Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Phoenician Myths by Zeljko Prodanovic (mystery books to read .txt) 📖
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as he claimed – comprise all other books. A bit farther Zarathustra was walking on a string stretched between two marble pillars, and Nietzsche watched him with admiration and whispered with his left moustache, ‘Ein echter Übermensch!’
By the source of the Orontes I found two great alchemists, Tesla and Einstein, as they talked about eternity. The Serb stated that only two things were eternal – the universe and stupidity – and the Jew said that he agreed, but added that he was not quite sure about the universe.
Not far away Diogenes was repairing his tub.
Then I went to Last Chance, the best tavern in Baalbek, where my friend Baalzebub was waiting for me. As usual, he was in a good mood. He drank beer and told the blue-eyed nymph behind the bar a tale from the centuries to come. I gave him the parchment, and with his left eye (with the right one he read from right to left) he scanned the first few lines.
‘Excellent, my friend,’ he said, ‘excellent! At last the world will learn something about the Phoenicians!’
While he was reading, I turned around to see who was in the tavern.
At one table Socrates, Shakespeare and Goethe were gambling for silver coins. At the other, Giordano Bruno was persuading Hannibal to take revenge upon Rome, and at the third Samson was relating don Quixote about Delilah. At a table in the corner van Gogh drank alone.
By the bar, on my left-hand side, El Greco and Cervantes spoke with nostalgia about the slopes of Toledo, and, on my right, Pushkin was trying to seduce Scheherezade with his verses. By the door Mozart played the violin.
And while I was looking across the tavern, a strange young man came in and took a place at the bar next to us. He ordered a beer and then turned towards me.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘what’s the name of this town?’
‘Baalbek,’ I replied.
‘Very good,’ the young man said, ‘it’s the town I was looking for!’
The satyr stopped reading and looked up curiously at the young man. Then he stretched his hand and said, ‘Hello, I am Baalzebub...’
‘Oh,’ the young man exclaimed and smiled, ‘the famous satyr from Phoenicia!’ Then he turned towards me. ‘And this must be Phoenix,’ he added, ‘the one who is always reborn and the only living Phoenician!’
‘Very nice to meet you,’ I said, and the satyr asked, ‘Excuse me, but who are you?’
‘That’s very hard to say,’ the young man answered. ‘But in short – I am a wandering rhapsode. I wander the world, looking for three chimeras: love, beauty and wisdom!’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Baalzebub and blinked his eyes. ‘But, tell me, please, how did you know who we are?’
‘Well, it’s a long story,’ the young man replied. ‘You see, I wrote a book about Phoenicians. In it I described Baalbek, the city of sages or the city of shades, and Phoenicia, the miraculous land, which, as you know, hovers neither in heaven nor on earth. And then I decided to come to Baalbek and meet my heroes.’
‘Interesting,’ the satyr said, and then asked, ‘What’s the name of your book?’
And the young man replied, ‘Phoenician Myths.’
Baalzebub and I looked at each other in wonder.
‘And who are your heroes?’ I asked.
‘As I said, Phoenicians,’ the young man answered, ‘the most brave and gifted among people. Here,’ he added and showed with a sweeping gesture of his hand across the tavern, ‘they are all my heroes. Of course, you two as well!’
‘Interesting!’ exclaimed the satyr again. ‘But let me ask you, do you know what this is?’ he said and showed the young man the parchment.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘a parchment.’
Baalzebub smiled. ‘You have inferred it very wisely. But, do you know what is written on it?’
The young man took the manuscript and glanced over it. ‘Ha,’ he exclaimed, ‘Phoenician Myths!’
‘Yes,’ the satyr said, ‘Phoenician Myths! And what is this telling you?’
The young man raised his eyebrows and suspiciously shook his head. ‘I don’t want you to get me wrong,’ he said, ‘but this parchment is apocryphal!’
‘What do you mean?’ the satyr asked.
‘False,’ the young man replied.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Baalzebub cried out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘About reality,’ the young man answered. ‘Or if you like – about illusion. After all,’ he added, ‘it’s not upon us to judge what reality is and what is illusion. Therefore I suggest that we listen to someone who knows about these things better than us. For example, señor Borges!’
