Record Eighteen

Last night as soon as I had gone to bed, I fell momentarily to the bottom of the ocean of sleep like an overloaded ship which has been wrecked. The heavy thicket of wavy green water enveloped me. Then slowly I floated from the bottom upward, and somewhere in the middle of that course, I opened my eyes,—my room! The morning was still green and motionless. A fragment of sunshine coming from the mirror on my closet door shone into my eyes. This fragment does not permit me to sleep, being thus an obstacle in the way of exactly fulfilling the rules of the Tables which prescribe so many hours of sleep. I should have opened the closet but I felt as though I were in a spider web, and cobweb covered my eyes; I had no power to sit up.

Last night, as soon as I went to bed, I sank to the bottom of the ocean of sleep. I sank in an instant, like a wrecked, overloaded ship. A dense thicket of rippling green water enveloped me. Then I slowly floated up from the bottom. About halfway up, I opened my eyes. My room! The morning was still green and motionless. A fragment of sunlight reflected from my closet door mirror shone in my eyes. It kept me from sleeping, preventing me from following the Tables exactly. The Tables prescribe a set number of hours for sleep. I should have opened the closet, but I felt caught in a spiderweb, with cobwebs covering my eyes. I had no strength to sit up.

Yet I got up and opened the closet door; suddenly, there behind that door, making her way through the mass of garments which hung there, was I-330! I have become so accustomed of late to most improbable things, that as far as I remember I was not even surprised; I did not even ask a question. I jumped into the closet, slammed the mirror-door behind me and breathlessly, brusquely, blindly, avidly I clung to her. I remember clearly even now:—through the narrow crack of the door a sharp sun-ray like lightning broke into the darkness and played on the floor and walls of the closet, and a little higher the cruel ray-blade fell upon the naked neck of I-330, and this for some reason seemed to me so terrible that I could not bear it, and I screamed;—and again I opened my eyes. My room!

Yet I got up and opened the closet door. Suddenly, there behind it was I-330, making her way through the mass of hanging clothes! Lately I had become so used to the most unlikely things that, as far as I remember, I wasn't even surprised. I didn't even ask a question. I jumped into the closet and slammed the mirrored door behind me. Breathless, rough, blind, and eager, I clung to her. Even now, I remember it clearly: a sharp ray of sunlight broke through the narrow crack in the door like lightning. It played across the dark closet floor and walls. A little higher up, the cruel blade of light fell on I-330's bare neck. For some reason, that seemed so terrible that I couldn't bear it, and I screamed. Then I opened my eyes again. My room!

The morning was still green and motionless. On the door of my closet was a fragment of the sunshine. I was in bed. A dream? Yet my heart was still wildly beating, quivering and twitching; there was a dull pain in the tips of my fingers and in my knees. This undoubtedly did happen! And now I am unable any more to distinguish what is dream from what is actuality; irrational numbers grow through my solid, habitual, tri-dimensional life; and instead of firm, polished surfaces—there is something shaggy and rough....

The morning was still green and motionless. A patch of sunlight lay on my closet door. I was in bed. A dream? Yet my heart was still beating wildly, quivering and twitching. There was a dull pain in my fingertips and knees. This definitely did happen! Now I can no longer tell dreams from reality. Irrational numbers are growing through my solid, familiar, three-dimensional life. And instead of firm, polished surfaces, there is something shaggy and rough....

I waited long for the Bell to ring. I was lying thinking, untangling a very strange logical chain. In our superficial life, every formula, every equation, corresponds to a curve or a solid. We have never seen any curve or solid corresponding to my square-root of minus one. The horrifying part of the situation is that there exist such curves or solids; unseen by us they do exist, they must, inevitably; for in mathematics as on a screen, strange sharp shadows appear before us. One must remember that mathematics like death, never makes mistakes, never plays tricks. If we are unable to see those irrational curves or solids, it only means that they inevitably possess a whole immense world somewhere beneath the surface of our life....

I waited a long time for the Bell to ring. As I lay there, I tried to untangle a very strange chain of logic. In our life on the surface, every formula, every equation, corresponds to a curve or a solid. We have never seen a curve or solid corresponding to my square root of minus one. The horrifying part is that such curves or solids exist. We cannot see them, but they do exist. They must exist, inevitably, because their strange, sharp shadows appear before us on the screen of mathematics. We must remember that mathematics, like death, never makes mistakes and never plays tricks. If we cannot see those irrational curves or solids, that only means they inevitably occupy a whole immense world somewhere beneath the surface of our life....

