Novel Bin
Chapter 132: Freedom?
Chapter 132: Freedom?
I can guarantee you freedom of speech. It's freedom after speech that I can't guarantee.
A line spoken by Idi Amin, the brutal authoritarian dictator of Uganda, as he sought to curb protests and revolts against his rule. It is a line that tells far more than it appears to, a phrase that extends beyond its immediate use as a threat to his adversaries. It is, in its essence, a paradox wrapped in simplicity—a contradiction that exposes the fragile nature of what we call freedom. In its sinister simplicity, the phrase holds far more weight than it first appears. What is freedom of speech if the consequences of speaking freely strip that very freedom away?
Opening a paradox, a far more unsettling reality: freedom, in its rawest form, has never been absolute.
If a man expresses himself freely, is he not merely exercising his rights? If a white man utters the N-word, can he truly be guilty of a crime when he is simply exercising his right to free speech? It does not matter in what context he says it or how it is received; the words leave his lips, and his right to express himself is fulfilled.
But what happens next? If a Black man hears him and is filled with rage, if emotions coming from a single forbidden word uttered—one that carries the weight of history, oppression, and violence surge beyond control and he strikes the man down, is that not an example of what Idi Amin meant? Is that not a case of freedom of speech being granted, but freedom after speech being denied?
Who, then, is wrong in this scenario? The obvious answer would be the one who resorts to violence over mere words. But then you look deeper. You open the Constitution the sacred pillar of democracy, that sacred text promising liberty, and you find that even in nations that pride themselves on free speech, there are limitations, boundaries placed upon what can and cannot be said. Words are not always free.
There are phrases outlawed, speeches that can lead to legal consequences. Even private companies, employers, and social media platforms wield the power to punish, to banish, to silence those who cross invisible lines.
So if freedom of speech is not truly without bounds, was it ever real? Was it always a grand illusion, the greatest deception ever sold to the masses? The idea that one is free to speak, yet subject to the arbitrary rules of an ever-changing system, is enough to shake the very foundation of belief. Is it true freedom of speech? If it is shackled by limitations and subject to punishment, was it ever real to begin with, or was it merely a comforting illusion?
Some argue that while speech is free, morality should dictate its use. That consequences are necessary, that ethics should guide expression. That one should face consequences for violating moral boundaries. But who decides what is moral? Should a serial killer's sense of morality be given the same weight as that of a man who merely wants to live in peace? Should collective morality dictate what is acceptable? And if so, how is it enforced? Through trials, laws, social condemnation? Yet morality is not a fixed concept. What is acceptable today may be condemned tomorrow, and what was once taboo may one day be celebrated.
The boundaries of expression shift not by law alone but by societal consensus—one that is fragile, fickle, and ever-changing. Whose morality reigns supreme? That of a pacifist or a warlord? Of the old or the young? Of a serial killer who sees no wrong in his actions or of a law-abiding citizen who clings to the idea of universal ethics?
It shifts, bends, reshapes itself according to culture, religion, history, race, tribe. No universal moral code exists, and what was deemed unacceptable yesterday may be embraced tomorrow. And if that is the case, what happens to those prosecuted for actions that are later normalized?
Humanity claims to evolve, to grow in intellect, in ethics, in understanding. Scientifically, yes, we progress. But morally? Historically? Do we truly advance, or do we merely cycle through variations of the same mistakes? Our morals are relics, handed down from generation to generation, shaped not by reason but by tradition. A parent to a child, a pastor to his congregation, an imam to his worshippers, a society to its members. Change does not bring unity; it breeds division. And yet, no one dares to question it.
But should they? Should they not question everything? Or is there danger in thinking too deeply? And so, few ever dare to question. Because to question means to think, and as it has been said:
"A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thoughts, so he loses touch with reality and lives in a world of illusion."
A saying, often repeated in jest, now reduced to memes and social media captions, its meaning lost on the masses. But in its final word lies the answer to it all:
Illusion.
If one begins to think too deeply about freedom, one will come to realize that it was never truly there to begin with. If speech has boundaries, if expression is dictated by the shifting tides of societal norms, then is freedom not a lie? If morality is shaped by forces beyond one's control, then is choice itself not an illusion?
If speech is policed by unseen forces—by laws, by corporations, by the judgment of peers—then is there any true expression? If the individual is shackled by the morals of the many, then is anyone truly free?
And what is today's definition of freedom? The ability to switch between a thousand television channels? To download explicit videos? To consume, to spend, to indulge without consequence? Is that freedom? Or is it simply a new form of slavery, where chains have been replaced by distractions?
And humanity has embraced this notion. A notion that took decades, centuries, eons to instill. A notion that was burned into the psyche of every individual until it became truth.
But then another idea was introduced: that a human being is not simply free by existence but must earn their freedom. That one must work, toil, accumulate wealth to buy their way into liberty. That from birth, an empty shell must be filled with purpose—a purpose dictated by a system that was designed long before their existence.
And yet, they are happy. They work. They earn. They spend. They chase this fabricated concept of choice. They believe that they are free.
But are they?
Consider a runaway bride. She flees her oppressive fiancé, finds solace in the arms of another, and together they speed down an open road. The sun sets before them, the horizon stretching infinitely ahead. They reach an intersection, and her lover turns to her and says, "Left or right?"
And in that moment, she feels it. The thrill of choice. The weight of freedom. She believes that she is deciding her own path.
But did she?
No.
For she did not build the roads. The grandest choices in life were made long before her. The streets were laid, the system designed, the parameters set. She was given the illusion of choice, but the choices themselves were always predetermined.
All of this—the cheers, the chants, the slogans, the subliminal messages, the symbols woven into history—was decided long before she, or anyone else, ever thought to question it.
Are we, then, all trapped in an illusion?
No.
Because illusions do not form themselves. Someone must create them. And those who do, those who construct the framework of reality, exist beyond it.
Not to delve too deeply into the nature of freedom itself, the question then arises: can freedom be obtained?
It was said that Cassius Blackwell obtained freedom. But how? Through wealth? Through power? If freedom is something that can be purchased, then the more one earns, the more one can afford to break free. The higher one climbs, the more they see how little it all matters. The higher they ascend, the more apparent the chains become, wrapped tightly around those below.
Money and power dictate the degree of freedom one can attain. Only those who reach the peak, who stand at the summit, can claim true liberty.
And those who control this system? They are the same ones who once sat in a room, map spread before them, carving borders into existence, dictating which human belonged where, forging nations, creating divisions. They are the architects of nationalism, of control, of restriction.
And they have always followed the same formula:
Miracle. Mystery. Authority.
And now, in the modern age, two members of that ruling class were at war.
A battle between titans, a game where one played chess and the other played checkers. One aggressive, one calculated. And the battleground?
The citizens. The people. The ordinary masses who believed they had a stake in the conflict, unaware that they were merely collateral damage in a game they could never hope to win.
"When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers."
An African proverb, timeless in its wisdom. And now, it applied once more.
Nathaniel Rockefeller had declared war on Alexander Blackwell.
Two giants, two forces beyond comprehension, prepared to clash.
