Record Eleven

No, I Can’t; Let It Be without Headings!

No, I Can’t. Let It Be Without Headings!

Evening. It is somewhat foggy. The sky is covered with a milky-golden tissue, and one cannot see what is there, beyond, on the heights. The ancients “knew” that the greatest, bored skeptic—their God, lived there. We know that crystalline, blue, naked, indecent Nothing is there. I do not know any more what is there. I have learned too many things of late. Knowledge, self-confident knowledge which is sure that it is faultless, is faith. I had firm faith in myself; I believed that I knew all about myself. But then.... I look in the mirror. And for the first time in my life, yes, for the first time in my life, I see clearly, precisely, consciously and with surprise, I see myself as some “him!” I am “he.” Frowning, black, straight brows; between them like a scar, there is a vertical wrinkle. (Was there that wrinkle before?) Steel gray eyes encircled by the shadow of a sleepless night. And behind that steel ... I understand; I never before knew what there was behind that steel. From there (this “there” is at once so near and so infinitely distant!) I look at myself—at “him.” And I know surely that “he” with his straight brows is a stranger, that I meet him here for the first time in my life. The real I is not he.

Evening. It is a little foggy. The sky is covered with a milky golden veil. You cannot see what lies beyond it, up above. The ancients “knew” that the greatest bored skeptic, their God, lived there. We know that crystalline, blue, naked, indecent Nothing is there. I no longer know what is there. I have learned too much lately. Knowledge that is confident in itself, certain that it cannot be wrong, is faith. I had firm faith in myself. I believed I knew all about myself. But then.... I look in the mirror. And for the first time in my life, yes, for the first time in my life, I see myself as some “him!” I see this clearly, precisely, consciously, and with surprise. I am “he.” Frowning, black, straight eyebrows. Between them is a vertical wrinkle, like a scar. (Was that wrinkle there before?) Steel gray eyes, surrounded by the shadow of a sleepless night. And behind that steel ... I understand. I never knew before what was behind that steel. From there (this “there” is both so near and so infinitely far away!) I look at myself, at “him.” And I know for certain that “he” with his straight eyebrows is a stranger. I am meeting him here for the first time in my life. The real I is not he.

No. Period. All this is nonsense. And all these foolish emotions are only delirium, the result of last night’s poisoning.... Poisoning with what? With a sip of that green poison or with her? It matters little. I write all this merely in order to demonstrate how strangely the precise and sharp human reason may become confused. This reason, strong enough to make infinity which the ancients feared so much, understandable by means of.... The switch buzzes, “Number R-13.” Well, I am even glad; alone I should....

No. Period. All of this is nonsense. All these foolish emotions are just delirium, caused by last night’s poisoning.... Poisoned by what? A sip of that green poison or her? It hardly matters. I write all this only to show how strangely precise, sharp human reason can become confused. Reason strong enough to make infinity understandable, infinity that the ancients feared so much, by means of.... The switch buzzes, “Number R-13.” Well, I’m even glad. Alone, I would....

Twenty minutes later:

Twenty minutes later:

On the plane of this paper, in a world of two dimensions, these lines follow each other, but in another world they.... I am losing the sense for figures.... Twenty minutes! Perhaps two hundred or two hundred thousand!...

On this flat page, in a world of two dimensions, these lines follow one another. But in another world they.... I’m losing my sense of numbers.... Twenty minutes! Perhaps two hundred or two hundred thousand!...

It seems so strange, quietly, deliberately, measuring every word, to write down my adventure with R-. Imagine yourself sitting down at your own bed, crossing your legs, watching curiously how you yourself shrivel in the very same bed. My mental state is similar to that.

It feels so strange to write about my adventure with R-, calmly and deliberately, weighing every word. Imagine sitting beside your own bed, legs crossed, watching with curiosity as you yourself shrivel up in that same bed. That is how I feel.

When R-13 came in I was perfectly quiet and normal. I began with sincere admiration to tell him how wonderfully he succeeded in versifying the death sentence of that insane man, and that his poem more than anything else had smothered and annihilated the transgressor of the law.

When R-13 came in, I was perfectly calm and normal. I sincerely admired how wonderfully he had turned the madman’s death sentence into verse. I told him that his poem, more than anything else, had smothered and destroyed the man who broke the law.

“More than that,” I said, “if I were ordered to prepare a mathematical draught of the Machine of the Well-Doer, I should undoubtedly,—undoubtedly, put on that draught some of your verses!”—Suddenly I saw R-’s eyes becoming more and more opaque, his lips acquiring a gray tint.

“More than that,” I said, “if I were ordered to make a mathematical drawing of the Machine of the Well-Doer, I would undoubtedly, undoubtedly put some of your verses on the drawing!” Suddenly, I saw R-’s eyes growing cloudier and his lips turning gray.

