Ответ на вопрос - самосожжение.
Just so we’re clear: I didn’t come to the Boedecken to save Orbek. I didn’t come to save anybody. Saving people is not among my gifts. Shit needs to be settled eventually. One way or another. That’s the only way I can explain it.
Or even think about it.
There was a novelist on Earth, back around the beginning of the twentyfirst century, a guy my dad admired quite a bit. He wrote some books where the basic idea was that since you can’t control the consequences of what you do, the only thing that really counts is why you do it. You get it? The measure of right action is righteous intention. This writer was a religious type—a Mormon, don’t ask—and I guess he figured that if your heart’s right, God takes care of the rest.
Well, y’know . . .
I know some gods. Better than I want to. Not one of them gives a shit about your heart.
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine wrote a book that was supposed to be the story of his lives. Or stories of his life, you pick. Anyway: he wrote that what your life means depends on how you tell the story.
If it makes you feel better to pretend I had some noble purpose, knock yourself out. If you’d rather pretend I was driven by guilt, or by personal obligation, or that I just finally grew up enough to want to clean up my own fucking mess, that’s fine too.
This is the story of what happened when I came to the Boedecken. What happened. Not why. The only why is that I made up my mind. I decided, and I went. That’s it. Anybody who needs to know more about why should go ahead and fuck off.
Reasons are for peasants.
My dead wife—the one who decided she’d rather go play goddess than be married—she used to like to say that not everything is about me. Screw that.
Who’s telling this story, anyway?
Or even think about it.
There was a novelist on Earth, back around the beginning of the twentyfirst century, a guy my dad admired quite a bit. He wrote some books where the basic idea was that since you can’t control the consequences of what you do, the only thing that really counts is why you do it. You get it? The measure of right action is righteous intention. This writer was a religious type—a Mormon, don’t ask—and I guess he figured that if your heart’s right, God takes care of the rest.
Well, y’know . . .
I know some gods. Better than I want to. Not one of them gives a shit about your heart.
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine wrote a book that was supposed to be the story of his lives. Or stories of his life, you pick. Anyway: he wrote that what your life means depends on how you tell the story.
If it makes you feel better to pretend I had some noble purpose, knock yourself out. If you’d rather pretend I was driven by guilt, or by personal obligation, or that I just finally grew up enough to want to clean up my own fucking mess, that’s fine too.
This is the story of what happened when I came to the Boedecken. What happened. Not why. The only why is that I made up my mind. I decided, and I went. That’s it. Anybody who needs to know more about why should go ahead and fuck off.
Reasons are for peasants.
My dead wife—the one who decided she’d rather go play goddess than be married—she used to like to say that not everything is about me. Screw that.
Who’s telling this story, anyway?