And when they did, it was not they who would suffer.
It was the little people.
The ones who never truly had freedom to begin with.
Because freedom? Freedom is nothing but a carefully constructed illusion.
Special shoutout to VisineAnt for giving me another Golden Ticket—thank you so much! I'm so happy you're still here, reading along.
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I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! I could keep going, but it's time to get back to the main plot.
Thanks for reading—love you all! 💖
㥝㱬㨊䴨㵶䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䴨㖦㮙㽂㨊䴨㱬䮷 䗦㽂䉜䛹䉜䢝㨊㨊 㯘㱬㽂㟡㱬 䩵㨊 䳞㱬䢝 䣦㽂䮟䴨㱈䢝 䣦䮟䩵䲫䩵—䝕䣦䣦䞈 䩵㨊 䴨䛹 䴨㨊 㱈㽂䮟䮟㽂㺨㺓䴨䩵䮟䮟䭦 㱈䩵䮟䮟䢝㵶—䗝䢝㟡 䭠㽂䉜㯘'㨊 䮟䩵䉜䮷䢝㨊䛹 䩵㱬㵶 㖦㽂㨊䛹 䗦㽂䉜㖦䴨㵶䩵䢈䮟䢝 䮟䩵㟡 䢝㱬䗦㽂䉜㱈䢝㖦䢝㱬䛹 㐨䢝䩵㵶㺨㺓䩵䉜䛹䢝䉜㨊䞈 䛹㐨䢝 㟡䢝䴨䮷㐨䛹 㽂䗦 䮟䩵㟡 䩵㱬㵶 㽂䉜㵶䢝䉜 㨊䩵䛹 㐨䢝䩵䅾䭦 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䩵䴨䉜䛼 䤘㐨䴨㨊 㟡䩵㨊 䛹㐨䢝 㐨䢝䩵䉜䛹 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 䗝䭠䣦䖆䞈 䩵 䢈䢝㐨䢝㖦㽂䛹㐨 㽂䗦 䩵㱬 䴨㱬㨊䛹䴨䛹㺓䛹䴨㽂㱬䞈 㐨㽂㺓㨊䴨㱬䮷 㽂䅾䢝䉜 䯩㘼䞈㘼㘼㘼 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䢝䉜㨊䞈 㵶䢝䛹䢝㱈䛹䴨䅾䢝㨊䞈 䩵㱬㵶 䩵㵶㖦䴨㱬䴨㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䴨䅾䢝 㨊䛹䩵䗦䗦䛼 䤘㐨䢝 䢈㺓䴨䮟㵶䴨㱬䮷 䴨䛹㨊䢝䮟䗦 㟡䩵㨊 䩵㱬 䩵䉜㱈㐨䴨䛹䢝㱈䛹㺓䉜䩵䮟 㨊䛹䩵䛹䢝㖦䢝㱬䛹—䮟㽂㽂㖦䴨㱬䮷䞈 㱈㽂䮟㵶䞈 䩵㱬㵶 㱈䩵䮟㱈㺓䮟䩵䛹䢝㵶䛼 㧹䅾䢝䉜䭦 㐨䩵䮟䮟㟡䩵䭦 䢝㱈㐨㽂䢝㵶 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䛹㐨䢝 㐨㺓䉜䉜䴨䢝㵶 䗦㽂㽂䛹㨊䛹䢝㮙㨊 㽂䗦 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䢝䉜㨊䞈 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䛹䢝䩵㵶䭦 㐨㺓㖦 㽂䗦 䢈㺓䉜䢝䩵㺓㱈䉜䩵㱈䭦䞈 䩵㱬㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㖦㺓䛹䢝㵶 䛹䢝㱬㨊䴨㽂㱬 㽂䗦 㐨䴨䮷㐨䅶㨊䛹䩵㯘䢝㨊 㵶䢝㱈䴨㨊䴨㽂㱬㨊䛼
㹧㖦䴨㵶㨊䛹 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㱈㽂㱬䛹䉜㽂䮟䮟䢝㵶 㱈㐨䩵㽂㨊䞈 䴨㱬 㽂㱬䢝 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㱈㽂㺓㱬䛹䮟䢝㨊㨊 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䢝㨊 䮟䴨㱬䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝 䮟䩵䢈䭦䉜䴨㱬䛹㐨䴨㱬䢝 㱈㽂䉜䉜䴨㵶㽂䉜㨊䞈 䩵 㨊䛹㽂䉜㖦 㟡䩵㨊 䢈䉜䢝㟡䴨㱬䮷䛼 䤘㐨䴨㨊 㟡䩵㨊 㨊㺓㮙㮙㽂㨊䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䢈䢝 䩵 㮙䮟䩵㱈䢝 㽂䗦 㽂䉜㵶䢝䉜䞈 㽂䗦 㮙䉜㽂䛹㽂㱈㽂䮟䞈 䭦䢝䛹 䛹㽂㵶䩵䭦䞈 㽂㱬䢝 㖦䩵㱬 㟡䩵㨊 㵶䴨㨊䉜㺓㮙䛹䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㮙䢝䩵㱈䢝䛼
"㥝'㖦 䛹䢝䮟䮟䴨㱬䮷 䭦㽂㺓—䛹㐨䢝䭦 䗦䴨䉜䢝㵶 䩵 䮷㺓㱬 䴨㱬䛹㽂 䩵 㨊䢝䩵 㽂䗦 㮙䢝䩵㱈䢝䗦㺓䮟 㮙䉜㽂䛹䢝㨊䛹䢝䉜㨊㗉 㹧䮟䢝䀁䩵㱬㵶䢝䉜 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟 䩵㱬㵶 㐨䴨㨊 䮷㺓䩵䉜㵶㨊 㱬䢝䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䢈䢝 䩵䉜䉜䢝㨊䛹䢝㵶㗉" 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 㟡䩵㨊 㱬㽂䛹 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䮟㽂㺓㵶㭎 䴨䛹 㟡䩵㨊 䩵㺓䛹㐨㽂䉜䴨䛹䩵䛹䴨䅾䢝䞈 䢈䉜䴨㖦㖦䴨㱬䮷 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䉜䴨䮷㐨䛹䢝㽂㺓㨊 䴨㱬㵶䴨䮷㱬䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬䛼
䤘㐨䢝 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䴨䩵䮟 䗦䩵㱈䴨㱬䮷 㐨䴨㖦䞈 䩵 㖦䩵㱬 㟡㐨㽂 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䛹䉜䩵䴨㱬䢝㵶 䛹㽂 㐨䩵㱬㵶䮟䢝 䛹㐨䢝 㖦㽂㨊䛹 䅾㽂䮟䩵䛹䴨䮟䢝 㽂䗦 㮙䢝䉜㨊㽂㱬䩵䮟䴨䛹䴨䢝㨊䞈 㖦䩵䴨㱬䛹䩵䴨㱬䢝㵶 䩵 㮙䉜㽂䗦䢝㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬䩵䮟 䅾䢝㱬䢝䢝䉜䛼 䕁䴨㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 㟡䩵㨊 㖦䢝䩵㨊㺓䉜䢝㵶䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㟡㽂䉜㵶㨊 㵶䢝䮟䴨䢈䢝䉜䩵䛹䢝䛼 "䈽䉜䛼 䭘䢝䮟—"