Indeed, as soon as he’d spoken, Borges came in and headed straight towards us. He said, ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ then asked what the problem was.
‘Señor Borges,’ the satyr said, ‘good that you have come. Here is the argument. Our friend Phoenix has just finished Phoenician Myths. But this harlequin, who, I understand, is in Baalbek for the first time, claims that the manuscript is false. He says that he wrote the Myths and that we are his heroes. In short, he claims that all this is an illusion!’
The poet mused for a moment, then shook his head anxiously. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘the question of reality and illusion is very complex. Sometimes even the most wise men cannot solve it. But, so far as I see, things are quite clear here – this is an illusion.’
‘Señor Borges!’ the satyr cried out, but the poet didn’t hear him.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘writing is magic. And it often happens that we lose our way in that magic. Readers think that what they read is reality. The writer fancies that he lives in the world he’s writing about, and sometimes – strange as it may look – heroes themselves believe that they really exist. For instance, it happened to me several times. I will give you one example.
‘While I was writing the story Immortal, my hero Joseph Cartaphilus of Smyrna came and said, ‘Señor Borges, you know what? I don’t want to end my life in such a banal way!’
‘I asked him, in wonder, what he meant.
‘ ‘As I understand,’ he added, ‘at the end of the story I will drown in the Aegean sea. And you must admit, what kind of death is it to drown in the Aegean sea?’
‘As you may guess, I had difficulty explaining to him that it was only a story.’
‘Señor Borges...’ Baalzebub wanted to say something, but the poet interrupted him.
‘My dear satyr,’ he said, ‘let me explain. As I said, sometimes it is very difficult to distinguish between reality and illusion. But you have to understand – this is an illusion. You do not exist, nor Phoenix, nor Phoenicia, nor this tavern. Nor do I, unfortunately. This young man invented it all. Do you understand me? He is a writer, or if you like a rhapsode, and we are his heroes.’
‘Goodness me!’ the satyr cried out in disbelief.
‘Well gentlemen,’ the poet added, ’I hope we have the problem solved. So, I wish you a nice evening!’
He turned around and left, and the satyr and I watched after him, not believing our eyes.
And as if nothing had happened, the young man winked at the girl and smiled, then turned towards us. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you believe me now?’
The satyr blinked his eyes and whispered, ‘What a harlequin!’ and I looked about, confused. ‘So,’ I said, ‘all this is an illusion!’
‘Yes,’ the young man replied. ‘But to make the illusion look complete – and in order that our reader doesn’t feel deceived – I suggest that you read the last two passages from the parchment, in which is described your death.’
‘My death?’ I said in wonder.
‘Yes,’ the young man answered. ‘I think it would be quite pretty to end our tale in the way that you – like the famous bird phoenix – burn in flames!’ He then handed me the parchment and I began to read in a low voice:
So, in the dusk of that sunny day, I went on the hill above Baalbek, where, in the ruins of the temple of god’s tear, was my grave. I lit the pyre, then sat down under an old cedar and for a while listened to the crickets, singing joyfully in the cedar’s crown. And when the fire was in full blaze, I stood up and, with a smile in my heart, looked at the bronze city in front of me.
‘Dear Phoenicians,’ I said, ‘dear shades, good-bye!’
Then I turned around and with a slow, but steady step, walked into the fire. And while my brittle body quickly vanished, my soul kept dancing with the flames and teasing the young wind. And she whispered, ‘O joy of dying and joy of birth! Blessed be the flame that is ending one life and creating another! Good-bye dear sunshine,’ the beauty whispered, ‘good-bye dear universe! See you in the next life – or in the next dream!’
I became silent, and the satyr smiled. ‘Well, mister rhapsode,’ he said, ‘bravo! You’ve done it very nicely!’
‘Thank you,’ the young man replied and smiled back. Confused, I asked, ‘And what now?’
‘Nothing,’ the young man answered, ‘we’ve arrived at the end of the book. And if you don’t mind, I would like to buy you a drink. So, gentlemen, cheers! Thank you for your company, and I wish you a long and exciting life – and a lot of fame!’
