All that evidence of violence...

Years ago, before I was married, I often went to visit my mother in the country. She was still alive in those days. Her house, a little cottage, was surrounded by a garden a little garden, dreadfully neglected and overgrown. No one had tended it for many years and I don't think anyone had ever been in it. Even then, my mother was very ill. She almost never left the house. Still, amidst the ruin of the garden there was something that was, in its way, beautiful. Yes, now I know what it was. When the weather was fine, she often sat at the window looking out at the garden. She even had a special chair by the window. Once, though, I decided that I would tidy things up... in the garden, that is. I wanted to mow the grass, burn the weeds, prune the trees. On the whole, I wanted to redo the garden in my own taste with my own hands. Yes, simply to please my mother. And for two solid weeks I went at it with shears and a scythe. I dug and cut and sawed and weeded. I kept my nose to the ground, literally. And I took great pains to get it ready as soon as possible. My mother's condition grew worse, and she kept to her bed. But I wanted her to be able to sit by the window and see her new garden. In short, when I was finished and everything was ready, I took a bath put on fresh underwear, a new jacket, even a tie. Then I sat down in the chair to see what I'd made, through her eyes, as it were. I... I sat there... and looked out through the window. I had prepared myself to enjoy the sight. Anyway, I looked out the window and saw... What did I see? Where had all the beauty gone? The naturalness of it? It was so disgusting. All that evidence of violence...

Erland Josephson, The Sacrifice