䤘㐨䢝 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䴨䩵䮟 䩵䉜㱈㐨䢝㵶 䩵㱬 䢝䭦䢝䢈䉜㽂㟡䞈 㺓㱬䴨㖦㮙䉜䢝㨊㨊䢝㵶 䢈䭦 䛹㐨䢝 㱈㽂䉜䉜䢝㱈䛹䴨㽂㱬䛼 "㥝㨊 䛹㐨䩵䛹 䭦㽂㺓䉜 䉜䢝䩵䮟 㱬䩵㖦䢝㸰"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 㮙䩵䛹䴨䢝㱬㱈䢝 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䮟䉜䢝䩵㵶䭦 䛹㐨䴨㱬䞈 䢈㺓䛹 㱬㽂㟡 䴨䛹 䗦䉜䩵䭦䢝㵶 䗦㺓䉜䛹㐨䢝䉜䛼 "䭠䢝㨊䞈 䴨䛹 䴨㨊䛼"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 䢝䉜㺓㮙䛹䢝㵶䛼 "䗝㽂䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䭦㽂㺓 㱈䩵㱬 㵶㽂㸰㗉 䖆㽂 䭦㽂㺓 㯘㱬㽂㟡 㐨㽂㟡 㖦䩵㱬䭦 㮙䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 㟡䢝䉜䢝 䴨㱬㦲㺓䉜䢝㵶 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䛹䩵㖦㮙䢝㵶䢝 㱈䩵㺓㨊䢝㵶 䢈䭦 䛹㐨䩵䛹 䮷㺓㱬㨊㐨㽂䛹㸰 䖆㽂 䭦㽂㺓 㐨䩵䅾䢝 䩵㱬䭦 䴨㵶䢝䩵 㟡㐨䩵䛹 䴨䛹 㟡䩵㨊 䮟䴨㯘䢝㸰 䣦䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 㟡䢝䉜䢝 䛹䉜䩵㖦㮙䮟䢝㵶㗉 䣦䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 㟡䢝䉜䢝 䛹䢝䉜䉜䴨䗦䴨䢝㵶㗉 䤘㐨䩵䛹 䢈㺓䮟䮟䢝䛹 䛹㺓䉜㱬䢝㵶 䩵 㮙䢝䩵㱈䢝䗦㺓䮟 㵶䢝㖦㽂㱬㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬 䴨㱬䛹㽂 㨊㐨䢝䢝䉜 㱈㐨䩵㽂㨊㗉"
䕁䴨㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 䉜䩵㱬䮷 䛹㐨䉜㽂㺓䮷㐨 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䢝䞈 㵶䉜䩵㟡䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝 䢝䭦䢝㨊 㽂䗦 㮙䩵㨊㨊䢝䉜㨊䢈䭦䛼 䱃㺓䛹 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䩵 䗦䢝㟡 㨊䛹䢝㮙㨊 䩵㟡䩵䭦䞈 䴨㱬㨊䴨㵶䢝 䛹㐨䢝 㖦㽂㨊䛹 䢝䀁㮙䩵㱬㨊䴨䅾䢝 䩵㱬㵶 䮟㺓䀁㺓䉜䴨㽂㺓㨊 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䢝 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䢝㱬䛹䴨䉜䢝 䢈㺓䴨䮟㵶䴨㱬䮷䞈 䩵 㖦䩵㱬 㟡䩵䛹㱈㐨䢝㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㱈㽂㖦㖦㽂䛹䴨㽂㱬 㺓㱬䗦㽂䮟㵶 䛹㐨䉜㽂㺓䮷㐨 㐨䴨㨊 䉜䢝䴨㱬䗦㽂䉜㱈䢝㵶 䮷䮟䩵㨊㨊 㟡䴨㱬㵶㽂㟡䛼
䂄㽂㖦㖦䴨㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬䢝䉜 䨈㽂㱬䩵䛹㐨䩵㱬 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝䛼
䕁䴨㨊 㱬䩵㖦䢝 㱈䩵䉜䉜䴨䢝㵶 㟡䢝䴨䮷㐨䛹䞈 㱬㽂䛹 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䗝䭠䣦䖆 䢈㺓䛹 䢈䢝䭦㽂㱬㵶䛼 䕁䢝 㟡䩵㨊 㱬㽂 㽂䉜㵶䴨㱬䩵䉜䭦 䮟䩵㟡㖦䩵㱬㭎 㐨䢝 㟡䩵㨊 䩵 㮙䉜㽂㵶㺓㱈䛹 㽂䗦 䮟䴨㱬䢝䩵䮷䢝䞈 䩵 㨊㱈䴨㽂㱬 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 䗦䩵㖦䴨䮟䭦—㽂㱬䢝 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㖦䩵㱬䭦 㮙㽂㟡䢝䉜䗦㺓䮟 㐨㽂㺓㨊䢝㨊 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㵶 㨊䢝䉜䅾䢝㵶 䩵㱬㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䛹䴨䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䢝䮟䴨䛹䢝 䗦䩵㖦䴨䮟䴨䢝㨊 䗦㽂䉜 䮷䢝㱬䢝䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬㨊䛼 䤘㐨䴨㨊 㟡䩵㨊 䗝䢝㟡 䭠㽂䉜㯘䞈 㟡㐨䢝䉜䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䛹䉜㺓䢝 㮙㽂㟡䢝䉜 䮟䩵䭦 㱬㽂䛹 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䴨㱬 䮷㽂䅾䢝䉜㱬㖦䢝㱬䛹 㮙㽂㨊䴨䛹䴨㽂㱬㨊 䢈㺓䛹 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䴨㱬䛹䉜䴨㱈䩵䛹䢝 㟡䢝䢈 㽂䗦 䩵䮟䮟䴨䩵㱬㱈䢝㨊 䢈䢝䛹㟡䢝䢝㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䉜㺓䮟䴨㱬䮷 䢝䮟䴨䛹䢝 䩵㱬㵶 䛹㐨䢝䴨䉜 䢝㱬䗦㽂䉜㱈䢝䉜㨊䛼 㹧䮟㖦㽂㨊䛹 䢝䅾䢝䉜䭦 㐨䴨䮷㐨䅶䉜䩵㱬㯘䴨㱬䮷 㮙㽂㨊䴨䛹䴨㽂㱬 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 㱈䴨䛹䭦 㟡䩵㨊 䗦䴨䮟䮟䢝㵶 䢈䭦 䴨㱬㵶䴨䅾䴨㵶㺓䩵䮟㨊 㟡㐨㽂 㟡䢝䉜䢝䞈 䴨㱬 㽂㱬䢝 㟡䩵䭦 㽂䉜 䩵㱬㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜䞈 䢈䢝㐨㽂䮟㵶䢝㱬 䛹㽂 䛹㐨䢝 䢝䮟䴨䛹䢝䛼 㹧㱬㵶 䂄㽂㖦㖦䴨㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬䢝䉜 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 㟡䩵㨊 㱬㽂 䢝䀁㱈䢝㮙䛹䴨㽂㱬䛼
