Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Vladamir P. Štefanec
which, only minutes before, I had so heroically stormed the museum.
There I sit for a time absorbed in thought, cursing myself with all manner
of insults. I even come up with few newly minted expressions with which
to denigrate myself. But then I turn the record over as it were, and the
realization dawns on me that the hopeful naďveté to which I had once
again succumbed is not actually such a bad quality and, in fact, there is no
reason to reproach myself. I even come up with a workable theory that in
today’s hopeless world, the new discovery of an innocence that I probably
always carried deep within me, might indeed be the best path by
which I could arrive at a less stony and arid landscape. After that, I feel
considerably better. I regard within myself the intrepid battle for new
innocence and my visionary theory, which minute by minute is becoming
all-encompassing, begins to resemble an enormous yeast-filled donut
that picks me up from the floor and carries me on its powerful wings
toward the edification of new life lessons.
Later when I have resigned myself to the fact that the only unicorn I
will see in Paris is the one in the Dutch medieval tapestry handing in the
Musee Cluny, my mind often returns to that poor arctic unicorn and I
regret that I didn’t dedicate more time to it. I realize that perhaps all of
Paris is like the eternally alluring and legendary unicorn, described so
often and depicted in such a way that it entices with the deceptive impression
of its irrefutable existence but that, despite it all, nobody has
ever managed to actually find. The search for this fairy tale unicorn was
no doubt guilty for the fact that I had neglected the very real one that in
unburdened eyes would have merited some well-earned benevolence and
admiration. But what can I do? I am, it seems, a man who searches for that
which cannot be found.
Translated by Erica Johnson Debeljak
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