Record Twelve

I continue to believe that I shall recover, that I may recover. I slept very well. No dreams or any other symptoms of disease. Dear O-90 will come tomorrow. Everything will again be simple, regular and limited like a circle. I am not afraid of this word “limited.” The work of the highest faculty of man, judgment, is always directed toward the constant limiting of the infinite, toward the breaking up of the infinite into comfortably digestible portions,—differentials. This is what gives divine beauty to my element, mathematics. And it is exactly this beauty that that other female lacks. But this last thought of mine is only an accidental mental association.

I still believe I will recover, that I may recover. I slept very well. No dreams or other symptoms of disease. Dear O-90 will come tomorrow. Everything will be simple, regular, and limited again, like a circle. I am not afraid of the word “limited.” Judgment is the highest human faculty. Its work is always to limit the infinite, to break it into easily digestible portions, called differentials. This is what gives divine beauty to my element, mathematics. And this is exactly the beauty that the other female lacks. But that last thought is just an accidental mental association.

These thoughts swarmed in my mind while I was listening to the regular, rhythmic sounds of the underground railway. Silently I followed the rhythm of its wheels and recited to myself R-’s verses (from the book which he gave me yesterday), and I felt that behind me some one was leaning over my shoulder and looking at the open pages. I did not turn around but with the corner of my eye I noticed pink ears, spread like wings, the double-curved ... like the letter.... It was he, but I did not want to disturb him. I feigned not to have noticed him. How he came in, I do not know. I did not see him when I got into the car.

These thoughts swarmed through my mind as I listened to the steady rhythm of the underground railway. I silently followed the rhythm of the wheels and recited R-’s verses to myself. They were from the book he gave me yesterday. I sensed someone behind me, leaning over my shoulder and looking at the open pages. I didn’t turn around, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed pink ears spread like wings, the double-curved ... like the letter.... It was him, but I didn’t want to disturb him. I pretended not to notice him. I don’t know how he got in. I didn’t see him when I got into the car.

This incident, insignificant in itself, had an especially good effect upon me; it invigorated me, I should say. It is pleasant to feel that somebody’s penetrating eye is watching you from behind your shoulder, lovingly guarding you from making the most minute mistake, from the most minute incorrect step. It may seem to you too sentimental but I see in all this the materialization of the dream of the ancients about a Guardian-Angel. How many things about which the ancients had only dreams, are materialized in our life!

The incident was insignificant in itself, but it had an especially good effect on me. I would say it invigorated me. It is pleasant to feel someone’s watchful eye looking over your shoulder. They lovingly guard you against the tiniest mistake, the smallest wrong step. This may seem too sentimental to you, but I see it as the ancient dream of a Guardian-Angel made real. How many things the ancients only dreamed of have become real in our lives!

At the moment when I became aware of the presence of the Guardian-Angel behind me I was enjoying a poem entitled “Happiness.” I think I am not mistaken when I say that it is a piece of rare beauty and depth of thought. Here are the first four lines:

When I noticed the Guardian-Angel behind me, I was enjoying a poem called “Happiness.” I don't think I'm mistaken in saying that it is a poem of rare beauty and depth of thought. Here are the first four lines:

And the rest is in the same vein: on the wisdom and the eternal happiness of the multiplication table. Every poet is inevitably a Columbus. America existed before Columbus for ages, but only Columbus found it. The multiplication table existed before R-13 for ages, but only R-13 could find in the virginal forest of figures a new Eldorado. Is it not true? Is there any happiness more wise and cloudless in this wonderful world? Steel may rust. The ancient god created the ancient man, i.e., the man capable of mistakes, ergo the ancient god himself made a mistake. The multiplication table is more wise and more absolute than the ancient god, for the multiplication table never (do you understand—never) makes mistakes! There are no more fortunate and happy people than those who live according to the correct, eternal laws of the multiplication table. No hesitation! No errors! There is but one truth, and there is but one path to it; and that truth is: four, and that path is: two times two. Would it not seem preposterous for these happily multiplied twos suddenly to begin thinking of some foolish kind of freedom? i.e. (is it not clear?) of a mistake? It seems undeniable, axiomatic, that R-13 knows how to grasp the most fundamental, the most....

And the rest is much the same: about the wisdom and eternal happiness of the multiplication table. Every poet is inevitably a Columbus. America existed for ages before Columbus, but only Columbus found it. The multiplication table existed for ages before R-13. But only R-13 could find a new Eldorado in the untouched forest of numbers. Isn’t it true? Is there any happiness wiser and more cloudless in this wonderful world? Steel may rust. The ancient god created ancient man, that is, man capable of mistakes. So the ancient god himself made a mistake. The multiplication table is wiser and more absolute than the ancient god. The multiplication table never (do you understand, never) makes mistakes! No people are more fortunate or happy than those who live by the correct, eternal laws of the multiplication table. No hesitation! No errors! There is only one truth, and only one path to it. That truth is four, and that path is two times two. Wouldn’t it be absurd for these happily multiplied twos suddenly to start thinking about some foolish kind of freedom? That is (isn’t it clear?) a mistake? It seems undeniable, self-evident, that R-13 knows how to grasp the most fundamental, the most....

At that moment again I felt (first near the back of my head, then on my left ear) the warm, tender breath of the Guardian-Angel. He apparently noticed that the book on my lap had long been closed and that my thoughts were somewhere very far.... Well, I am ready this minute to spread before him the pages of my brain. This gives one such a feeling of tranquility and joy. I remember I even turned around and gazed long and questioningly into his eyes; but either he did not understand, or he did not want to understand me. He did not ask me anything.... The only thing left for me is to relate everything to you, my unknown readers. You are to me now as dear and as near and as far out of reach as he was at that moment.

