It was dark. It was night, still. The room was silent. There were no wood creaking sounds, in here, nor the whisper of the wind, outside. The air was heavy, moist, with a hint of smoke. The images succeeded in my mind, without a precise order: paths, people, books, travels, corridors, crossings, walls, bookshelves, distant places, crossroads, strange habits. Was I awake? Was I still sleeping? I was wandering, for sure, in that indistinct land between dreaming while sleeping and dreaming awake. I let myself hover, floating effortlessly, waiting. Waiting for the order to overcome chaos, waiting for the layers to settle down, waiting for the reason to resurface.
Gradually, the pieces were fitting, making sense, as in a puzzle: first the border tiles, setting the boundary; then the strong patterns and the singular forms; finally, the details and the monotonous elements.
The conversation of the night before, in the tavern, among glasses of wine. The eternal discussion of what we know, after all, and what we just believe in; about what comes from known science and from science done. It could have been no more than another chit-chat, to close one more night. But then the door opened, and the traveler entered. Tired air and bright eyes. Sitting at the table. Listening, while eating. Asking for permission to speak. Extending the night. With stories roaming all across Europe. Places to head for in search of knowledge. Foreign languages and lingua franca. The conversations with the wise men. The books he was carrying in the rucksack, as a precious cargo. The mission.
All that resonates with my very own unrest, the willingness to leave the comfort of the routine, the need to know more, the drive to become a citizen of the world, the desire to learn from the masters and, perhaps, to even teach, making me also one of them.
Yes, I thought, it was time to follow this awaken dream. I had to leave Basel behind. Leave this university. Like Paracelsus, my fellow countryman, who's been here before and went to other distant places. After all, aren't we already in a world of progress? Aren't we already in the middle of the eighteenth century? Yes! The decision was made. I would leave! The darkness began, slowly, to fade away. I got up.
(to be continued)
On a journey, riding with Newton, a game of Nestore Mangone and Simone Luciani, Ediciones Mas que Oca (2018) under license of Cranio Creations.
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