem with the things you learn on a winter's evening after dessert - somebody did something, and something happened - but you've got to decide whether it was a good idea or not for yourself, though you can talk it over with your friends or practically anybody, for that matter, as it's hard to find someone who doesn't know all the old stories. For example, there's the question about summer snowflakes - the seeds of dandelions floating around, that is, called by the people of the west "Freed ballerinas", by the people of the south "Fallen angels", by the people in the north "Day's will-o-the-wisp", and by the people of the east, when there were still people there, "God's dandruff". The question is, if you see a summer snowflake, is it a good idea to follow where it's going or not? What if your true love blew the seeds from the stalk, or the harsh west wind? So far as anyone's heard, there are only three cases where someone's actually tried following a summer snowflake as far as it felt like floating. Like I said before, you've got to figure out for yourself whether it's a good idea or not.
There was a young man who had many questions. When he was old enougth to know
the answer to the most important one, that he would one day die, he decided to
live those days he had perfectly, or at least as well as possible. Realizing
that he didn't know enough to judge what a perfect life might be, he set off
to see the world and perhaps find a teacher. Just as he left his parent's home,
he saw a summer snowflake floating by, and since he didn't have any preference
for north, east, south, or west, he decided to follow the seed until something
happened.
It was a sunny summer morning, still cool and clear - he had already decided that waking early was a good idea - and the quick morning breeze drove the snowflake twirling over the hills and across streams and between tall trees, and the youth was hard pressed to keep up, especially since he was interested in all the places he was passing by and kept trying to catch a glimpse of the countryside. And indeed, the farther he went the stranger everything became - the houses took on unusual shapes, the flowers turned different colors - colors, it seemed to him, that were somehow wrong - and the trees grew straighter and straighter. After running for the better part of a day, mostly uphill, he was ready to fall over, and when a gust blew the snowflake out of his sight, that's what he did. He lay face down on the ground and smelled the soft earth. Someone prodded him in the side. He looked around and saw a pointed white shoe heading towards his ribs, so he rolled over onto his back. A woman, wearing a white jacket and leggings, with white lips and hair, none of which had ever been in style where the youth had grown up, was standing over him looking amused. She led him to a clear lake and gave him bread. They sat on a large rock beside the water, and he saw that the sunset was tingeing the little waves the wind made. He said, "I've been thinking about how I should try to live, but I only find more questions. Is it best to live for other people, or just for myself? Should I live according to a moral code, or just try to be as happy as possible? And happiness - would it be better to concentrate all the joy allotted to me in one instant, or spread it out over a lifetime? Would it be better to be infinitely happy for an hour but forget it afterwards, or spend a lifetime only a little happy?" At that, she smiled, and opened her arms.
The sun had suddenly set, and he was alone. He started back in the twilight, stumbling over roots and rocks. It was a few days before he could find his home, and he left soon after for the east, where he is supposed to have lived a dissipated, bitter life before he had to flee beyond the sea because of gambling debts.
They tell about a woman who buried her husband with an acorn in his mouth.
After a year in mourning, she returned to her husband's grave.
Thick grass had covered it, and a young oak tree grew like a living tombstone
from it. She wept, for she had loved him. Now, according to custom, she had
to put off her black clothes and once more wear the bright colors of an
unmarried woman, and this was bitter to her. As she knelt there, the leaves
of the sapling rustled in the wind, and she looked up. A summer snowflake
danced by, and feeling somehow that her husband had sent it to her, she
followed it. The breeze was light, and the snowflake floated slowly over
fields and meadows, rising and falling a little, but heading straight onward.
As she went on, the tilled fields gave way to untended meadows, then marshes,
and as night fell, it became cold and a mist arose and her breath writhed
white before her, and still she followed the snowflake. Then she came to
a forest of giant trees, that might have been oaks or cypresses, and it was
too dark for her walk any farther. As she stood there in confusion, a man
in a tattered winding-cloth came up to her, his hands trying to pull out the
branch which had been stabbed into his stomach. In his eyes she saw not the
old look of acceptance and love, but a leer as on the nights when he had come
home drunk, and she saw that the branch was growing out of him. She backed
away, crying. "Why did you leave me?" He shook his head and advanced. She
screamed at him, "Tell me!"
The next evening she was seen walking back into town, and those who saw her were seized with pity and fright. She went into the house she and her husband had built, drew the curtains, and never left it again.
The last story I know concerns two people from the place I come from. Naril
and Eloas met in the autumn, fell in love in the winter, and decided that
spring to be married on midsummer's day; everyone was very happy for them.
The night before the wedding they were walking together in the moonlight,
when they came upon what might have been a procession, a pilgrimage, or a
wake of summer snowflakes, hundreds and thousands of them, floating and
spinning along swiftly, though there was hardly any breeze. They decided
to follow. Naril says it didn't seem as if they had walked very far, but
to lovers holding hands time passes strangely. In any case, the land got
stranger and rougher, and huge boulders cast threatening shadows in the
moonlight. All this time the endless parade of summer snowflakes flowed by
them. Then suddenly they came to a great desert, an infinite desolation,
across which the endless trail of shining seeds stretched like a silken
ribbon. Naril said to Eloas, "Let us go back, or we won't get home in time",
for the wedding was to be at sunrise. But Eloas said, "I must follow."
At sunrise, Naril told those who had come for the wedding that it would have to be postponed. Some people think that they had had a fight, but Naril says no, they had kissed each other and said goodbye, and is still waiting for Eloas to return.
So what do you think? Like I said, that's the trouble with these old
stories. Well, it's just turning cold now, so you've got all of autumn
and winter and spring to make up your mind. But if you do try your luck,
make sure to let me know how it comes out so I can make up my own mind.