An actor is performing in a stage, many centuries ago. The stage is lighted only for his lean fragile figure making it impossible to know where the corners end and the wall begins, where the stage ends and the gallery begins, where he ends and they begin. But with his practiced body and concentrated mind he holds everything together, though loosely. His countenance revel in the ecstasy of imitation – of a reality, of a dream, of a truth vaguer than shapes formed in the mist. He takes his audience with him to a moment in future, in their ears he whispers the thoughts of tomorrow, to their eyes he brings a sight never seen before, and he let them feel the next spokes of the wheel of time, all the while suffering from the mortal wounds of art.
He guides them through unknown alleys with his invisible hands and rows them through strange sea routes that lead to wider seas, which lead to oceans. They advance with bated breaths, squinting eyes to see through the thick fog, and steps onto, sinks into, the bottomless pits and depths of future.
That actor was a humble link in our chain of ancestors, rendering his art somewhere in the wilderness and precariousness of Eurasia. And we were the bewitched audience.
Now, precisely at this moment, here where we speak neither Sanskrit nor Latin, we are that actor. And we are acting with numerous eyes riveted on us.