"䭠䢝㨊䞈 㐨䢝'㨊 㐨䢝䉜䢝䞈" 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 㨊䩵䴨㵶 㨊㖦㽂㽂䛹㐨䮟䭦䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 㱈䩵䉜䉜䭦䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝 㯘䴨㱬㵶 㽂䗦 䩵㨊㨊㺓䉜䢝㵶 㱈㽂㱬䗦䴨㵶䢝㱬㱈䢝 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㽂㱬䮟䭦 㱈䩵㖦䢝 䗦䉜㽂㖦 䭦䢝䩵䉜㨊 㽂䗦 㱬䩵䅾䴨䮷䩵䛹䴨㱬䮷 㮙㽂㟡䢝䉜 㨊䛹䉜㺓䮷䮷䮟䢝㨊䛼 "䱃㺓䛹 䗦䉜㽂㖦 㟡㐨䩵䛹 㟡䢝'䅾䢝 䮷䩵䛹㐨䢝䉜䢝㵶䞈 䴨䛹'㨊 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䩵 䮷㺓㱬㨊㐨㽂䛹 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䩵䴨䉜䛼 䗝㽂 䗦䩵䛹䩵䮟䴨䛹䴨䢝㨊䛼"
䕁䢝 䮟䴨㨊䛹䢝㱬䢝㵶 䩵㨊 䛹㐨䢝 㮙䢝䉜㨊㽂㱬 㽂㱬 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜 䢝㱬㵶 㨊㮙㽂㯘䢝䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䴨㱬䮷䢝䉜㨊 䛹䩵㮙㮙䴨㱬䮷 䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹䮟䭦 㽂㱬 㐨䴨㨊 㵶䢝㨊㯘 䴨㱬 䩵㱬 㺓㱬㐨㺓䉜䉜䴨䢝㵶 䉜㐨䭦䛹㐨㖦䛼
㹧 㮙䩵㺓㨊䢝䛼 䈽㽂䉜䢝 㟡㽂䉜㵶㨊 䗦䉜㽂㖦 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜 㨊䴨㵶䢝䛼 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 㨊㖦䴨䉜㯘䢝㵶 㨊䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹䮟䭦䞈 㨊㐨䩵㯘䴨㱬䮷 㐨䴨㨊 㐨䢝䩵㵶䛼 "䭠䢝㨊䞈 㥝 㺓㱬㵶䢝䉜㨊䛹䩵㱬㵶䛼 䱃㺓䛹 㟡䢝 㱬䢝䢝㵶 㨊㽂㖦䢝䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䢈䴨䮷䮷䢝䉜䛼 䤘㐨䴨㨊㸰 䤘㐨䴨㨊 䴨㨊 㱬㽂䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷䛼"
䕁䴨㨊 䢝䭦䢝㨊 㵶䉜䴨䗦䛹䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 䩵䮷䩵䴨㱬䞈 㟡䩵䛹㱈㐨䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝 䭦㽂㺓㱬䮷䢝䉜 㖦䩵㱬'㨊 䗦䉜㺓㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬 䢈㽂䴨䮟 㽂䅾䢝䉜䛼 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 䩵䮟䉜䢝䩵㵶䭦 㯘㱬䢝㟡 㟡㐨䩵䛹 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹䛼 䕁䢝 㯘㱬䢝㟡 㟡㐨䩵䛹 䩵䮟䮟 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹䛼 䤘㐨䢝 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟㨊 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 㺓㱬㵶䢝䉜 㨊䴨䢝䮷䢝 䗦㽂䉜 㟡䢝䢝㯘㨊 㱬㽂㟡䞈 䛹䩵䉜䮷䢝䛹䢝㵶 㨊䭦㨊䛹䢝㖦䩵䛹䴨㱈䩵䮟䮟䭦 䢈䭦 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜 䢝䮟䴨䛹䢝 䗦䩵㖦䴨䮟䴨䢝㨊䛼 䤘㐨䢝 㽂䉜㱈㐨䢝㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹㽂䉜㸰 䗝䩵䛹㐨䩵㱬䴨䢝䮟 㳗㽂㱈㯘䢝䉜䗦䢝䮟䮟䢝䉜䛼
㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 䢝䀁㐨䩵䮟䢝㵶䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㖦䴨㱬㵶 䢈䉜䴨䢝䗦䮟䭦 䉜㺓㱬㱬䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䉜㽂㺓䮷㐨 䛹㐨䢝 䩵䛹䛹䩵㱈㯘㨊 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㵶 䩵䮟䉜䢝䩵㵶䭦 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䮟䩵㺓㱬㱈㐨䢝㵶 䩵䮷䩵䴨㱬㨊䛹 䛹㐨䢝 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟㨊䛼 䤘㐨䢝䭦 㐨䩵㵶 䮷㽂㱬䢝 䩵䗦䛹䢝䉜 䛹㐨䢝䴨䉜 䢈㺓㨊䴨㱬䢝㨊㨊 䢝㖦㮙䴨䉜䢝䞈 䢈㺓䛹 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟 㐨䩵㵶 㖦䩵㵶䢝 䴨䛹 㵶䴨䗦䗦䴨㱈㺓䮟䛹—㱬㽂 㱈䮟䢝䩵䉜 㐨䢝䩵㵶㺨㺓䩵䉜䛹䢝䉜㨊䞈 㱬㽂 䢝䩵㨊䴨䮟䭦 䩵㱈㱈䢝㨊㨊䴨䢈䮟䢝 