“O tome ćemo neki drugi put”, reče Orfi, naslutivši možda raspoloženje svog sabesednika. Povećao je priliv O2 u svoju komoru kako bi razvejao paučinaste niti tuge koje su pretile da mu se isprepleću u srcu. “Koji je bio treći put Prustovih likova prema zagonetki života?” - upita Manmut. “Sve troje, prijatelju”, odasla Orfi sa Ija. “Primetio sam to”, reče Manmut, “ali nisam tada znao da li to treba da bude strašno smešno, užasno gorko ili neizrecivo tužno. “Sećaš se poslednjih redova Zaljubljenog Svana? - “Kad pomislim da sam protraćio godine svog života, da sam želeo da umrem, da sam najveću ljubav doživeo sa ženom koja me nije privlačila, koja čak nije bila moj tip!”

“Nikad”, reče Orfi i grmnu dubokim uzdahom. “Zbog toga što je Prust znao - a njegovi likovi to otkrivaju - da ni ljubav, ni njen plemenitiji rođak, prijateljstvo, nikada ne mogu da prežive entropijska sečiva ljubomore, dosade, navike i egoizma”, reče Orfi i Manmut prvi put u toku njihove direktne komunikacije nasluti prizvuk tuge u glasu krupnog moraveka. Zbog čega ljubav nije dovela do odgovora na zagonetku života?” “Manmut oseti kako mu se organski slojevi ježe kada je shvatio da je naglas progovorio preko privatne linije. I have been bound and servant to you, O Muse, you incomparable bitch. On second though, O Muse, sing nothing of me. Sing of my rage, yes, of my rage, O Muse, small and insignificant though that rage might be when measured against the anger of the immortal gods, or when compared to the wrath of the god-killer Achilles.

Oh, and sing of me, O Muse, poor born-against-his-will Hockenberry, dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., Hockenbush to his friends, to friends long since turned to dust on a world long since left behind. While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of the rage of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but not-so-close-to-human beings out there dreaming under the ice of Europa, dying in the sulfur ash of Io, and being born in the cold folds of Ganymede. And while you’re at it, Muse, sing of the rage of the gods themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their new Olympos, and of the rage of the post-humans, dead and gone though they might be, and of the rage of those few true humans left, self-absorbed and useless though they have become. Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus’ son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaeans so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death.

Muse of fire by dan simmons