Once there were two sisters. One of them wore her herself outside in,
the other, inside out. In all other ways except age they were alike,
as much as sisters can be alike, which is both a lot and not at all.
The one sister let everything she saw come in. She took everything in
from outside. One day she said: Today I am going to learn Greek; and
she did. Another day she said: I am going to be a classical pianist.
Sometimes she just took things in without comment: she bought a car;
she had a baby. She didn't mention everything. Not, for instance, if
she didn't think she was going to keep it very long.
The other sister took everything in, too, but could not use it in any
practical way. So everything she took in she thought about, then
looked for something she could have that seemed like it. She wore
herself inside out. Soon she had a room filled with things she'd taken
in and taken out again: crackled icons, miniature amphoras; a machine
to play the records she bought after hearing beautiful things. Things
from watching her sister; things not from her sister, too: a
beautifully bound book; a mouse.
Sometimes the sisters tried each other out. That is, they each tried
the reverse. It didn't work very well. One would not take care of her
things. The other found she could not speak. Each way required its
special skills.
Once they tried to be just more like the other. At the end of the day
they were halfway this, halfway that. Then they were frightened it
might take both of them to make one. Then they were afraid there would
be no one left to be a sister to. And then they were afraid they would
die.
One day one of them did die. The outside in one. She was lying in her
bed thinking how she should go about dying, and then she did. The
other one could not believe it and stared for a long time without
moving or breathing. The doctor looked at the bed and said: she's
gone. A minute or two later the inside out one began to breathe
suddenly and with a very deep breath. This alarmed the doctor who
turned to look at her. But, as nothing further happened, he left.
When she also left the room she was just her. She didn't know exactly
what to do. She had taken in something but could not use it in any
practical way. And then she was afraid she would die. And then she was
afraid she would not. |
