love, be loved ... how sad human actions. When I was in second or third year of high school female during an English exam, came out a few questions on active and passive verbs. Hitting, being hit, watching, being watched ... mixed among many verbs such as these, there were two that emanated a special glow to love, be loved. As we looked at the questions carefully licking the pencil at some point from behind me came a note that someone had been running for fun. I looked, there were two written questions: "Do you love?", "Do you want to be loved?". And by the phrase "Want to be loved?" written in ink or pencil with blue and red, there were many circles, while the column of "You want love?" there was not even the smallest sign of membership. I am not except I did and I added my circle under "Want to be loved?". Even the girls of sixteen, seventeen, who understand little of what those words "love", "being loved" can mean, already sensed instinctively that happiness lies in the fact of being loved.
Only the girl sitting next to me when I passed the ticket, we took a quick look and immediately, without fail, with a sharp pencil, drew a big circle in the white column ignored by all others. She wanted love. I still remember clearly that I felt at the same time dislike for the private company of half measures, and bewilderment at being caught by surprise. She was a kind insignificant melancholy air, and his grades were not particularly high. I have no idea what will become of the big-haired girl a little 'reddish, always alone, but who knows why, after more than twenty years, as I write this letter, the features of his face came to my mind clear.
When reached the end of their lives, quietly spread, they will turn their faces to the wall of death, including the woman who has fully enjoyed the happiness of being loved and the woman who can claim to have had but little joy of having loved , in which one God will grant quiet rest? And there, in this world, a woman who can say before God: "I have loved you"? Yes, I'm sure that exists. Maybe the girl with thin hair growth has become one of those few. Maybe you will have your hair in disorder, the body marked by the wounds, his clothes in tatters, but can say to head high with pride, "I have loved." And his last breath.
Excerpt from "The Shotgun" by Yasushi Inoue (Adelphi, 2004)
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