I jumped up without waiting for the waking Bell and began to pace up and down the room. My mathematics, the only firm and immovable island of my shaken life, this too was torn from its anchor and was floating, whirling. Then it means that that absurd thing, the “soul,” is as real as my unif, as my boots, although I do not see them since they are behind the door of the closet. If boots are not a sickness, why should the “soul” be one? I sought, but I could not find, a way out of the logical confusion. It looked to me like that strange and sad debris beyond the Green Wall; my logical debris too, is filled with extraordinary, incomprehensible, wordless but speaking beings. It occurred to me for a moment that through some strange, thick glass I saw it; I saw it at once infinitely large and infinitely small, scorpion-like with hidden but ever perceptible sting; I saw the square-root of minus one. Perhaps it was nothing else but my “soul,” which like the legendary scorpion of the ancients, was voluntarily stinging itself with....

I jumped up before the waking Bell and began pacing the room. Mathematics had been the only firm, immovable island in my shaken life. Now it too had broken loose from its anchor and was floating and spinning. So that absurd thing, the “soul,” must be as real as my unif and my boots. I cannot see them, either, because they are behind the closet door. If boots are not a sickness, why should the “soul” be one? I searched for a way out of this logical confusion, but I could not find one. It looked to me like the strange, sad debris beyond the Green Wall. My logical debris, too, was filled with extraordinary, incomprehensible beings. They had no words, yet they spoke. For a moment, I thought I saw it through some strange, thick glass. I saw it as both infinitely large and infinitely small. It was like a scorpion, with a hidden but ever perceptible sting. I saw the square root of minus one. Perhaps it was nothing but my “soul,” like the legendary scorpion of the ancients, willingly stinging itself with....

The Bell! The day began. All I saw and felt neither died, nor disappeared, it merely became covered with daylight, as our visible world does not die or disappear at the end of the day but merely becomes covered with the darkness of night. My head was filled by a light, thin haze. Through that haze I perceived the long glass tables and the globe-like heads busy chewing, slowly, silently, in unison. At a distance, through the haze, the metronome was slowly beating its tick-tock, and to the accompaniment of this customary and caressing music I joined with the others in counting automatically to fifty: fifty is the number of chewing movements required by the law of the State for every piece of food. And automatically then, keeping time, I went downstairs and put my name down in the book for the outgoing Numbers,—as everyone did. But I felt I lived separately from everybody; I lived by myself separated by a soft wall which absorbs noises; beyond that wall there was my world.

The Bell! The day began. Everything I had seen and felt had not died or disappeared. It had only been covered by daylight. In the same way, our visible world does not die or disappear at the end of the day. It is only covered by the darkness of night. A light, thin haze filled my head. Through it, I saw the long glass tables and the round heads busy chewing, slowly, silently, in unison. In the distance, through the haze, the metronome slowly ticked. To the accompaniment of this familiar, soothing music, I joined the others in counting automatically to fifty. The law of the State requires fifty chewing movements for every piece of food. Then, automatically, keeping time, I went downstairs and signed my name in the book for outgoing Numbers, as everyone did. But I felt that I lived separately from everyone else. I lived by myself, separated from them by a soft wall that absorbed noise. Beyond that wall was my world.

Here a thought occurred to me. If that world is only my own, why should I tell about it in these records? Why should I recount all these absurd “dreams” about closets, endless corridors? With great sorrow I notice that instead of a correct and strictly mathematical poem in honor of the United State, I am writing a fantastic novel. Oh! if only it were a novel and not my actual life, full of X’s, square-roots of minus one and down-fallings! Yet all may be for the best. Probably you, my unknown readers, are children still as compared with us. We are brought up by the United State; consequently we have reached the highest summits attainable by man. And you, being children, may swallow without crying all the bitter things I am to give you only if they be coated with the syrup of adventures.

Then a thought occurred to me. If that world is mine alone, why should I describe it in these records? Why should I recount all these absurd “dreams” about closets and endless corridors? I am deeply saddened to realize that I am writing a fantastic novel. I should be writing a correct, strictly mathematical poem in honor of the United State. Oh! If only it were a novel and not my actual life, full of X’s, square roots of minus one, and falls! Yet perhaps it is all for the best. You, my unknown readers, are probably still children compared with us. We are raised by the United State. As a result, we have reached the highest heights humans can attain. And you, being children, may swallow all the bitter things I must give you without crying only if they are coated in the syrup of adventure.

