"Ian Watson - My Soul Swims in a Goldfish Bowl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

know. Because I still have mine, spread throughout the whole of me. But yours has been narrowing and
congealing for months now. It went from your lips, your heart, your fingers. It went from your eyes, from your
belly, from your penis. ItтАЩs been retreating, pulling in on itself all these months. I know, dear.тАЭ
тАЬSupposing,тАЭ I grip the bowl, тАЬfor the sake of argument this is my soul, do I scoop it up and gulp it down? Do I
get it back inside of me that way?тАЭ
The living object somersaults, ducks underwater, surfaces lazily. It seems to have no particular sense organs
or organs of any sort or limbs. ItтАЩs all just one and the same thing. A living blob. Does it eat? Does it absorb
energy?
тАЬCan I reincorporate it?тАЭ
тАЬUnlikely. YouтАЩd only eat it, dissolve it in your stomach acids, excrete it out. Parents lose their children,
mothers lose their babies from their wombs, youтАЩve lost yourтАж Well,тАЭ she shrugs, тАЬitтАЩs gone its own way
now, Tom. ItтАЩs outside youтАЭ.
тАЬIs this some cruel joke of yours? Do you really hate me so much? Have you been hating me all of these
years without telling me?тАЭ
тАЬHatred, dear, doesnтАЩt apply if the soul is gone; nor love. Besides, how could I possibly love or hate that? But
life goes on, obviously. YouтАЩll have to look after it, Tom.тАЭ
We have what used to be, once, a goldfish bowl on top of the drinks cabinet in the dining space; now a flower
bowl with a posy of anemones, artificial ones of silk. The goldfish died after a few months. Of loneliness
perhaps тАУ if a fish can feel lonely. Of emptiness, and the horror of the empty world being so bent round upon
itself. I canтАЩt very well flush my soul down the drain, like an abortion, can I? Even if thereтАЩs only the merest
suspicion that it really is my soul. So I take the bowl, laying the posy on the dining table тАУ then rush back in
panic in case Mary pulls one on me. My soulтАЩs still there. MaryтАЩs back in the bedroom, humming, putting on
makeup. I scoop my soul carefully into the bowl, add more water, remove it to the safety of the drinks cabinet
beside the little drum of daphnae, undiscarded year in year out. Do I feed it on daphnae? It appears not to
possess a mouth.
тАЬMary тАУ IтАЩve put it in the bowl. Please be careful, wonтАЩt you? God, the time! Do I go to work on the day I lost
my soul?тАЭ
тАЬDonтАЩt worry, Tom, itтАЩll be safe. Today's like any other. Better than a pet rock, isnтАЩt it тАУ a pet soul?тАЭ
A pet. But it looks nothing like a pet, any more than an amoeba could be a pet. There it is, a huge amoeba,
afloat, semimobile, doing its own thing oblivious of me. Goodbye, Soul, for now; IтАЩll be home at six. DonтАЩt get
bored, donтАЩt do anything I wouldnтАЩt do.
It circles, rotates, pulses a bit.
Mary will get her hair done, then pick up the food and wine for the meal tonight; Tony and Wanda Fitzgerald
are coming round. Brittany artichokes, steak and strawberries, I suppose.
So off to work I go. While my soul stays at home.
If Mary put the bowl on the cooker and heated the water up, I wonder would I feel the searing pains of being
burnt alive? Agonies at a distance? I should have found a better place for the anemones.
However, no such agonies arrive. Indeed, all day long as I examine my sensations, I feel very little sensation
indeed. I coast in neutral. Things get done. I entertain a client to lunch; does he notice my soul is absent?
Apparently not. I wonder whether people really have souls at all тАУ perhaps I was the only one? After lunch I
call in on impulse at a church. I ring the confessional bell, I pull the curtain. This is how I believe one goes
about it. IтАЩve no practical experience of such things.
тАЬYes, my son?тАЭ
тАЬFather, IтАЩm sorry but I donтАЩt know the right routines. The formulas. What one does. IтАЩve never been in a
confessional beforeтАФтАЭ
тАЬIf you suddenly feel the call, plainly thereтАЩs a need. What is it?тАЭ
тАЬFather, IтАЩve lost my soulтАЭ
тАЬNo soul is ever lost to God, my son.тАЭ
тАЬMine is lost. To me. Well, not exactly lost. No тАУ I still have it in a sense, only itтАЩs not in me any moreтАФтАЭ
Useless. I stumble out.