Continuing my celestial voyage, I left the system of Alpha Centauri to
penetrate into the starry depths of the Southern Cross. I traversed
sunny shores and deserts of night, passing from sun to sun, from system
to system, flying past stars which blinded me one moment and then were
engulfed by the infinite night. The normal state of the universe is
night and silence. There is no light except round the suns and planets;
there is no sound but in their immediate neighbourhood, in their
atmosphere. In skirting stellar groups, I noticed enormous globes
rolling in a strange light, and I often seemed to feel electric shocks,
magnetic disturbances, certain indefinable sensations which warned me,
by a sort of malaise, that such spheres are unsuitable for our mode of
existence, and that they are inhabited by beings whose perceptions,
feelings, and thoughts differ from ours. I remember particularly having
seen in the course of my flight a group of many-hued worlds illuminated
by three suns, one a ruby red, one an emerald green, and a third a
sapphire blue, and so singularly illuminated by this false light--false
to us, but natural to them--that I asked myself whether I was not the
victim of an illusion and whether such creations really exist, though,
indeed, having observed those well-known associations of coloured suns
hundred of times in the telescope, I ought not to have been in doubt
for an instant. I stopped and approached one of those worlds and saw
that it was inhabited by beings who seemed to be woven out of light. To
their eyes, certainly, the inhabitants of our planet would appear so
sombre, heavy, and coarse that they might legitimately ask whether we
were alive and whether we felt ourselves to be alive.
Those are worlds peopled by aerial organisms whose brightness surpasses
the tint of the freshest roses and purest lilies. These beings live on
the very atmosphere which they breathe, without being condemned, like
the inhabitants of our planet, to be constantly killing innumerable
animals with which to fill their bodies.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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