The Same Evening

The Same Evening

Are you familiar with the following sensation? You are in an aero and you dash upward along a blue spiral line; the window is open and the wind rushes past your face, whistling. There is no earth. The earth is forgotten. The earth is as far from you as Venus, Saturn or Jupiter. That is how I live now. A hurricane wind beats into my face; I forget the earth, forget rosy, dear O-90. Yet the earth does exist and sooner or later I must plane down to that earth; only I close my eyes to avoid seeing the date at which there is the name O-90 written on my Tables.

Do you know this feeling? You are in an aero, racing upward along a blue spiral. The window is open, and the wind whistles past your face. There is no earth. You have forgotten the earth. The earth is as far away as Venus, Saturn, or Jupiter. That is how I live now. A hurricane wind beats against my face. I forget the earth and forget rosy, dear O-90. Yet the earth does exist, and sooner or later I must glide down to it. But I close my eyes so I won't see the date marked with O-90's name on my Tables.

This evening the distant earth reminded me of itself. In order to fulfill the recommendation of the doctor (I desire sincerely, most sincerely I desire to be cured), I wandered for two hours and eight minutes over the straight lines of the deserted avenues. Everybody was in the auditoriums, in accordance with the Table. Only I, cut off from the rest, I was alone. Strictly speaking, it was a very unnatural situation. Imagine a finger cut off from the whole, from the hand; a separate human finger, somewhat hunched, running over the glass sidewalk. I was such a finger. What seemed most strange and unnatural was that the finger had no desire to be with its hand, with its fellows. I want either to be alone or with her; to transfuse my whole being into hers through a contact with her shoulder or through our interwoven fingers.

This evening, the distant earth reminded me of itself. On the doctor’s advice, I wandered for two hours and eight minutes along the straight, deserted avenues. I sincerely, most sincerely, want to be cured. Everyone was in the auditoriums, according to the Table. Only I was alone, cut off from the rest. Strictly speaking, being alone was very unnatural. Imagine a finger cut off from the hand, slightly hunched, running along the glass sidewalk. I was that finger. Strangest and most unnatural of all, the finger had no desire to be with its hand, with its fellows. I want to be either alone or with her. I want to pour my whole being into hers by touching her shoulder or intertwining our fingers.

I came home as the sun was setting. The pink dust of evening was covering the glass of the walls, the golden peak of the Accumulating Tower, the voices and smiles of the Numbers. Is it not strange: the passing rays of the evening sun fall to the earth at the same angle as the awakening rays of the morning, yet they make everything seem so different; the pink tinge is different. At sunset it is so quiet, somewhat melancholy; at sunrise it is resounding, boisterous.

I came home as the sun was setting. The pink dust of evening covered the glass walls, the golden peak of the Accumulating Tower, and the voices and smiles of the Numbers. Isn’t it strange? The fading rays of the evening sun strike the earth at the same angle as the awakening rays of morning. Yet they make everything look so different. Even the shade of pink is different. At sunset, everything is quiet and a little melancholy. At sunrise, everything is loud and boisterous.

In the hall downstairs when I entered, I saw U-, the controller. She took a letter from the heaps of envelopes covered with pink dust and handed it to me. I repeat: she is a very respectable woman and I am sure she has only the very best feelings towards me.... Yet, every time I see those cheeks hanging down, which look like the gills of a fish, I....

When I entered the hall downstairs, I saw U-, the controller. She took a letter from the piles of envelopes covered in pink dust and handed it to me. I repeat: she is a very respectable woman, and I’m sure she has only the best feelings toward me.... Yet every time I see her drooping cheeks, which look like a fish’s gills, I....

Holding out her dry hand with the letter, U- sighed. But that sigh only very slightly moved in me the curtains which separate me from the rest of the world. I was completely projected upon the envelope which trembled in my hand. I had no doubt but that it was a letter from I-330.

U- held out the letter in her dry hand and sighed. But her sigh barely stirred the curtains that separate me from the rest of the world. My whole attention was fixed on the envelope trembling in my hand. I had no doubt that the letter was from I-330.

At that moment I heard another sigh, such a deliberate one, underscored with two lines, that I raised my eyes from the envelope and saw a tender, cloudy smile coming from between the gills, through the bashful jalousies of lowered eyes. And then:

At that moment, I heard another sigh. It was so deliberate, as if underlined twice, that I looked up from the envelope. Between the gills, I saw a tender, cloudy smile, peeking through lowered eyes like shy blinds. And then:

“You poor, poor, dear!...” a sigh underscored with three lines, and a glance at the letter, an imperceptible glance. (What was in the letter she naturally knew, ex officio.)

