3 June 1905


     Imagine a world in which people live just one day. Either the rate 
of heartbeats and breathing is speeded up so that an entire lifetime is 
compressed to the space of one turn of the earth on its axis--or the 
rotation of the earth is slowed to such a low gear that one complete  
revolution occupies a whole human lifetime. Either interpretation is 
valid. In either case, a man or woman sees one sunrise, one sunset.

     In this world, no one lives to witness the change of seasons. A 
person born in December in any European country never sees the hyacinth, 
the lily, the aster, the cyclamen, the edelweiss, never sees the leaves 
of the maples turn red and gold, never hears the crickets or the  
warblers. A person born in December lives his life cold. Likewise, a 
person born in July never feels a snowflake on her cheek, never sees the 
crystal on a frozen lake, never hears the squeek of boots on fresh snow. 
A person born in July lives her life warm. The variety of seasons is 
learned about in books. 

    In this world, a life is planned by light. A person born at sunset 
spends the first half of his life in nighttime, learns indoor trades like 
weaving and watchmaking, reads a great deal, becomes intellectual, eats 
too much, is frightened of the vast dark outdoors, cultivates shadows. A 
person born at sunrise learns outdoor occupations like farming and  
masonry, becomes physically fit, avoids books and mental projects, is 
sunny and confident, is afraid of nothing.

     Both sunset and sunrise babies flounder when the light changes. When 
sunrise comes, those born at sunset are overwhelmed by the sudden sight 
of trees and oceans and mountains, are blinded by daylight, return to 
their houses and cover their windows, spend the rest of their lives in 
half light. When sunset comes, those born at sunrise wail at the 
disappearance of birds in the sky, the layered shades of blue in the
sea, the hypnotic movement of clouds. They wail and refuse to learn the 
dark crafts indoors, lie on the ground and look up and struggle to see 
what they once saw.

     In this world in which a human life spans but a single day, people 
heed time like cats straining to hear sounds in the attic. For there is 
no time to lose. Birth, schooling, love affairs, marriage, profession, 
old age must all be fit within one transit of the sun, one modulation of  
light. When people pass on the street, they tip their hats and hurry on. 
When people meet at houses, they politely inquire of each other's health 
and then attend to their own affairs. When people gather at cafes, they 
nervously study the shifting of shadows and do not sit long. Time is too 
precious. A life is a moment in season. A life is one snowfall. A life is 
one autumn day. A life is the delicate, rapid edge of a closing door's 
window. A life is a brief movement of arms and legs.      

     When old age comes, whether in light or in dark, a person discovers 
that he knows no one. There hasn't been time. Parents have passed away at 
midday or midnight. Brothers and sisters have moved to distant cities, to 
seize passing opportunities. Friends have changed with the changing 
angle of the sun. Houses, towns, jobs, lovers have all been planned to 
accommodate a life framed in one day. A person in old age knows no one. 
He talks to people, but he does not know them. His life is scattered in 
fragments of conversation, forgotton by fragments of people. His life is 
divided into hasty episodes, witnessed by few. He sits at his bedside 
table, listens to the sound of his running bath, and wonders whether 
anything exists outside of his mind. Did that embrace from his mother 
really exist? Did that laughing rivalry with his high school friend 
really exist? Where are they now? Where are they now, as he sits at his 
bedside table, listening to the sound of his running bath, vaguely 
perceiving the change in the light.