“What is the matter?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What?—Well.... Merely that I am dead sick of it; everybody keeps on: ‘the death-sentence, the death-sentence!’ I want to hear no more of it! You understand? I do not want....” He became serious, rubbing his neck—that little valise filled with luggage which I cannot understand. A silence. There! He found something in that little valise of his, removed it, unwrapped it, spread it out; his eyes became covered with the varnish of laughter. He began:

“What? Well.... I’m just sick to death of it. Everyone keeps saying, ‘the death sentence, the death sentence!’ I don’t want to hear any more about it! Do you understand? I don’t want....” He grew serious and rubbed his neck. That little suitcase was filled with baggage I couldn’t understand. Silence. There! He found something in that little suitcase, took it out, unwrapped it, and spread it out. His eyes took on a glossy sheen of laughter. He began:

“I am writing something for your Integral. Yes.... I am!” He was himself again; bubbling, sprinkling lips; words splashing like a fountain.

“I’m writing something for your Integral. Yes.... I am!” He was himself again. His lips bubbled and sprayed. Words splashed out like a fountain.

“You see, it is the ancient legend of paradise.” (“p” like a fountain.) “That legend referred to us of today, did it not? Yes. Only think of it, think of it a moment! There were two in paradise and the choice was offered to them: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. No other choice. Tertium non datur. They, fools that they were, chose freedom. Naturally, they longed for centuries afterwards for fetters, for the fetters of yore. This was the meaning of their world-weariness, Weltschmerz. For centuries! And only we found a way to regain happiness.... No, listen, follow me! The ancient god and we, side by side at the same table! Yes, we helped god definitely and finally to defeat the devil. It was he, the devil, who lead people to transgression, to taste pernicious freedom, he the cunning serpent? And we came along, planted a boot on his head and ... squash! Done with him! Paradise again! We returned to the simple-mindedness and innocence of Adam and Eve. No more meddling with good and evil and all that; everything is simple again, heavenly, childishly simple! The Well-Doer, The Machine, The Cube, the giant Gas Bell, The Guardians,—all these are good. All this is magnificent, beautiful, noble, lofty, crystalline, pure. For all this preserves our non-freedom, that is, our happiness. In our place those ancients would indulge in discussions, deliberations, etc. They would break their heads trying to make out what was moral or unmoral. But we.... Well, in short, these are the highlights of my little paradise poem. What do you think of it? And above all the style is most solemn, pious. Understand me? Nice little idea, is it not? Do you understand?”

“You see, it is the ancient legend of paradise.” (“p” like a fountain.) “That legend was about us today, wasn’t it? Yes. Just think about it for a moment! There were two people in paradise, and they were offered a choice: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. There was no other choice. Tertium non datur. They were fools, and they chose freedom. Naturally, for centuries afterward, they longed for chains, for the chains they had once worn. That was the meaning of their world-weariness, Weltschmerz. For centuries! And only we found a way to regain happiness.... “No, listen, follow me! The ancient god and we, side by side at the same table! Yes, we helped god defeat the devil once and for all. Wasn’t it the devil, that cunning serpent, who led people to sin and taste the poison of freedom? Then we came along, planted a boot on his head and ... squash! Done with him! Paradise again! We returned to the simple-mindedness and innocence of Adam and Eve. No more meddling with good and evil and all that. Everything is simple again, heavenly, childishly simple! “The Well-Doer, The Machine, The Cube, the giant Gas Bell, The Guardians, all these are good. All this is magnificent, beautiful, noble, lofty, crystalline, pure. For all this preserves our lack of freedom, which is to say, our happiness. In our place, those ancient people would debate, deliberate, and so on. They would rack their brains trying to decide what was moral or immoral. But we.... “Well, in short, those are the highlights of my little paradise poem. What do you think of it? And above all, the style is very solemn, pious. Do you understand me? A nice little idea, isn’t it? Do you understand?”

Of course I understood. I remember my thoughts at that moment: “his appearance is nonsensical and lacking in symmetry, yet what an orderly-working mind he has!” This made him dear to me, that is to the real me. (I still insist that I of before is the real one; my I of late is, certainly, only an illness.)

Of course I understood. I remember thinking at that moment: “His appearance is absurd and asymmetrical, yet his mind works so methodically!” That made him dear to me, to the real me. (I still insist that the I I was before is the real one. My recent self is certainly just an illness.)

Apparently R- read my thought in my face; he put his hand on my shoulders and laughed: “Oh you!... Adam! By the way, about Eve....” He searched for something in his pockets, took out a little book, turned over a few leaves and said, “For the day-after-tomorrow,—oh, no, two days from now,—O-90 has a pink check on you. How about it?... As before?... You want her to?”

Apparently, R- could read my thoughts on my face. He put his hand on my shoulders and laughed. “Oh, you!... Adam! Speaking of Eve....” He searched his pockets, took out a little book, and flipped through a few pages. Then he said, “For the day after tomorrow, oh, no, two days from now, O-90 has a pink check on you. How about it?... As before?... You want her to?”

“Of course, of course!”

“Of course, of course!”

“All right then, I’ll tell her. You see she herself is very bashful.... What a funny story! You see, for me she has only a pink-check affection, but for you!... And you, you did not even come to tell us how a fourth member sneaked into our triangle! Who is it? Repent, sinner! Come on!”