Then he turned to the girl. ‘Give us something to drink, darling,’ he said, ‘I am paying tonight!’
That night we drank till dawn. Imprint
By the source of the Orontes I found two great alchemists, Tesla and Einstein, as they talked about eternity. The Serb stated that only two things were eternal – the universe and stupidity – and the Jew said that he agreed, but added that he was not quite sure about the universe.
Not far away Diogenes was repairing his tub.
Then I went to Last Chance, the best tavern in Baalbek, where my friend Baalzebub was waiting for me. As usual, he was in a good mood. He drank beer and told the blue-eyed nymph behind the bar a tale from the centuries to come. I gave him the parchment, and with his left eye (with the right one he read from right to left) he scanned the first few lines.
‘Excellent, my friend,’ he said, ‘excellent! At last the world will learn something about the Phoenicians!’
While he was reading, I turned around to see who was in the tavern.
At one table Socrates, Shakespeare and Goethe were gambling for silver coins. At the other, Giordano Bruno was persuading Hannibal to take revenge upon Rome, and at the third Samson was relating don Quixote about Delilah. At a table in the corner van Gogh drank alone.
By the bar, on my left-hand side, El Greco and Cervantes spoke with nostalgia about the slopes of Toledo, and, on my right, Pushkin was trying to seduce Scheherezade with his verses. By the door Mozart played the violin.
And while I was looking across the tavern, a strange young man came in and took a place at the bar next to us. He ordered a beer and then turned towards me.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘what’s the name of this town?’
‘Baalbek,’ I replied.
‘Very good,’ the young man said, ‘it’s the town I was looking for!’
The satyr stopped reading and looked up curiously at the young man. Then he stretched his hand and said, ‘Hello, I am Baalzebub...’
‘Oh,’ the young man exclaimed and smiled, ‘the famous satyr from Phoenicia!’ Then he turned towards me. ‘And this must be Phoenix,’ he added, ‘the one who is always reborn and the only living Phoenician!’
‘Very nice to meet you,’ I said, and the satyr asked, ‘Excuse me, but who are you?’
‘That’s very hard to say,’ the young man answered. ‘But in short – I am a wandering rhapsode. I wander the world, looking for three chimeras: love, beauty and wisdom!’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Baalzebub and blinked his eyes. ‘But, tell me, please, how did you know who we are?’
‘Well, it’s a long story,’ the young man replied. ‘You see, I wrote a book about Phoenicians. In it I described Baalbek, the city of sages or the city of shades, and Phoenicia, the miraculous land, which, as you know, hovers neither in heaven nor on earth. And then I decided to come to Baalbek and meet my heroes.’
‘Interesting,’ the satyr said, and then asked, ‘What’s the name of your book?’
And the young man replied, ‘Phoenician Myths.’
Baalzebub and I looked at each other in wonder.
‘And who are your heroes?’ I asked.
‘As I said, Phoenicians,’ the young man answered, ‘the most brave and gifted among people. Here,’ he added and showed with a sweeping gesture of his hand across the tavern, ‘they are all my heroes. Of course, you two as well!’
‘Interesting!’ exclaimed the satyr again. ‘But let me ask you, do you know what this is?’ he said and showed the young man the parchment.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘a parchment.’
Baalzebub smiled. ‘You have inferred it very wisely. But, do you know what is written on it?’
The young man took the manuscript and glanced over it. ‘Ha,’ he exclaimed, ‘Phoenician Myths!’
‘Yes,’ the satyr said, ‘Phoenician Myths! And what is this telling you?’
The young man raised his eyebrows and suspiciously shook his head. ‘I don’t want you to get me wrong,’ he said, ‘but this parchment is apocryphal!’
‘What do you mean?’ the satyr asked.
‘False,’ the young man replied.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Baalzebub cried out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘About reality,’ the young man answered. ‘Or if you like – about illusion. After all,’ he added, ‘it’s not upon us to judge what reality is and what is illusion. Therefore I suggest that we listen to someone who knows about these things better than us. For example, señor Borges!’
Indeed, as soon as he’d spoken, Borges came in and headed straight towards us. He said, ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ then asked what the problem was.
