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'It sounds so strange,' said Gioia. 'To turn myself into —
into a visitor? A visitor in my own world?'
'That's what you've always been, though.'
'I suppose. In a way. But at least I've been «real» up to
now.'
'Whereas I'm not?'
'Are you, Charles?'
'Yes. Just as real as you. I was angry at first, when I found
out the truth about myself. But I came to accept it. Somewhere
between Mohenjo and here, I came to see that it was all right to be
what I am: that I perceive things, I form ideas, I draw conclusions.
I am very well designed, Gioia. I can't tell the difference between
being what I am and being completely alive, and to me that's being
real enough. I think, I feel, I experience joy and pain. I'm as real
as I need to be. And you will be too. You'll never stop being Gioia,
you know. It's only your body that you'll cast away, the body that
played such a terrible joke on you anyway.' He brushed her cheek
with his hand. 'It was all said for us before, long ago:
«Once out of nature I shall never take»
«My bodily form from any natural thing,»
«But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make»
«Of hammered gold and gold enamelling»
«To keep a drowsy Emperor awake —»
Robert Silverberg,
Sailing to Byzantium (excerpts)
