He produced a little gray notebook from his pocket and leafed through it until he found what he was looking for.
“Your name is Momo, isn't it?” Momo nodded. The man in gray shut his notebook with a snap and pocketed it again.
Then, with a faint grunt of exertion, he sat himself down on the ground at Momo's side.
He said no more for a while, just puffed thoughtfully at his small gray cigar. “All right, Momo,” he said at last, “listen carefully.”
Momo had been trying to do this all the time, but the man in gray was far harder to listen to than anyone she'd ever heard.
She could understand what other people meant and what they were like by getting right inside them, so to speak,
but with him this was quite impossible. Whenever she tried to read his thoughts she seemed to plunge headlong into a dark chasm,
as if there were nothing there at all. It had never happened to her before.
“All that matters in life,” the man in gray went on, “is to climb the ladder of success, amount to something, own things.”
When a person climbs higher than the rest, amounts to more, owns more things,
everything else comes automatically: friendship, love, respect, et cetera.
You tell me you love your friends. Let's examine that statement quite objectively.” He blew a few smoke rings.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색