...of speechlessness

We come out of the darkness, no, we enter; outside there is darkness, here something can be seen amid the smoke; the light is smoky, perhaps from candles, but colours can be seen, yellows, blues, on the white, on the table, coloured patches, reds, also greens, with black outlines, drawings on white rectangles scattered over the table. There are some clubs, thick branches, trunks, leaves, as outside, before, some swords slashing at us, among the leaves, the ambushes in the darkness where we were lost; luckily we saw a light in the end, a door; there are some gold coins that shine, some cups, this table arrayed with glasses and plates, bowls of steaming soup, tankards of wine; we are safe but still half-dead with fright; we can tell about it, we would have plenty to tell, each would like to tell the others what happened to him, what he was forced to see, with his own eyes in the darkness, in the silence; here now there is noise, how can I make myself heard, I cannot hear my voice, my voice refuses to emerge from my throat, I have no voice, I do not hear the others' voices either; noises are heard, I am not deaf after all, I hear bowls scraped, flasks uncorked, a clatter of spoons, chewing, belching; I make gestures to say I have lost the power of speech, the others are making similar gestures, they are dumb, we have all become mute, in the forest; all of us are around this table, men and women, dressed well or poorly, frightened, indeed frightful to see, all with white hair, young and old; I too look at my reflection in one of these mirrors, these cards, my hair too has turned white in sudden fear.

[The Tavern Of Crossed Destinies, from The Castle Of Crossed Destinies, Calvino, I.]