--------------------- The Egg -----------------
Although
he could remember
a time when the egg had
not yet appeared in the clearing,
he could not recall any specific occasion
on which he had first noticed the blank,
porcelain -like ovoid, taller than a man, squatting
placidly on the grass, nor had he ever heard any passer-by
(for this clearing was not at all isolated) remark, "You know,
in the days before the egg . . ." Indeed, no one other than himself
paid it the slightest notice, although everyone was aware of the egg's
existence: anyone to whom he mentioned the egg would reply with a
smile and a brief platitude or small joke before changing the subject
or hurrying on. Only an occasional child seemed to think that the egg
was something special, staring at it long and long as if unsure whether it
was attractive or repulsive, until being hustled off by a parent. Surely there
was something wrong with him, that he alone inwardly made so much of the
egg, wanting to attack it futilely with a hammer, or smash open his skull against
it, desecrating its white perfection with his bloody brains, or drench the
ground around it with his tears, or seize every person who passed through
the clearing by the collar and hold them against the egg until one of them at
last revealed why all men but he had joined themselves in a conspiracy to
deny the egg's infinite significance. But he was as certain that everyone
would consider such behavior insane as he was that everyone felt
about the egg exactly as he did but refused to admit it. So now he
simply sits on the grass staring at the egg and wondering
whether sitting on the grass staring at the egg is the
answer, or whether perhaps wondering whether
sitting on the grass staring at the egg
is the answer might be
the answer.
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