Then after another week, man came again to him, and said: Lord, I find that my life is very lonely since I gave you back that creature. I remember how she used to dance and sing to me, and look at me out of the corner of her eye, and play with me, and cling to me; and her laughter was music, and she was beautiful to look at, and soft to touch: so give her back to me again. So Twashtri said: Very well: and gave her back again.
Then after only three days, man came back to him again, and said: Lord, I know not how it is; but after all, I have come to the conclusion that she is more of a trouble than a pleasure to me: so please take her back again. But Twashtri said: Out on you! Be off! I will have no more of this. You must manage how you can. Then man said: But I cannot live with her. And Twashtri replied: Neither could you live without her. And he turned his back on man, and went on with his work. Then man said: What is to be done? for I cannot live either with or without her.*
From ‘A Digit of the Moon’ (1898) by Francis William Bain (1863-1940).
“The very echo of Martial” noted Bain helpfully, leaving breadcrumbs to the Western classics. Martial (AD ?38-?103) was a poet from what is now Spain, known for his epigrams, such as this ‘on a friend’: “You are at once morose and agreeable, pleasing and repulsive. I can neither live with you, nor without you.”