Thirty Strange StoriesWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Science
Thirty Strange Stories
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Fantasy fiction, English; Science fiction, English; Short stories, English
All this had happened so swiftly that, until I was some thousand miles
or so from the earth, I had no thought for myself. But now I perceived I
had neither hands nor feet, parts nor organs, and that I felt neither
alarm nor pain. All about me, I perceived that the vacancy (for I had
already left the air behind) was cold beyond the imagination of man; but
it troubled me not. The sun’s rays shot through the void, powerless to
light or heat until they should strike on matter in their course. I saw
things with a serene self-forgetfulness, even as if I were God. And down
below there, rushing away from me,—countless miles in a second,—where a
little dark spot on the grey marked the position of London, two doctors
were struggling to restore life to the poor hacked and outworn shell I
had abandoned. I felt then such release, such serenity, as I can compare
to no earthly delight I have ever known.
It was only after I had perceived all these things that the meaning of
that headlong rush of the earth grew into comprehension. Yet it was so
simple, so obvious, that I was amazed at my never anticipating the thing
that was happening to me. I had suddenly been cut adrift from matter:
all that was material of me was there upon earth, whirling away through
space, held to the earth by gravitation, partaking of the earth-inertia,
moving in its wreath of epicycles round the sun, and with the sun and
the planets on their vast march through space. But the immaterial has no
inertia, feels nothing of the pull of matter for matter: where it parts
from its garment of flesh there it remains (so far as space concerns it
any longer) immovable in space. _I_ was not leaving the earth: the earth
was leaving _me_, and not only the earth but the whole solar system was
streaming past. And about me in space, invisible to me, scattered in the
wake of the earth upon its journey, there must be an innumerable
multitude of souls, stripped like myself of the material, stripped like
myself of the passions of the individual and the generous emotions of
the gregarious brute, naked intelligences, things of newborn wonder and
thought, marvelling at the strange release that had suddenly come on
them!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account