Old Man at the Bridge full

Ernest Hemingway, 1938
Hemingway at the bridge
Analysis

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An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.

“Where do you come from?” I asked him.
“From San Carlos,” he said, and smiled.

That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.

“I was taking care of animals,” he explained.
“Oh,” I said, not quite understanding.
“Yes,” he said, “I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos.”

He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, “What animals were they?”
“Various animals,” he said, and shook his head. “I had to leave them.”

I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.

“What animals were they?” I asked.
“There were three animals altogether,” he explained. “There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons.”
And you had to leave them?” I asked.
“Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.”
“And you have no family?” I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
“No,” he said, “only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others.”
“What politics have you?” I asked.
“I am without politics,” he said. “I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further.”
“This is not a good place to stop,” I said. “If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa.”
“I will wait a while,” he said, ” and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?”
“Towards Barcelona,” I told him.
“I know no one in that direction,” he said, “but thank you very much. Thank you again very much.”

He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone, “The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?”
“Why they’ll probably come through it all right.”
“You think so?”
“Why not,” I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
“But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?”
“Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll fly.”
“Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others,” he said.
“If you are rested I would go,” I urged. “Get up and try to walk now.”
“Thank you,” he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
“I was taking care of animals,” he said dully, but no longer to me. “I was only taking care of animals.”

There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

Old man at the bridge

“An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontton bridge across the river and carts, trucks and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trunks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was to tired to go any farther. “

(Old Man At The Bridge, Ernest Hemingway)

SF short-shorts: “Solipsist” by Fredric Brown

Walter B. Jehovah, for whose name I make no apology since it really was his name, had been a solipsist all his life. A solipsist, in case you don’t happen to know the word, is one who believes that he himself is the only thing that really exists, that other people and the universe in general exist only in his imagination, and that if he quit imagining them, they would cease to exist.

One day, Walter B. Jehovah became a practicing solipsist. Within a week, his wife had run away with another man, he’d lost his job as a shipping clerk and he had broken his leg chasing a black cat to keep it from crossing his path.

He decided, in a hospital, to end it all.

Looking out the window, staring up at the stars, he wished them out of existence, and they weren’t there anymore. Then he wished all other people out of existence, and the hospital became strangely quiet, even for a hospital. Next the world, and he found himself suspended in a void. He got rid of his body quite easily and then took the final step of willing himself out of existence.

Nothing happened.

Strange, he thought, can there be a limit to solipsism?

“Yes,” a voice said.

“Who are you??” Walter B. Jehovah asked.

“I am the one who created the universe which you have just willed out of existence. And now that you have taken my place”—there was a deep sigh—”I can finally cease my own existence, find oblivion, and let you take over.”

“But—how can I cease to exist? That’s what I’m trying to do, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said the voice. “You must do it the same way I did. Create a universe. Wait until someone in it really believes what you believed and wills it out of existence. Then you can retire and let him take over. Good-bye now.”

And the voice was gone. Walter B. Jehovah was alone in the void an there was only one thing he could do. He created the heaven and the earth.

It took him seven days.

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— Fredric Brown (1954)

SOLİPSİST / FREDRIC BROWN

         Hayır yalan söylemiyorum; adamın adı gerçekten de Walter B. Yehova’ydı. Walter hayatı boyunca bir ’solipsist’ olarak yaşadı. Eğer duymadıysanız hemen açıklayayım: Solipsist demek, var olan yegâne şeyi kendisi sanan, diğer insanların ve tüm evrenin yalnızca kendi zihninde vücut bulduğuna ve onları zihninde canlandırmayı kestiği anda hepsinin yok olacağına inanan insan demektir.

Günlerden bir gün Walter B. Yehova uygulamalı bir solipsist oldu. Aynı hafta içinde karısı başka bir adamla kaçmış, gümrük memurluğundan atılmış ve yoluna çıkan bir kara kediyi kovalamaya çalışırken bacağını kırmıştı.

Ve Walter, hastane yatağında yatarken bütün herşeyi sona erdirmeye karar verdi.

Pencereden yıldızlara bakarken hepsinin yok olmasını istedi ve tüm yıldızlar bir anda yok oldu. Sonra bütün insanların yok olmasını istedi ve hastane, bir hastane için bile aşırı sakin bir hâle geldi. İnsanları dünyanın yok oluşu izledi ve Walter kendini bir boşlukta buldu. Bedeninden de kolayca kurtuldu. Ardından son adıma geldi sıra: kendi varlığını yok edecekti.

Hiç bir şey olmadı.

Düşündü: “Çok tuhaf; solipsizmin de bir sınırı var mıdır acaba?”

Bir ses yanıt verdi buna: “Evet.”

Walter B. Yehova sordu: “Sen de kimsin?”

“Senin az önce yok ettiğin evreni yaratan benim. Artık yerimi sen alıyorsun.” Derin bir iç çekilmesi duyuldu. “Şimdi kendi varlığımı yok etmem ve huzura kavuşmam mümkün olabilecek. İşleri sana devrediyorum.”

“Peki ben nasıl yok olacağım? Sen de biliyorsun ki benim tüm çabam yok olmak için.”

Ses yanıt verdi: “Evet, biliyorum. Benim yaptığımı yapman gerekiyor. Önce bir evren yarat. Sonra yarattığın evrendeki biri senin düşündüğün gibi düşünene kadar bekle. Bundan sonra emekli olup işleri ona devredebilirsin. Haydi şimdi hoşçakal.”

Ve ses sustu.

Walter B. Yehova artık boşlukta yapayalnızdı ve yapabileceği bir tek şey vardı: evreni ve yeryüzünü yarattı.

Bu onun yedi gününü aldı.