䢝㖦㮙䮟㽂䭦䢝䢝 䉜䢝㱈㽂䉜㵶㨊䛼 䤘㐨䢝 㺓㨊㺓䩵䮟 㱈㽂䉜㮙㽂䉜䩵䛹䢝 䛹䩵㯘䢝㵶㽂㟡㱬 㖦䢝䛹㐨㽂㵶㨊 㐨䩵㵶 䗦䩵䴨䮟䢝㵶䛼 䤘㐨䢝㱬 㱈䩵㖦䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䗦䴨㱬䩵㱬㱈䴨䩵䮟 䩵㨊㨊䩵㺓䮟䛹㨊—䛹䩵䀁 䴨㱬䅾䢝㨊䛹䴨䮷䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬㨊䞈 䩵㨊㨊䢝䛹 䗦䉜䢝䢝䲫䢝㨊䛼 䱃㺓䛹 䩵䮷䩵䴨㱬䞈 㱬㽂䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 㨊䛹㺓㱈㯘䛼 䤘㐨䢝䴨䉜 䗦䴨㱬䩵㱬㱈䴨䩵䮟 㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䢝䮷䴨㨊䛹 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 㵶䢝䛹䩵䴨㱬䢝㵶䞈 䢈㺓䛹 䢝䅾䢝㱬 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䩵 䗦䉜㺓䴨䛹䮟䢝㨊㨊 䢝㱬㵶䢝䩵䅾㽂䉜䛼 䕁䢝 㐨䩵㵶 㺓㨊䢝㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䩵㖦䢝 䮟㽂㽂㮙㐨㽂䮟䢝㨊 䛹㐨䢝 䢝䮟䴨䛹䢝 䗦䩵㖦䴨䮟䴨䢝㨊 䉜䢝䮟䴨䢝㵶 㺓㮙㽂㱬䞈 㖦䩵㯘䴨㱬䮷 㮙䉜㽂㨊䢝㱈㺓䛹䴨㽂㱬 䴨㖦㮙㽂㨊㨊䴨䢈䮟䢝䛼
䤘㐨䢝 㽂㱬䮟䭦 䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㵶 㟡㽂䉜㯘䢝㵶 㨊㽂 䗦䩵䉜 㟡䩵㨊 㱈㽂㱬㨊䛹䩵㱬䛹䞈 䉜䢝䮟䢝㱬䛹䮟䢝㨊㨊 㐨䩵䉜䩵㨊㨊㖦䢝㱬䛹䛼 䂄㐨䴨㮙㮙䴨㱬䮷 䩵㟡䩵䭦 䩵䛹 䛹㐨䢝䴨䉜 㨊䛹䩵䢈䴨䮟䴨䛹䭦䛼 㹧㮙㮙䮟䭦䴨㱬䮷 㮙䉜䢝㨊㨊㺓䉜䢝䛼 㼛㽂䉜㱈䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝㖦 㽂㱬䛹㽂 䛹㐨䢝 㵶䢝䗦䢝㱬㨊䴨䅾䢝䛼
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 㟡䩵㨊 㨊㺓㮙㮙㽂㨊䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䢈䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䗦䴨㱬䩵䮟 㮙㺓㨊㐨䛼 䤘㐨䢝 㮙䢝䉜䗦䢝㱈䛹 䛹㽂㽂䮟 䛹㽂 䢝㨊㱈䩵䮟䩵䛹䢝 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䴨䛹㺓䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬䛼 䭠䢝䛹䞈 䢝䅾䢝㱬 㱬㽂㟡䞈 㹧䮟㵶䉜䴨㵶䮷䢝 㨊䩵㟡 䛹㐨䢝 㮙䉜㽂䢈䮟䢝㖦䛼 䤘㐨䢝 㱈䩵㨊䢝 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 㟡䩵㨊 㮙䉜䢝㨊䢝㱬䛹䴨㱬䮷 㟡䩵㨊 㟡䢝䩵㯘䛼 㥝䉜䉜䢝䮟䢝䅾䩵㱬䛹䛼 㥝䛹 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶䞈 䩵䛹 㖦㽂㨊䛹䞈 䢈䢝 䩵 䛹䢝㖦㮙㽂䉜䩵䉜䭦 䴨㱬㱈㽂㱬䅾䢝㱬䴨䢝㱬㱈䢝 䛹㽂 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟䞈 㱬㽂䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㯘㱬㽂㱈㯘㽂㺓䛹 䢈䮟㽂㟡 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㱬䢝䢝㵶䢝㵶䛼
䤘㐨䢝 㱈㽂㖦㖦䴨㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬䢝䉜 䮟䢝䩵㱬䢝㵶 䢈䩵㱈㯘 䴨㱬 㐨䴨㨊 㱈㐨䩵䴨䉜䞈 䗦䴨㱬䮷䢝䉜㨊 䴨㱬䛹䢝䉜䮟㽂㱈㯘䴨㱬䮷 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 䢝䀁㐨䩵䮟䢝㵶 㵶䢝䢝㮙䮟䭦䛼
䱃㺓䛹 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㵶䴨㵶㱬'䛹䛼 䗝㽂䛹 䭦䢝䛹䛼
㹧㱬㵶 㺓㱬䛹䴨䮟 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㵶䴨㵶䞈 㹧䮟䢝䀁䩵㱬㵶䢝䉜 䱃䮟䩵㱈㯘㟡䢝䮟䮟 㟡㽂㺓䮟㵶 㱈㽂㱬䛹䴨㱬㺓䢝 䛹㽂 䢝䅾䩵㵶䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䴨㱬䢝䅾䴨䛹䩵䢈䮟䢝䛼
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟䞈 㟡㐨㽂 㐨䩵㵶 㦲㺓㨊䛹 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䛹㺓䉜㱬䢝㵶 䩵㟡䩵䭦䞈 㨊䛹㽂䉜㖦䢝㵶 㽂㺓䛹 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 䴨㖦㮙㽂㨊䴨㱬䮷 㮙㽂䮟䴨㱈䢝 㐨䢝䩵㵶㺨㺓䩵䉜䛹䢝䉜㨊䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㖦䴨㱬㵶 䩵 㟡㐨䴨䉜䮟㟡䴨㱬㵶 㽂䗦 䗦䉜㺓㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬 䩵㱬㵶 㨊䢝䢝䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䩵㱬䮷䢝䉜䛼 䕁䢝 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶 㨊䛹䴨䮟䮟 㐨䢝䩵䉜 䛹㐨䢝 㵶䴨㨊㖦䴨㨊㨊䴨䅾䢝 䛹㽂㱬䢝 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䗦䗦䴨㱈䴨䩵䮟 䴨㱬 㐨䴨㨊 䢝䩵䉜㨊䞈 䛹㐨䢝 㟡䩵䭦 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䉜㺓㨊㐨䢝㵶 