This is not the pear in question. This is, for one thing, not a comice pear. Indeed, strictly speaking, this is not a pear at all.
I have just eaten a perfectly ripe comice pear. It sat on the cutting board on top of a utility cart full of cooking implements and wine. It was there for about five days now.
It is my lunch.
I divided it using one of those metal nine or eleven bladed rings that cut the fruit in slices and at the same time core it.
As I ate it, I concentrated less and less on what I was thinking. What I was thinking was probably either inconsequential or anxiety-provoking anyway. I concentrated instead on the experience of eating each section of this juicy, but not dripping, fruit.
If it were possible to make candy that tastes like that pear, it would give whoever did so the chance to know in one very tiny way what’s it like to be a god. It only seems simple for a moment.