I hear the question upon your lips: What is
it to be a color? Color is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a
word out of the darkness. Because I’ve listened to souls whispering —
like the susurrus of the wind — from book to book and object to object
for tens of thousands of years, allow me to say that my touch resembles
the touch of angels. Part of me, the serious half, calls out to your
vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with your glances.
I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery. I’m strong. I know men take
notice of me and that I cannot be resisted. I do not conceal myself: For
me, delicacy manifests itself neither in weakness nor subtlety, but
through determination and will. So, I draw attention to myself. I’m not
afraid of other colors, shadows, crowds, or even of loneliness…
“My dear
master, explain red to somebody who has never known red.” — “If we
touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something
between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If
we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat. If we took it
between our lips, it would fill our mouths. If we smelled it, it’d have
the scent of a horse. If it were a flower, it would smell like a daisy,
not a red rose.”
