Scene: Descarte, a balding man with a creased forehead, sits in a striped lawn chair with a drink of soda-water on a table by his elbow. Around him withered grasses blow. He's in the middle of a huge field hemmed in by mountains.
He is thinking.
Descartes: The mind of man is the only constant; the only known x in a world of thousands of variables. Without his mind, a man is shut out in impenetrable darkness. His mind is the doorway to existence.
Descartes adjusts his lap rug and pensively takes a sip. He grimaces. Behind him a figure appears, walking purposefully down a narrow, dusty cow-trail. As he gets closer, he is seen to be a youngish man, perhaps in his early thirties. His long brown hair curls at the ends, much like his very French mustache. It is Pascal.
Pascal, switching the grass with his walking stick with each word: Pointless, uncertain, arduous-Oh, bon jour, Monsieur Descartes.
Descartes: Ah, yes, Pascal. I suppose the proper response is "good day" but I make it my practice not to put confidence such phrases. I would not want to deceive you--there is some doubt as to whether your day may be good or...otherwise.
Pascal, cheerfully: You might be onto something there. Noah says we're due for a rainstorm. He thinks its going to be a deluge for the ages.
Descartes glancing at the cloudless, glaring sky, mutters: One cannot conceive of anything so implausible but that one philosopher has said it to another.
Pascal: What's that? Couldn't quite hear you?
Descartes, rather loudly and feigning a genial air: Rain? You don't say! Are you sure you're not a butterfly dreaming you're a...hmmm...make that a desert dreaming its an ocean?
Pascal, looking concerned: Rene, my dear fellow, I believe you've alone with your mind too long. He spots the now half-empty glass of soda-water: What? Surely that stuff is not conducive to contemplation.
He pauses, and then walks in front of Descartes. A tone of earnestness creeps into his voice: Come along with me. On the urgings of Noah I've invested in a boat. Nothing compared to his, a trifling little dingy really, but Jaqueline's stocked it up with all sorts of provender.
Descartes ignores the invitation, thunderstruck to hear about the boat: You've gone and built a boat? Whyever for?
Pascal, twirling one side of his very french mustache: Well, there's a fifty-fifty chance old Noah is right, and this rain shower turns out to be...dangerous. I'm just trying to keep me assets afloat, and cover my a--
Descartes hastily interupts: How remarkably wise of you, and thank you for your offer, but I think I prefer to sit here and indulge in my own little fancies.
Pascal: Well, it's your life. But I'd wager this storm is going to get worse before it gets better. If you change your mind, my little Santa Maria is moored..uh, parked...up around that left-hand corner. You can't miss it.
He walks on, swinging his cane. Descartes watches him go.
Descartes: That young man will never get anywhere if he doesn't learn to use his mind.
An hour goes by, then two. The sky darkens and it begins to sprinkle. Descartes moves his blanket from his lap to his head and huddles as the lightning and thunder become more frequent. He is thinking hard, on the edge of a breakthrough.
Descartes: Cogito ergo.... Cogito ergo.... SUM! Cogito ergo sum!!! He leaps up, overturning the table and chair. He begins an Irish jig, and then regains his composure. He notices that the ground is covered in water - and it's rising fast.
Good heavens! This really is too bad. I shall be damp. But wait until the others hear this argument! Man's mind may be a the doorway, but I have discovered why the door exists!
He stands still, enraptured with the beautiful mental image of an open door, whispering delightedly: Cogito ergo sum, cogito ergo sum, cogito erg..
the rain continues.
Meanwhile, Pascal is aboard his boat watching through the doorway as the water rises higher and higher. The wind is growing stronger, whipping the water into choppy little waves. His vessel begins to rock, and he loses his balance and falls against the starboard wall. Water begins sloshing through the open door.
Pascal: Ow, that was my foot.
He notices the boat is spinning from the force of the torrential rain crashing down the adjacent mountain side.
In fear he cries out: Que Dieu ne m'bandonne jamais!
Seconds later, a divine hand reaches out and shuts the door of the little boat, right before it is torn from its mooring and carried off the mountain by a sudden debris-laden wave.
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