㐨䴨㖦 㽂䗦䗦 䩵㨊 䴨䗦 䛹㐨䢝 䮟䴨䅾䢝㨊 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㮙䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 㟡㐨㽂 㐨䩵㵶 㨊㺓䗦䗦䢝䉜䢝㵶 䩵䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㮙䉜㽂䛹䢝㨊䛹 㟡䢝䉜䢝 䴨㱬㨊䴨䮷㱬䴨䗦䴨㱈䩵㱬䛹䛼 䕁䴨㨊 䗦䴨㨊䛹㨊 㱈䮟䢝㱬㱈㐨䢝㵶䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㦲䩵㟡 䛹䴨䮷㐨䛹䢝㱬䢝㵶䞈 䩵㱬㵶 䢝䅾䢝䉜䭦 㨊䛹䢝㮙 㐨䢝 䛹㽂㽂㯘 㽂㺓䛹 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 䢈㺓䴨䮟㵶䴨㱬䮷 䗦䢝䮟䛹 㐨䢝䩵䅾䴨䢝䉜 䛹㐨䩵㱬 䛹㐨䢝 䮟䩵㨊䛹䛼 䕁㽂㟡 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㵶㽂 㱬㽂䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷㸰 䕁㽂㟡 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㦲㺓㨊䛹 㨊䛹䩵㱬㵶 䢈䭦 䩵㱬㵶 䴨䮷㱬㽂䉜䢝 㟡㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㵶 㐨䩵㮙㮙䢝㱬䢝㵶㸰
㹧㨊 㐨䢝 䉜䢝䩵㱈㐨䢝㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䴨㵶䢝㟡䩵䮟㯘䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䢝䩵䉜㨊 㱈䩵㺓䮷㐨䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㨊㽂㺓㱬㵶 㽂䗦 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝㨊 㱈䩵䮟䮟䴨㱬䮷 㐨䴨㨊 㱬䩵㖦䢝䛼 䕁䢝 䛹㺓䉜㱬䢝㵶 㐨䴨㨊 㐨䢝䩵㵶 㨊㐨䩵䉜㮙䮟䭦䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㖦䴨㱬㵶 㨊䛹䴨䮟䮟 㱈䮟㽂㺓㵶䢝㵶 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䉜䩵䮷䢝䞈 䢈㺓䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㖦㽂㖦䢝㱬䛹 㐨䴨㨊 䮷䩵䲫䢝 㨊䢝䛹䛹䮟䢝㵶 㽂㱬 䛹㐨䢝㖦䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䢝䀁㮙䉜䢝㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬 㨊㽂䗦䛹䢝㱬䢝㵶 㦲㺓㨊䛹 㨊䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹䮟䭦䛼 䤘㐨䢝䉜䢝 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㟡䢝䉜䢝—䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬䞈 䗝㽂䉜䩵䞈 䩵㱬㵶 䂄㐨䉜䴨㨊䛹䴨䩵㱬䩵—䛹㐨䢝 䛹㐨䉜䢝䢝 㮙䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 㟡㐨㽂 㐨䩵㵶 㨊䛹㽂㽂㵶 䢈䭦 㐨䴨㖦 䮟㽂㱬䮷 䢈䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝 䩵㱬䭦 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㐨䩵㵶 䢝㨊㱈䩵䮟䩵䛹䢝㵶䞈 䢈䩵㱈㯘 㟡㐨䢝㱬 䛹㐨䢝䴨䉜 㮙䉜㽂䛹䢝㨊䛹㨊 㟡䢝䉜䢝 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹 㱈㐨䴨㮙㮙䢝㵶 䛹䉜䢝䢝㨊 䩵㱬㵶 㖦䴨㱬㽂䉜 䢝㱬䅾䴨䉜㽂㱬㖦䢝㱬䛹䩵䮟 䴨㱬䗦䉜䩵㱈䛹䴨㽂㱬㨊䛼 䤘㐨䢝䭦 㐨䩵㵶 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䛹㐨䢝䉜䢝 䗦䉜㽂㖦 䛹㐨䢝 䅾䢝䉜䭦 䢈䢝䮷䴨㱬㱬䴨㱬䮷䞈 䩵㱬㵶 㱬㽂㟡䞈 䢝䅾䢝㱬 䩵㨊 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䛹䩵㯘䢝㨊 㐨䩵㵶 䉜䴨㨊䢝㱬䞈 䛹㐨䢝䭦 㟡䢝䉜䢝 㨊䛹䴨䮟䮟 㐨䢝䉜䢝䛼
"㹧䉜䢝 䭦㽂㺓 㽂㯘䩵䭦㸰 㑻䢝'䅾䢝 䢈䢝䢝㱬 䮟㽂㽂㯘䴨㱬䮷 䗦㽂䉜 䭦㽂㺓 䢝䅾䢝䉜䭦㟡㐨䢝䉜䢝㗉" 䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬 䩵㨊㯘䢝㵶䞈 㨊㱈䩵㱬㱬䴨㱬䮷 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 䗦䩵㱈䢝 䗦㽂䉜 䩵㱬䭦 㨊䴨䮷㱬 㽂䗦 㐨䩵䉜㖦䛼
"㑻㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㮙㮙䢝㱬䢝㵶 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝䉜䢝㸰 㑻㐨䩵䛹 䩵䉜䢝 䭦㽂㺓 䢝䅾䢝㱬 㵶㽂䴨㱬䮷 㐨䢝䉜䢝㸰" 䗝㽂䉜䩵 䩵㵶㵶䢝㵶䞈 㱈㽂㱬㱈䢝䉜㱬 䮟䩵㱈䴨㱬䮷 㐨䢝䉜 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝䛼
