Whenever to us it seemed

The answer to a question had been found

One of us loosed the cord on the wall of the old

Furled Chinese canvas, so that it unrolled and

Revealed the man on the bench, who

Doubted so deeply.

I, he said to us

Am the doubter. I doubt whether

The work that has consumed your days has been well done.

Whether what you say, were it less well said, would be of worth to anyone

Whether, rather, you said it well but perhaps did not

Attend to the truth of what you said.

Whether it is not ambiguous—for you are responsible

For every possible error. Or it may be too unambiguous

And remove the contradictions from things: is it too unambiguous?

For if so, what you say is useless. Your thing is lifeless then.

Are you truly in the flow of things? At one with

Everything that is becoming? Are you still becoming? Who are you? To whom

Do you speak? To whom is what you have to say of use?

And, by the way:

Does it leave you clear-headed? Can it be read in the morning?

Is it connected to what is already there to hand? Have you made use

Of the sentences spoken before you—at least to refute them? Is everything verifiable?

By experience? By what experience?

But above all

Always and above all else: how does one act

If one believes what you say? Above all: how does one act?

Thoughtfully, curiously, we saw the doubting

Blue man on the canvas, looked at one another and

Started once more from the beginning.

The Doubter

— Bertolt Brecht