“You poor, poor dear!...” A sigh underlined three times, and a barely noticeable glance at the letter. (She naturally knew what was in the letter, by virtue of her position.)

“No, really?... Why?”

“No, really? Why?”

“No, no, dear, I know better than you. For a long time I have watched you and I see that you need some one with years of experience of life to accompany you.”

“No, no, dear, I know better than you. I’ve watched you for a long time. I can see you need someone with years of life experience to accompany you.”

I felt all pasted around by her smile. It was like a plaster upon the wounds which were to be inflicted upon me by the letter I held in my hand. Finally, through the bashful jalousies of her eyes, she said in a very low voice: “I shall think about it, dear. I shall think it over. And be sure that if I feel myself strong enough ...”

I felt completely wrapped in her smile. It was like a bandage over the wounds the letter in my hand was about to inflict. Finally, looking at me through shy, half-closed eyes, she said very softly: “I’ll think about it, dear. I’ll think it over. And be sure that if I feel strong enough ...”

“Great Well-Doer! Is it possible that my lot is?... Is it possible that she means to say, that she?...”

“Great Well-Doer! Could my fate be?... Could she mean that she?...”

My eyes were dimmed and filled with thousands of sinusoids; the letter was trembling. I went near the light, to the wall. There the light of the sun was going out; from the sun was falling thicker and thicker the dark, sad, pink dust, covering the floor, my hands, the letter. I opened the envelope and found the signature as fast as I could,—the first wound! It was not I-330; it was O-90! And another wound: in the right-hand corner a slovenly splash,—a blot! I cannot bear blots. It matters little whether they are made by ink or by ... well, it matters not by what. Heretofore, such a blot would have had only a disagreeable effect, disagreeable to the eyes; but now—why did that small gray blot seem to be like a cloud and seem to spread about me a leaden, bluish darkness? Or was it again the “soul” at work? Here is a transcript of the letter:

My eyes were blurred, filled with thousands of sinusoids. The letter trembled. I went closer to the light, toward the wall. The sunlight there was fading. Dark, sad, pink dust fell more and more thickly from the sun, covering the floor, my hands, and the letter. I opened the envelope and looked for the signature as quickly as I could. The first wound! It was not I-330. It was O-90! And another wound: a messy splash in the top right corner, a blot! I cannot bear blots. It hardly matters whether they are made by ink or by ... well, it doesn't matter what makes them. Before, such a blot would only have been unpleasant to look at. But now, why did that small gray blot seem like a cloud, spreading a leaden, bluish darkness around me? Or was the “soul” at work again? Here is a copy of the letter:

“You know, or perhaps you don’t ... I cannot write well. Little it matters! Now you know that without you there is for me not a single day, a single morning, a single spring, for R- is only ... well, that is of no importance to you. At any rate, I am very grateful to him, for without him, alone all these days, I don’t know what would.... During these last few days and nights I have lived through ten years, or perhaps twenty years. My room seemed to me not square but round; I walk around without end, round after round, always the same thing, not a door to escape through. I cannot live without you because I love you; and I should not, I cannot be with you any more,—because I love you! Because I see and I understand that you need no one now, no one in the world save that other, and you must realize that it is precisely because I love you I must ...

“You know, or perhaps you don’t ... I’m not good at writing. It hardly matters! Now you know that without you, I have no day, no morning, no spring. R- is only ... well, that doesn’t matter to you. In any case, I’m very grateful to him. Without him, alone all these days, I don’t know what would have.... In the last few days and nights, I’ve lived through ten years, or perhaps twenty. My room seemed round to me, not square. I walk around it endlessly, going in circles, always the same thing, with no door to escape through. I can’t live without you because I love you. And I shouldn’t, I can’t be with you anymore, because I love you! Because I see and understand that you need no one now, no one in the world except that other person. And you must realize that it’s precisely because I love you that I must ...

“I need another two or three days in order to paste together the fragments of myself and thus restore at least something similar to the O-90 of old. Then I shall go myself, and myself I shall state that I take your name from my list, and this will be better for you; you must feel happy now. I shall never again....”

“I need another two or three days to piece myself back together, so I can be something like the old O-90 again. Then I’ll go myself and say that I’m taking your name off my list. That will be better for you. You must be happy now. I’ll never again....”

“Good-bye, O-.”

“Goodbye, O-.”

Never again. Yes, that is better. She is right. But, why then?... Why then?...

Never again. Yes, that's better. She's right. But why, then?... Why, then?...