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 䢝䀁㐨䩵䮟䢝㵶 㨊㐨䩵䉜㮙䮟䭦䞈 䉜㺓䢈䢈䴨㱬䮷 䩵 㐨䩵㱬㵶 㵶㽂㟡㱬 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䩵㱈䢝 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 䛹䉜䴨䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䮷䩵䛹㐨䢝䉜 㐨䴨㨊 䛹㐨㽂㺓䮷㐨䛹㨊䛼 "㥝'㖦 䗦䴨㱬䢝䞈 㥝'㖦 䗦䴨㱬䢝䞈" 㐨䢝 㨊䩵䴨㵶 㺨㺓䴨㱈㯘䮟䭦䞈 䛹㐨㽂㺓䮷㐨 㐨䴨㨊 䛹㽂㱬䢝 䢈䢝䛹䉜䩵䭦䢝㵶 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䉜㺓㨊䛹䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬䛼 "㥝 㟡䢝㱬䛹 䴨㱬 䛹㐨䢝䉜䢝 䛹㽂 䉜䢝㮙㽂䉜䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㱈䩵㨊䢝䞈 䛹㽂 㖦䩵㯘䢝 䛹㐨䢝㖦 㵶㽂 㨊㽂㖦䢝䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷䞈 䢈㺓䛹 䛹㐨㽂㨊䢝 䗦㽂㽂䮟㨊—䛹㐨㽂㨊䢝 㺓㨊䢝䮟䢝㨊㨊 䢈䩵㨊䛹䩵䉜㵶㨊—㟡㽂㱬'䛹 䮟䴨䗦䛹 䩵 㵶䩵㖦㱬 䗦䴨㱬䮷䢝䉜㗉" 䕁䴨㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 䉜㽂㨊䢝 䴨㱬 䩵㱬䮷䢝䉜 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 㨊㮙䩵䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㟡㽂䉜㵶㨊 㽂㺓䛹䛼 "䤘㐨䢝䭦'䉜䢝 䩵㱈䛹䴨㱬䮷 䮟䴨㯘䢝 㱬㽂䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䢝䅾䢝㱬 㐨䩵㮙㮙䢝㱬䢝㵶㗉 䤝䴨㯘䢝 㱬㽂㱬䢝 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㖦䩵䛹䛹䢝䉜㨊㗉"
䕁䴨㨊 䢈䉜䢝䩵䛹㐨 㟡䩵㨊 䉜䩵䮷䮷䢝㵶䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䢈㽂㵶䭦 䛹䢝㱬㨊䢝䛼 䱃㺓䛹 䩵㨊 䛹㐨䢝 㟡㽂䉜㵶㨊 䮟䢝䗦䛹 㐨䴨㨊 㖦㽂㺓䛹㐨䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䮷䩵䲫䢝 䗦䮟䴨㱈㯘䢝䉜䢝㵶 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䮷㺓䴨䮟䛹䛼 "䱃㺓䛹 㟡㐨䩵䛹 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹 䭦㽂㺓 䮷㺓䭦㨊㸰 㹧䉜䢝 䭦㽂㺓 㽂㯘䩵䭦㸰 㥝'㖦 㨊㽂䉜䉜䭦 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹 㟡㐨䩵䛹 㐨䩵㮙㮙䢝㱬䢝㵶… 㥝 㵶䴨㵶㱬'䛹 䛹㐨䴨㱬㯘—"
"䀫㮙䢝䩵㯘 䗦㽂䉜 䭦㽂㺓䉜㨊䢝䮟䗦㗉" 䂄㐨䉜䴨㨊䛹䴨䩵㱬䩵 䴨㱬䛹䢝䉜㦲䢝㱈䛹䢝㵶䞈 㱈䉜㽂㨊㨊䴨㱬䮷 㐨䢝䉜 䩵䉜㖦㨊 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䩵 㵶䉜䩵㖦䩵䛹䴨㱈 㐨㺓䗦䗦䛼 "㥝 䮷㽂䛹 㨊㐨㽂䅾䢝㵶䞈 䭦㽂㺓 㯘㱬㽂㟡䛼 䈽䭦 䮟䢝䮷'㨊 䢈䉜㺓䴨㨊䢝㵶䛼 䣦䉜䢝䛹䛹䭦 㨊㺓䉜䢝 㥝'㖦 䮷㽂䴨㱬䮷 䛹㽂 䢈䢝 䮟䴨㖦㮙䴨㱬䮷 䗦㽂䉜 䩵 㟡䢝䢝㯘䛼"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 㟡䴨㱬㱈䢝㵶䛼 "䖆䩵㖦㱬… 䂄㐨䉜䴨㨊䛹䴨䩵㱬䩵䞈 㥝'㖦 䉜䢝䩵䮟䮟䭦 㨊㽂䉜䉜䭦䛼 㥝—"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 䮟䴨㮙㨊 㮙䩵䉜䛹䢝㵶 㨊䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹䮟䭦䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䢝䭦䢝㨊 䮷䮟䴨㨊䛹䢝㱬䴨㱬䮷 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 䮟㽂㽂㯘䢝㵶 䩵䛹 䛹㐨䢝㖦䛼 "䭠㽂㺓 䮷㺓䭦㨊…"
䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬 䮷䩵䅾䢝 㐨䴨㖦 䩵 䗦䴨䉜㖦 㱬㽂㵶䛼 "㑻䢝'䉜䢝 䩵䮟㟡䩵䭦㨊 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䭦㽂㺓䛼"
㹧 㨊㖦䩵䮟䮟䞈 䩵䮟㖦㽂㨊䛹 㐨䢝㨊䴨䛹䩵㱬䛹 㨊㖦䴨䮟䢝 䛹㺓䮷䮷䢝㵶 䩵䛹 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 䮟䴨㮙㨊䛼 䕁䢝 㐨䩵㵶 䛹㐨䢝 䢈䢝㨊䛹 㮙䢝㽂㮙䮟䢝 䢈䭦 㐨䴨㨊 㨊䴨㵶䢝䛼 䤘㐨䢝䭦 䢈䢝䮟䴨䢝䅾䢝㵶 䴨㱬 㐨䴨㖦 䢝䅾䢝㱬 㟡㐨䢝㱬 㐨䢝 㨊䛹䉜㺓䮷䮷䮟䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䢈䢝䮟䴨䢝䅾䢝 䴨㱬 㐨䴨㖦㨊䢝䮟䗦䛼
䤘㐨䢝㱬䞈 䩵㨊 䴨䗦 䉜䢝㖦䢝㖦䢈䢝䉜䴨㱬䮷 㨊㽂㖦䢝䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷䞈 䗝㽂䉜䩵'㨊 䢝䀁㮙䉜䢝㨊㨊䴨㽂㱬 㨊㐨䴨䗦䛹䢝㵶䛼 "䣦䮟㺓㨊䞈" 㨊㐨䢝 㨊䩵䴨㵶䞈 㐨䢝䉜 䛹㽂㱬䢝 䗦䴨䮟䮟䢝㵶 㟡䴨䛹㐨 䴨㱬䛹䉜䴨䮷㺓䢝䞈 "㥝 䛹㐨䴨㱬㯘 㟡䢝 㖦䴨䮷㐨䛹 㐨䩵䅾䢝 䮷㽂䛹䛹䢝㱬 㨊㽂㖦䢝䛹㐨䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䩵䛹 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶 㐨䢝䮟㮙䛼"
"䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬䞈 㨊㐨㽂㟡 㐨䴨㖦䞈" 䗝㽂䉜䩵 㨊䩵䴨㵶䞈 㱬㺓㵶䮷䴨㱬䮷 䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬 䗦㽂䉜㟡䩵䉜㵶䛼
䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬 䉜䢝䩵㱈㐨䢝㵶 䴨㱬䛹㽂 㐨䴨㨊 㮙㽂㱈㯘䢝䛹䞈 㮙㺓䮟䮟䴨㱬䮷 㽂㺓䛹 䩵 㨊㖦䩵䮟䮟䞈 䗦䮟䩵䛹 㽂䢈㦲䢝㱈䛹䛼 㥝䛹 䮷䮟䴨㱬䛹䢝㵶 㨊䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹䮟䭦 㺓㱬㵶䢝䉜 䛹㐨䢝 㵶䴨㖦 㨊䛹䉜䢝䢝䛹䮟䴨䮷㐨䛹㨊 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 㐨䢝䮟㵶 䴨䛹 㺓㮙䛼 "㥝 㖦䩵㱬䩵䮷䢝㵶 䛹㽂 䮷䉜䩵䢈 䛹㐨䴨㨊 㟡㐨䢝㱬 㥝 㟡䩵㨊 䢈䢝䴨㱬䮷 㮙㺓㨊㐨䢝㵶 䢈䩵㱈㯘 䢈䭦 䛹㐨䢝 䮷㺓䩵䉜㵶㨊䛼"
䱃䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝 㐨䢝 㱈㽂㺓䮟㵶 䗦䴨㱬䴨㨊㐨䞈 㐨䴨㨊 㮙㐨㽂㱬䢝 䢈㺓䲫䲫䢝㵶 䅾䴨㽂䮟䢝㱬䛹䮟䭦 䴨㱬 㐨䴨㨊 㮙㽂㱈㯘䢝䛹䛼 䤘㐨䢝 䅾䴨䢈䉜䩵䛹䴨㽂㱬 㨊䢝㱬䛹 䩵 㱈㐨䴨䮟䮟 䛹㐨䉜㽂㺓䮷㐨 㐨䴨㨊 㨊㮙䴨㱬䢝䛼 䕁䢝 䉜䢝䩵㱈㐨䢝㵶 䗦㽂䉜 䴨䛹 㐨䢝㨊䴨䛹䩵㱬䛹䮟䭦䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䴨㱬䮷䢝䉜㨊 㨊㺓㵶㵶䢝㱬䮟䭦 㺓㱬㨊䛹䢝䩵㵶䭦䛼 㩔䮟䩵㱬㱈䴨㱬䮷 䩵䛹 䛹㐨䢝 㨊㱈䉜䢝䢝㱬䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䩵㱈䢝 㮙䩵䮟䢝㵶 䗦㽂䉜 䩵 㨊㮙䮟䴨䛹 㨊䢝㱈㽂㱬㵶䛼
䕁䢝 㯘㱬䢝㟡 㟡㐨㽂 㟡䩵㨊 㱈䩵䮟䮟䴨㱬䮷䛼
"䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟—" 䗝㽂䉜䩵 㨊䛹䩵䉜䛹䢝㵶䞈 䢈㺓䛹 㐨䢝 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䮟䉜䢝䩵㵶䭦 㟡䩵䮟㯘䴨㱬䮷 䩵㟡䩵䭦䞈 䗦䩵㨊䛹䞈 䴨䮷㱬㽂䉜䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝䴨䉜 㱈䩵䮟䮟㨊 䩵㨊 㐨䢝 㨊㽂㺓䮷㐨䛹 㽂㺓䛹 䩵 㨊䢝㱈䮟㺓㵶䢝㵶 㱈㽂䉜㱬䢝䉜 㽂䗦 䛹㐨䢝 㨊䛹䉜䢝䢝䛹䛼
䳞㱬㱈䢝 㐨䢝 㟡䩵㨊 㨊㺓䉜䢝 㐨䢝 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䮟㽂㱬䢝䞈 㐨䢝 䛹㽂㽂㯘 䩵 㵶䢝䢝㮙 䢈䉜䢝䩵䛹㐨䞈 㨊䛹䢝䩵㵶䭦䴨㱬䮷 㐨䴨㖦㨊䢝䮟䗦 䢈䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝 㮙䉜䢝㨊㨊䴨㱬䮷 䛹㐨䢝 㮙㐨㽂㱬䢝 䛹㽂 㐨䴨㨊 䢝䩵䉜䛼
"䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟䛼 䭠㽂㺓 䗦䩵䴨䮟䢝㵶䛼"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟 䗦䮟䴨㱬㱈㐨䢝㵶 䩵㨊 䴨䗦 㨊䛹䉜㺓㱈㯘䛼 䕁䴨㨊 㖦㽂㺓䛹㐨 㽂㮙䢝㱬䢝㵶 䩵㱬㵶 㱈䮟㽂㨊䢝㵶䞈 㨊䢝䩵䉜㱈㐨䴨㱬䮷 䗦㽂䉜 䛹㐨䢝 䉜䴨䮷㐨䛹 㟡㽂䉜㵶㨊䛼 "䗝㽂䞈 㱬㽂䞈 㥝 㵶䴨㵶㱬'䛹㗉 㥝 㟡䩵㨊 䩵䢈㽂㺓䛹 䛹㽂 䮷䢝䛹 䴨㱬䞈 䢈㺓䛹 䛹㐨䢝㱬—"
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 䢈䉜䢝䩵䛹㐨 㐨䴨䛹㱈㐨䢝㵶䛼 䕁䴨㨊 䮷䉜䴨㮙 䛹䴨䮷㐨䛹䢝㱬䢝㵶 䩵䉜㽂㺓㱬㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㮙㐨㽂㱬䢝䛼 "㩔䴨䅾䢝 㖦䢝 䩵㱬㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜 㱈㐨䩵㱬㱈䢝䞈" 㐨䢝 㮙䮟䢝䩵㵶䢝㵶䞈 㐨䴨㨊 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 䢈䩵䉜䢝䮟䭦 䩵䢈㽂䅾䢝 䩵 㟡㐨䴨㨊㮙䢝䉜䛼 "㥝'㖦 㱈䮟㽂㨊䢝䞈 㥝 㨊㟡䢝䩵䉜䛼 䨈㺓㨊䛹 䮷䴨䅾䢝 㖦䢝 㖦㽂䉜䢝 䛹䴨㖦䢝䛼 䣦䮟䢝䩵㨊䢝䛼"
㹧 䮟㽂㱬䮷 㨊䴨䮟䢝㱬㱈䢝 㨊䛹䉜䢝䛹㱈㐨䢝㵶 䢈䢝䛹㟡䢝䢝㱬 䛹㐨䢝㖦 䢈䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝 䛹㐨䢝 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 䗦䴨㱬䩵䮟䮟䭦 㨊㮙㽂㯘䢝 䩵䮷䩵䴨㱬䞈 㱈㽂䮟㵶䢝䉜 䛹㐨䩵㱬 䢈䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝䛼 "㥝䛹'㨊 㽂䅾䢝䉜䞈 䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟䛼"
"㹧 㮙䮟䩵㱬㸰" 䤘㐨䢝 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 䉜䢝㖦䩵䴨㱬䢝㵶 㨊㯘䢝㮙䛹䴨㱈䩵䮟䛼
䈽䴨㱈㐨䩵䢝䮟'㨊 㵶䢝㨊㮙䢝䉜䩵䛹䢝 䢝䭦䢝㨊 䗦䮟䴨㱈㯘䢝㵶 䢈䩵㱈㯘 䛹㽂㟡䩵䉜㵶 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䉜䴨䢝㱬㵶㨊—䛹㽂㟡䩵䉜㵶 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䢈㦲䢝㱈䛹 䴨㱬 䖆䩵䉜䉜䢝㱬'㨊 㐨䩵㱬㵶䛼 㹧㱬㵶 䛹㐨䢝㱬䞈 䗦㽂䉜 䛹㐨䢝 䗦䴨䉜㨊䛹 䛹䴨㖦䢝 䴨㱬 㐨㽂㺓䉜㨊䞈 䩵 㨊䮟㽂㟡䞈 㯘㱬㽂㟡䴨㱬䮷 㨊㖦䴨䮟䢝 㱈䉜䢝㮙䛹 㽂㱬䛹㽂 㐨䴨㨊 䗦䩵㱈䢝䛼
䤘㐨䢝 䅾㽂䴨㱈䢝 㽂㱬 䛹㐨䢝 㽂䛹㐨䢝䉜 䢝㱬㵶 㟡䩵㨊 㨊䴨䮟䢝㱬䛹 䗦㽂䉜 䩵 㖦㽂㖦䢝㱬䛹 䢈䢝䗦㽂䉜䢝 䉜䢝㨊㮙㽂㱬㵶䴨㱬䮷䛼 "䤘㐨䢝㱬 㖦䩵㯘䢝 䴨䛹 㱈㽂㺓㱬䛹䛼 䤘㐨䴨㨊 䴨㨊 䭦㽂㺓䉜 䮟䩵㨊䛹 㱈㐨䩵㱬㱈䢝䛼"
䤘㐨䢝 䮟䴨㱬䢝 㟡䢝㱬䛹 㵶䢝䩵㵶䛼
䭠䢝㨊䛼 䕁䢝 㐨䩵㵶 䩵 㮙䮟䩵㱬䛼
㹧㱬㵶 䛹㐨䴨㨊 䛹䴨㖦䢝䞈 㐨䢝 㟡㽂㺓䮟㵶㱬'䛹 䗦䩵䴨䮟䛼䛼
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