‘Señor Borges,’ the satyr said, ‘good that you have come. Here is the argument. Our friend Phoenix has just finished Phoenician Myths. But this harlequin, who, I understand, is in Baalbek for the first time, claims that the manuscript is false. He says that he wrote the Myths and that we are his heroes. In short, he claims that all this is an illusion!’
The poet mused for a moment, then shook his head anxiously. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘the question of reality and illusion is very complex. Sometimes even the most wise men cannot solve it. But, so far as I see, things are quite clear here – this is an illusion.’
‘Señor Borges!’ the satyr cried out, but the poet didn’t hear him.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘writing is magic. And it often happens that we lose our way in that magic. Readers think that what they read is reality. The writer fancies that he lives in the world he’s writing about, and sometimes – strange as it may look – heroes themselves believe that they really exist. For instance, it happened to me several times. I will give you one example.
‘While I was writing the story Immortal, my hero Joseph Cartaphilus of Smyrna came and said, ‘Señor Borges, you know what? I don’t want to end my life in such a banal way!’
‘I asked him, in wonder, what he meant.
‘ ‘As I understand,’ he added, ‘at the end of the story I will drown in the Aegean sea. And you must admit, what kind of death is it to drown in the Aegean sea?’
‘As you may guess, I had difficulty explaining to him that it was only a story.’
‘Señor Borges...’ Baalzebub wanted to say something, but the poet interrupted him.
‘My dear satyr,’ he said, ‘let me explain. As I said, sometimes it is very difficult to distinguish between reality and illusion. But you have to understand – this is an illusion. You do not exist, nor Phoenix, nor Phoenicia, nor this tavern. Nor do I, unfortunately. This young man invented it all. Do you understand me? He is a writer, or if you like a rhapsode, and we are his heroes.’
‘Goodness me!’ the satyr cried out in disbelief.
‘Well gentlemen,’ the poet added, ’I hope we have the problem solved. So, I wish you a nice evening!’
He turned around and left, and the satyr and I watched after him, not believing our eyes.
And as if nothing had happened, the young man winked at the girl and smiled, then turned towards us. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you believe me now?’
The satyr blinked his eyes and whispered, ‘What a harlequin!’ and I looked about, confused. ‘So,’ I said, ‘all this is an illusion!’
‘Yes,’ the young man replied. ‘But to make the illusion look complete – and in order that our reader doesn’t feel deceived – I suggest that you read the last two passages from the parchment, in which is described your death.’
‘My death?’ I said in wonder.
‘Yes,’ the young man answered. ‘I think it would be quite pretty to end our tale in the way that you – like the famous bird phoenix – burn in flames!’ He then handed me the parchment and I began to read in a low voice:
So, in the dusk of that sunny day, I went on the hill above Baalbek, where, in the ruins of the temple of god’s tear, was my grave. I lit the pyre, then sat down under an old cedar and for a while listened to the crickets, singing joyfully in the cedar’s crown. And when the fire was in full blaze, I stood up and, with a smile in my heart, looked at the bronze city in front of me.
‘Dear Phoenicians,’ I said, ‘dear shades, good-bye!’
Then I turned around and with a slow, but steady step, walked into the fire. And while my brittle body quickly vanished, my soul kept dancing with the flames and teasing the young wind. And she whispered, ‘O joy of dying and joy of birth! Blessed be the flame that is ending one life and creating another! Good-bye dear sunshine,’ the beauty whispered, ‘good-bye dear universe! See you in the next life – or in the next dream!’
I became silent, and the satyr smiled. ‘Well, mister rhapsode,’ he said, ‘bravo! You’ve done it very nicely!’
‘Thank you,’ the young man replied and smiled back. Confused, I asked, ‘And what now?’
‘Nothing,’ the young man answered, ‘we’ve arrived at the end of the book. And if you don’t mind, I would like to buy you a drink. So, gentlemen, cheers! Thank you for your company, and I wish you a long and exciting life – and a lot of fame!’
Then he turned to the girl. ‘Give us something to drink, darling,’ he said, ‘I am paying tonight!’
That night we drank till dawn. Imprint
Publication Date: 03-10-2010
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