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A review by blackoxford
The Edge Of The Horizon by Antonio Tabucchi
5.0
The Tragedy Of/In Self-Discovery
What are we but the intersection and connection of an infinite number of random things? Events, energy, primal matter, possessions, relations, ideas. And when we are no longer, don’t many of these things persist, vagrant parts of us? These are then discoverable by someone else who becomes part of them as they of him. And if that is so, how could the fate of anyone of us be separate from that of all others? Their lives are ours, particularly their tragedy, for which we have a right as well as duty to weep. A right because we were never separate. A duty because they may have wept for us.
What are we but the intersection and connection of an infinite number of random things? Events, energy, primal matter, possessions, relations, ideas. And when we are no longer, don’t many of these things persist, vagrant parts of us? These are then discoverable by someone else who becomes part of them as they of him. And if that is so, how could the fate of anyone of us be separate from that of all others? Their lives are ours, particularly their tragedy, for which we have a right as well as duty to weep. A right because we were never separate. A duty because they may have wept for us.