“All right, I’ll tell her. You see, she’s very shy herself.... What a funny story! She only feels pink-check affection for me, but for you!... And you didn’t even come and tell us how a fourth person sneaked into our triangle! Who is it? Confess, sinner! Come on!”

A curtain rose inside me; rustle of silk, green bottle, lips.... Without any reason whatever I exclaimed (oh, why didn’t I restrain myself at that moment?), “Tell me, R-, did you ever have the opportunity to try nicotine or alcohol?”

A curtain rose inside me. The rustle of silk, a green bottle, lips.... For no reason at all, I blurted out, “Tell me, R-, have you ever had a chance to try nicotine or alcohol?” Oh, why didn’t I stop myself at that moment?

R- sucked in his lips, looked at me from under his brows. I distinctly heard his thoughts: “Friend though he is, yet....” And he answered:

R- pursed his lips and looked at me from under his brows. I could clearly hear his thoughts: “Though he is my friend, still....” And he answered:

“What shall I say? Strictly speaking, no. But I know a woman....”

“What can I say? Not exactly. But I know a woman....”

“I-330?” I cried.

“I-330?” I shouted.

“What! You? You too?” R- was full of laughter; he chuckled, ready to splash over.

“What! You? You too?” R- was full of laughter. He chuckled, ready to overflow.

My mirror was hanging in such a way that in order to see R- clearly I had to turn and look across the table. From my armchair I could see now only my own forehead and eyebrows. Then I, the real I, suddenly saw in the mirror a broken, quivering line of brow; I, the real I, heard suddenly a wild disgusting cry: “What? What does that ‘also’ mean? What does that ‘also’ mean? I demand....”

My mirror hung so that I had to turn and look across the table to see R- clearly. From my armchair, I could see only my own forehead and eyebrows. Then I, the real I, suddenly saw a broken, trembling line of brow in the mirror. I, the real I, suddenly heard a wild, disgusting cry: “What? What does that ‘also’ mean? What does that ‘also’ mean? I demand....”

Widely parted negro lips.... Eyes bulging. I (the real I) grasped my other wild, hairy, heavily breathing self forcibly. I (the real I) said to him, to R-, “In the name of the Well-Doer, please forgive me. I am very sick; I don’t sleep; I do not know what is the matter with me.”

Wide-open Black lips.... Bulging eyes. I (the real I) forcibly seized my other self, wild and hairy, breathing heavily. I (the real I) said to him, to R-, “In the name of the Well-Doer, please forgive me. I’m very sick. I can’t sleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

A swiftly passing smile appeared on the thick lips.

A brief smile appeared on the thick lips.

“Yes, yes, I understand, I understand. I am familiar with all this, theoretically, of course. Good-bye.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, I understand. I know all about this, in theory, of course. Goodbye.”

At the door he turned around like a little black ball, came back to the table and put a book upon it. “This is my latest book. I came to bring it to you. Almost forgot. Good-bye.” (“b” like a splash.) The little ball rolled out.

At the door, he turned around like a little black ball. He came back to the table and put a book on it. “This is my latest book. I came to bring it to you. Almost forgot. Goodbye.” (“b” like a splash.) The little ball rolled out.

I am alone. Or, to be more exact, I am tête-à-tête with that other self. I sit in the armchair and having crossed my legs, I watch curiously from some indefinite “there,” how I (myself) am shrivelling in my bed!

I am alone. Or, more precisely, I am face to face with my other self. I sit in the armchair with my legs crossed. From some vague “there,” I watch curiously as I (myself) shrivel in bed!

Why, oh, why is it, that for three years R-, O-, and I were so friendly together and now suddenly—one word only about that other female, about I-330, and.... Is it possible that that insanity called love and jealousy does exist not only in the idiotic books of the ancients? What seems most strange is that I, I!... Equations, formulae, figures, and suddenly this! I can’t understand it, I can’t! Tomorrow I shall go to R- and tell him.... No, it isn’t true; I shall not go; neither tomorrow nor day after tomorrow, nor ever.... I can’t, I do not want to see him. This is the end. Our triangle is broken up.

Why, oh, why were R-, O-, and I such good friends for three years? And now, suddenly, just one word about that other woman, I-330, and.... Can that madness called love and jealousy really exist outside the idiotic books of the ancients? The strangest thing is that I, I!... Equations, formulas, numbers, and suddenly this! I can’t understand it, I can’t! Tomorrow I’ll go to R- and tell him.... No, that’s not true. I won’t go, not tomorrow, not the day after, not ever.... I can’t, I don’t want to see him. This is the end. Our triangle is broken.

I am alone. It is evening. There is a light fog. The sky is covered by a thin milky-golden tissue. If I only knew what is there—higher. If I only knew who I am. Which I am I?

I am alone. It is evening. There is a light fog. A thin, milky-gold veil covers the sky. If only I knew what was higher up. If only I knew who I am. Which self am I?