At that moment, I again felt the warm, tender breath of the Guardian-Angel. I felt it first near the back of my head, then on my left ear. He had apparently noticed that the book on my lap had been closed for a long time. He had also noticed that my thoughts were somewhere far away.... Well, I am ready right now to lay the pages of my mind open before him. Doing so gives me such a feeling of peace and joy. I remember even turning around and looking into his eyes for a long time, questioning him. But either he did not understand me, or he did not want to. He did not ask me anything.... All I can do now is tell you everything, my unknown readers. You are now as dear and as close to me, and as far out of reach, as he was then.

This was my way of thinking: from the part to the whole,—R-13 is the part; the whole is our Institution of State Poets and Authors. I thought: how was it that the ancients did not notice the utter absurdity of their prose and poetry? The gigantic, magnificent power of the artistic word was spent by them in vain. It is really droll; anybody wrote whatever happened to come into his head! It was as foolish as the fact that in the days of the ancients the ocean blindly splashed at the shore for twenty-four hours without interruption or use. The millions of kilogram-meters of energy which were hidden in the waves were used only for the stimulation of sweethearts! We obtained electricity from the amorous whisper of the waves! We made a domestic animal out of that sparkling, foaming, rabid one! And in the same manner we domesticated and harnessed the wild element of poetry. Now poetry is no longer the unpardonable whistling of nightingales but a State Service! Poetry is a commodity.

This is how I thought, from the part to the whole: R-13 is the part. The whole is our Institution of State Poets and Authors. I wondered how the ancients could have missed the sheer absurdity of their prose and poetry. They wasted the enormous, magnificent power of the written word. It is really funny: anyone wrote whatever came into their head! It was just as foolish that the ancient ocean blindly crashed against the shore, day and night, without any use. The millions of kilogram-meters of energy hidden in the waves were used only to excite lovers! We got electricity from the waves’ amorous whisper! We turned that sparkling, foaming, rabid creature into a domestic animal! In the same way, we domesticated and harnessed the wild force of poetry. Now poetry is no longer the unforgivable whistling of nightingales but a State Service! Poetry is a commodity.

Our famous “Mathematical Norms”! Without them in our schools, how could we love so sincerely and dearly our four rules of arithmetic? And “Thorns!” This is a classical image: the Guardians are thorns about a rose; thorns that guard our tender State-Flower from coarse hands. Whose heart could resist, could remain indifferent to see and hear the lips of our children recite like a prayer: “A bad boy caught the rose with his hand but the thorn of steel pricked him like a needle; the bad boy cried and ran home,” etc., etc. And the “Daily Odes to the Well-Doer!” Who, having read them, will not bow piously before the unselfish service of that Number of all Numbers? And the dreadful red “Flowers of Court Sentences!” And the immortal tragedy, “Those Who Come Late to Work!” And the popular book, “Stanzas on Sex-Hygiene!”

Our famous “Mathematical Norms”! Without them in our schools, how could we love our four rules of arithmetic so sincerely and dearly? And “Thorns!” This is a classic image: the Guardians are thorns around a rose. They protect our tender State-Flower from rough hands. Whose heart could resist, or remain unmoved, seeing and hearing our children recite like a prayer: “A bad boy grabbed the rose, but the steel thorn pricked him like a needle. The bad boy cried and ran home,” and so on? And the “Daily Odes to the Well-Doer!” Who could read them without bowing reverently before the selfless service of that Number of all Numbers? And the dreadful red “Flowers of Court Sentences!” And the immortal tragedy, “Those Who Come Late to Work!” And the popular book, “Stanzas on Sex-Hygiene!”

Our whole life in all its complexity and beauty is thus stamped forever in the gold of words. Our poets do not soar any longer in the unknown; they have descended to earth and they march with us, keeping step to the accompaniment of our austere and mechanical March of the musical State Tower. Their lyre is the morning rubbing-sound of the electric tooth-brushes, and the threatening crack of the electric sparks coming from the Machine of the Well-Doer, and the magnificent echo of the Hymn of the United State, and the intimate ringing of the crystalline, shining wash-basins, and the stimulating rustle of the falling curtains, and the joyous voices of the newest cook-books, and the almost imperceptible whisper of the street membranes....

In this way, our whole life, in all its complexity and beauty, is stamped forever in the gold of words. Our poets no longer soar into the unknown. They have come down to earth and march with us, keeping step to the stern, mechanical March from the musical State Tower. Their lyre is the morning hum of electric toothbrushes. It is the threatening crack of electric sparks from the Machine of the Well-Doer and the magnificent echo of the Hymn of the United State. It is the familiar ringing of the gleaming crystal washbasins and the stirring rustle of the curtains as they fall. It is the joyful voices of the latest cookbooks and the almost imperceptible whisper of the street membranes....

Our gods are here, below. They are with us in the Bureau, in the kitchen, in the shops, in the rest-rooms. The gods have become like us, ergo we have become like gods. And we shall come to you, my unknown readers on another planet, we shall come to you to make your life as god-like, as rational and as correct as ours....

Our gods are here, on earth. They are with us in the Bureau, the kitchen, the shops, and the restrooms. The gods have become like us, so we have become like gods. We will come to you, my unknown readers on another planet. We will come to make your lives as godlike, rational, and correct as ours....