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Satellite, v. 1, issue 1, October 1938
Page 15
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The MIRROR By Charles Eric Maine David Rodney looked into the mirror, and saw no reflection. He was not surprised, because, so far as he knew, the mirror had never reflected anything other than the room in which it stood. It was generally accepted, he mused, that a mirror should reflect all that came within its range, but there was no law to state that there could not be an expectation...and, indeed, the exception proved the rule, or so tradition had it. Accordingly, he looked into the mirror, but saw no reflection of himself. It stood eight feet from the floor, and was three feet wide, forming a massive silver panel in the wall; a panel that, from a distance, resembled a doorway to another room. But the other room was an exact replica of the original, a mere reflection of no substance -- no being... Facing the mirror was a small carved table, on which was a typewriter, and Rodney sat down to type. The reflection shows the machine, with keys clicking merrily, but no sign of human agency, and he was amused. His fingers rambled idly over the keyboard, typing disconnected sentences and words, in the hope that an idea would evolve from somewhere, an idea for a plot, an idea for a story. For David Rodney was an author. During the last few days he had not conceived of one single idea to relieve the barrenness of his imagination. No new theme or angle so essential to the success of a tale of fantasy. He seemed mentally discontent, and utterly incapable of originality.
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The MIRROR By Charles Eric Maine David Rodney looked into the mirror, and saw no reflection. He was not surprised, because, so far as he knew, the mirror had never reflected anything other than the room in which it stood. It was generally accepted, he mused, that a mirror should reflect all that came within its range, but there was no law to state that there could not be an expectation...and, indeed, the exception proved the rule, or so tradition had it. Accordingly, he looked into the mirror, but saw no reflection of himself. It stood eight feet from the floor, and was three feet wide, forming a massive silver panel in the wall; a panel that, from a distance, resembled a doorway to another room. But the other room was an exact replica of the original, a mere reflection of no substance -- no being... Facing the mirror was a small carved table, on which was a typewriter, and Rodney sat down to type. The reflection shows the machine, with keys clicking merrily, but no sign of human agency, and he was amused. His fingers rambled idly over the keyboard, typing disconnected sentences and words, in the hope that an idea would evolve from somewhere, an idea for a plot, an idea for a story. For David Rodney was an author. During the last few days he had not conceived of one single idea to relieve the barrenness of his imagination. No new theme or angle so essential to the success of a tale of fantasy. He seemed mentally discontent, and utterly incapable of originality.
O ESPELHO Por Charles Eric Maine David Rodney olhou para o espelho e não viu reflexo algúm. Ele não estava surpreso, porque, até onde sabia, o espelho nunca havia refletido outra coisa que não o quarto no qual se encontrava. Era geralmente aceito, ele ponderou, que um espelho refletisse tudo em seu alcance, mas não havia lei a declarar que não poderia existir uma expectativa... e, de fato, a exeção provou a regra, ou o fez a tradição. Portando, ele olhou para o espelho, mas não viu o reflexo de si mesmo. O objeto ficava a oito pés do chão, e possuia três pés de largura, formando um painel prata e massivo na parede; o pianel que, a certa distância, assemelhava-se a uma entrada para outro quarto. Mas o outro quarto era um réplica exata do original, um mera reflexão sem qualquer substância. Em frente ao espelho estava uma pequena mesa entalhada, na qual uma máquina de escrever, e Rodney sentava-se para escrever. O reflexo mostra a máquina, com teclas clicando alegremente, mas sem nenhum sinal de intervenção humana, e ele estva encantado. Seus dedos perambularam ociosamente sobre o teclado, digitando palavras e frases desconexas, na esperança de que uma ideia surgiria de algúm lugar, uma ideia para um plot, para uma história. David Rodney era um autor. Durante os últimos dias, ele não havia concebido uma única ideia para aliviar a escassez da sua imaginação. Nenhum tema ou angulo novo tão essencial para o sucesso de um conto de fantasia. Ele pareceia disconectado mentamente, e completamente incapaz de alcançar a originalidade.
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