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The Burning God

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R.F. Kuang

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“The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As though the clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dress in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight, the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the cloud returns. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.”

ArtDreamTimeChangeFantasyClockNight Circus
Book:The Night Circus
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“Translation, from time immemorial, has been the facilitator of peace. Translation makes possible communication, which turn makes possible the kind of diplomacy, trade, and cooperation between foreign peoples that brings wealth and prosperity to all.’ (…) ‘And you, like Psammetichus’s boys, are the tongues that will speak this vision of global harmony into being.’ (…) ‘ After all, we’re here to make the unknown known, to make the other familiar. We’re here to make magic with words.’ - Professor Playfair, Page 81 from R.F. Kuang, Babel”

BabelR F Kuang
Author:R.F Kuang
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“Les hommes ne sont convaincus de vos raisons, de votre sincérité, et de la gravité de vos peines, que par votre mort. Tant que vous êtes en vie, votre cas est douteux, vous n'avez droit qu'à leur scepticisme. Alors, s'il y avait une seule certitude qu'on puisse jouir du spectacle, cela vaudrait la peine de leur prouver ce qu'ils ne veulent pas croire, et de les étonner. Mais vous vous tuez et qu'importe qu'ils vous croient ou non : vous n'êtes pas là pour recueillir leur étonnement et leur contrition, d'ailleurs fugace, pour assister enfin, selon le rêve de chaque homme, à vos propres funérailles. Pour cesser d'être douteux, il faut cesser d'être, tout bellement.”

LifeDeathAlbert CamusCamusLa Chute
Book:The fall
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