A fairy tale for adults by Kenji MIYAZAWA
Excerpt from "Night On The Milky Way Train"
'It's Scorpio's fire. A scorpion's not a nice insect. I saw one in alcohol at the museum. He's got a huge stinger on his tail, and the teacher said if he stings you, you die!' 'I know, but he's still a nice insect. My father told me that a long long time ago scorpion lived in Valdola Vale and he survived by killing teeny bugs and eating them up. Then one day he was caught by a weasel and it looked like he was going to be eaten all up himself. He tried to get away with all his might and he was about to be pinned down by the weasel when he saw this well and he fell right down into it, and there was no way in the world he could get back up, so it looked like he was going to drown for sure. So then he began to pray... ≪Oh, I can't remember how many living creatures I have killed in my lifetime, but now I found myself trapped by the weasel and running for my own life. Everything is so risky in life. Why didn't I just give my body to the weasel and be done with it? If I had, at least he would have been able to live another day. Dear God, please look into my heart and in the next life don't throw away my life in vain like this, but use my body for the good and happiness of all.≫ 'That's what he said. And scorpion saw his body turn bright red and burn into a beautiful flame, lightning up the darkness of the night sky. And he's burning now too, that's what my father said. That fire...it must be him.'
--Original title"銀河鉄道の夜" Ginga-tetsudo no yoru
Written by Kenji MIYAZAWA 宮沢賢治 (1896-1933)
Translated by Roger Pulvers (1944-) edited by Denik
Movie "Night on the Galactic Railroad"
That reminds me of "Man's Search for meaning" written by Victor Emil Frankl.
When he was 38 years old, he was deported to a Nazi concentration camp and survived, but his wife and parents were murdered in concentration camps.
Excerpt from "Man's Search for meaning"
"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances - to choose one's own way.
--- --- --- --- --- ---
Extrait de "Train de nuit dans la Voie lactée"
«Tu dis, le feu du Scorpion.Le scorpion n’est pas un insecte utile. Moi, j'en ai vu au Musée d'Histoire Naturelle, conservé dans de l'alcool. Sa queue est munie d'un crochet et dès qu'il pique, il tue, a dit le maître.» «Oui c'est vrai, Mais c’est tout de même un insecte bienfaisant, c’est mon père qui le disait. Autrefois, dans la campagne de Barudora, il y avait un scorpion qui tuait des petits insectes ou des petits animaux et les mangeait pour vivre. Et puis un jour il fut découvert par une belette qui voulut le dévorer. De toutes ses forces, le scorpion tenta de s’échapper mais il allait finir par se faire attraper quand brusquement il se trouva devant un puits dans lequel il tomba et dont il ne put absolument plus sortir. Il commençait à se noyer quand il se mit à prier ainsi : 《Hélas, moi qui ne sais jusqu’à présent de combien d’êtres j’ai ôté la vie, cette fois j’ai employé tout mon zèle à m’échapper quand la belette allait m’attraper. Et pourtant, voilà où j’en suis arrivé... Ah, il ne faut être sûr de rien! Pourquoi ne me suis-je pas laissé ravir sans résistance mon corps par la belette? Elle aurait vu sa vie allonger d’un jour. Je vous en prie, ô Dieu! Veuillez examiner mon coeur! Ne me faites pas mourir de façon aussi futile, je vous en supplie, dans une prochaine existence, servez-vous de mon corps pour le vrai bonheur de tous!》 Voilà ce qu’il dit. À la suite de quoi, le scorpion s’aperçut que son propre corps était devenu, sans qu’il sache comment, un feu splendide d’un rouge éclatant qui brûlait et éclairait les ténèbres de la nuit. Et mon père m’a appris qu’il ne cessait plus jamais de brûler. Sans aucun doute, ce feu là-bas, c’est lui! »
--Traduit par Hélène Morita