Wiedergelesen: (nach langer Zeit)(als E-Book)

Tanith Lee, Nightshades, Thirteen Journeys into Shadow

Schon eine ganze Weile suchte ich eine Kurzgeschichte von Tanith Lee, von der ich mir sicher war, dass ich sie als Buch hatte, aber trotzdem nicht finden konnte. Erst als ich beim stöbern bei Amazon in dieses Buch blickte, wurde mir klar, dass ich die Geschichte nicht gefunden hatte, weil ich dachte, dass es sich um einen Roman handelte. Überdies lag das Taschenbuch schon seit Jahren bei mir im Verkaufsregal. Aber sei's drum, jetzt las ich ihn als Ebook wieder und musste feststellen, dass ich außer der gesuchten Story "After the Guillotine" und der schon bekannten "The Devil's Rose" fast alles in dem Buch vergessen hatte. Vor allem die Titelgeschichte. Hier gefiel mir vor allem "Huzdra" und "Blue Vase of Ghosts" am besten, aber am meisten beeindruckte mich doch nach wie vor "After the Guillotine".
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It seemed, when it came, like a blow, the blow of a sledgehammer, but not quite hard enough - so there was an instant's appalled thought: Those bloody fools have botched it! Then the perspective altered. The eyes glimpsed the basket as the head fell into it, and other faces, already forgotten, looked up at it with anxiety as it came to meet them. After this the light went and there was only one odd final sensation, the head lying where it was, but the last reflexive relaxing spasms of the body eerily somehow communicated to it. Is this what a chicken feels? And a moment of horror, wondering how long one must endure this this. Followed by oblivion.
Oblivion, of course, for D'Antoine the atheist had reckoned on nothing. And here nothing was. All senses gone. The void. Blackness not even black, silence not even silence. Sans all.
There is a certain smugness attached to finding oneself perfectly right; even if one can no longer experience it.
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In this story, you see, the lovers do not join for ever to violin accompaniment on a cloud of mortal love. The lovers are no longer mortal, and there are no violins, no clouds. It is difficult not to experience annoyance or mournfulness, or even fear, that individual liaisons do not need to persist, in frantic intensity, there where the love is all-pervasive, calm and unconditional. We must try not to lament or be irritated by them. Only note how happy they are, even if "happy" is an analogous word.
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While somewhere close as a hand to a glove, D'Antoine 'turns' over and finally wakes, and is no longer D'Antoine. The lenghty sleep of nothingness has acted like a sponge, and wiped away physical identity. Though the emerging soul remembers it, of course, as all of them remember who they have been, plan who they will be (no unfinished business is ever left unfinished; there will be other work, other loves, other springs), it is now a garment held in the hands, not the substance of the self. The true self is quite free. It leaps forward into liberty with an analogous roar of delight and resolution.
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(Tanith Lee, After the Guillotine, 1993)