The Museum of Eterna's Novel

CHAPTER VI (TO FILL SIX YEARS' ABSENCE, AND ITS DOUBTS)

Someone calls?… It’s my beloved.

There’s beauty: to soothe

The anxiety of a world,

To put to sleep in the laxity of success

The peregrination of this waylaid and prescient quest

That is the perception of reality

A quest that knows no road nor what it wants,

Let he who has it keep his appeasement

And trade his sorry thirst for delight

In all that is dream of the real

There’s beauty: enough to hold back all Pain

Humans, breathers, those innumerables incessantly stirring the world’s air, relentlessly ordering it into your chests, elevating your eternally open mouths to an eternal heaven, beings of the heartbeat and the voice that either brightens or breaks, which perhaps every day demands alternately an end or an eternity, there’s beauty to give us all understanding of the Mystery, and to stop all pain. But where is it? Is it in Art, in Conduct, in Understanding, in Passion? In Cervantes, or Beethoven, or Wagner, or in some greater delirium: in adoring intonation, dazzled by Walt Whitman’s Man?

Where is Beauty, which clarifies “being” and hypnotizes Pain? Where is Beauty? Where does she call?

Is she calling? Is she truly calling?

It’s Eterna, the only one in whom our friend the Secret found security, who’s coming so we can write this page, told only to ourselves, in which nothing of our secret will be revealed since words alone cannot tell it, if the whole secret were told nothing would have been risked, nobody would discover anything, neither what it is nor if it’s secret in a dream or a secret in the real.