Record Twenty-Four

I am like a motor set in motion at a speed of too many revolutions per second, the bearings have become too hot and in one more minute the molten metal will begin to drip and everything will go to the devil. Cold water! Quick! Some logic! I pour pailfuls of it, but my logic merely sizzles on the hot metal and disappears in the air in the form of vapor.

I’m like a motor running at too many revolutions per second. The bearings have overheated. In another minute, the molten metal will start dripping and everything will go to hell. Cold water! Quick! Some logic! I pour it on by the bucketful, but my logic just sizzles on the hot metal and vanishes into the air as steam.

Of course it is clear that in order to establish the true meaning of a function, one must establish its limit. It is also clear that yesterday’s “dissolution in the universe” taken to its limit is death. For death is exactly the most complete dissolution of the self in the universe. Hence: L=f (D), love is the function of death.

Of course, to find the true meaning of a function, you must find its limit. It is also clear that yesterday’s “dissolution in the universe,” taken to its limit, is death. For death is the most complete dissolution of the self in the universe. Therefore: L=f (D), love is a function of death.

Yes, exactly, exactly! That is why I am afraid of I-330; I struggle against her, I don’t want.... But why is it that within me “I don’t want to” and “I want to” stand side by side? That is the chief horror of the matter; I continue to long for that happy death of yesterday. The horror of it is that even now, when I have integrated the logical function, when it becomes evident that the latter contains death hidden in it, nevertheless I long for it with my lips, arms, breast, with every millimeter....

Yes, exactly, exactly! That is why I am afraid of I-330. I struggle against her. I don’t want to.... But why do “I don’t want to” and “I want to” stand side by side inside me? That is the worst horror of it. I still long for yesterday’s happy death. Even now, I have integrated the logical function, and it is clear that it contains death hidden within it. Yet I still long for it with my lips, arms, chest, with every millimeter....

Tomorrow is the Day of Unanimity. She will certainly be there and I shall see her, though from a distance. That distance will be painful to me, for I must be, I am inevitably drawn, close to her, so that her hands, her shoulder, her hair.... I long for even that pain.... Let it come.... Great Well-Doer! How absurd to desire pain! Who is ignorant of the simple fact that pains are negative items which reduce that sum total we call happiness? Consequently ... Well, no “consequently” ... Emptiness.... Nakedness!

Tomorrow is the Day of Unanimity. She will certainly be there, and I will see her, though from a distance. That distance will hurt me. I need to be close to her. I am inevitably drawn close to her, so that her hands, her shoulder, her hair.... I long for even that pain.... Let it come.... Great Well-Doer! How absurd to want pain! Who doesn’t know the simple fact that pain is a negative item that reduces the total we call happiness? So ... Well, no “so” ... Emptiness.... Nakedness!

The Same Evening.

The Same Evening.

Through the glass wall of the house I see a disquieting, windy, feverishly pink, sunset. I move my armchair to avoid that pinkness and turn over these pages, and I find I am forgetting that I write this not for myself but for you unknown people whom I love and pity, for you who still lag centuries behind, below. Let me tell you about the Day of Unanimity, about that Great Day. I think that day for us is what Easter was for the ancients. I remember I used to prepare an hour-calendar the eve of that day; solemnly I would cross out every time the figure of the hour elapsed; nearer by one hour! one hour less to wait!... If I were certain that nobody would discover it, I assure you I should now too, make out such a calendar and carry it with me, and I should watch how many hours remain until tomorrow, when I shall see, at least from a distance....

Through the glass wall of the house, I see an unsettling, windy, feverishly pink sunset. I move my armchair to escape the pink light and turn over these pages. I find that I am forgetting that I write them not for myself, but for you, unknown people whom I love and pity. You are still centuries behind us, below us. Let me tell you about the Day of Unanimity, about that Great Day. I think the day means to us what Easter meant to the ancients. I remember making an hour calendar on the eve of the day. Each time an hour passed, I would solemnly cross out its number. One hour closer! One hour less to wait!... If I were sure nobody would discover it, I assure you I would make such a calendar even now and carry it with me. I would watch how many hours remain until tomorrow, when I shall see, at least from a distance....

(I was interrupted. They brought me a new unif from the shop. As is customary, new unifs are given to us for tomorrow’s celebration. Steps in the hall, exclamations of joy, noises.)

(I was interrupted. They brought me a new unif from the shop. As usual, we get new unifs for tomorrow’s celebration. Footsteps in the hall, cries of joy, noise.)

I shall continue; tomorrow I shall see the same spectacle which we see year after year and which always awakes in us fresh emotions, as though we saw it for the first time: an impressive throng of piously lifted arms. Tomorrow is the day of the yearly election of the Well-Doer. Tomorrow we shall again hand over to our Well-Doer the keys to the impregnable fortress of our happiness. Certainly this in no way resembles the disorderly, unorganized election-days of the ancients, on which (it seems so funny!) they did not even know in advance the result of the election. To build a state on some non-discountable contingencies, to build blindly,—what could be more nonsensical? Yet centuries were required to pass before this was understood!

I will continue. Tomorrow I will see the same spectacle we see year after year. It always stirs fresh emotions in us, as though we were seeing it for the first time: an impressive crowd of arms raised in devotion. Tomorrow is the day of the annual election of the Well-Doer. Once again, we will hand our Well-Doer the keys to the impregnable fortress of our happiness. Of course, this is nothing like the disorderly, chaotic election days of the ancients. They did not even know the result in advance. How funny that seems! What could be more nonsensical than building a state blindly, on unpredictable events? Yet it took centuries for people to understand this!

Needless to say, we in this respect as in all others have no place for contingencies; nothing unexpected can happen. The elections themselves have rather a symbolic meaning. They remind us that we are a united, powerful organism of millions of cells, that—, to use the language of the “gospel” of the ancients, we are a united church. The history of the United State knows not a single case in which upon this solemn day even a solitary voice has dared to violate the magnificent unison.

Needless to say, as in everything else, we leave no room for chance. Nothing unexpected can happen. The elections themselves are largely symbolic. They remind us that we are one powerful organism made up of millions of cells. To use the language of the ancients' “gospel”, we are a united church. In the history of the United State, not even one voice has ever dared to break the magnificent unison on this solemn day.

They say that the ancients used to conduct their elections secretly, stealthily like thieves. Some of our historians assert even that they would come to the electoral celebrations completely masked. Imagine the weird, fantastic spectacle! Night. A plaza. Along the walls the stealthily creeping figures covered with mantles. The red flame of torches dancing in the wind.... Why was such secrecy necessary? It has never been satisfactorily explained. Probably it resulted from the fact that elections were associated with some mystic and superstitious, perhaps even criminal ceremonies. We have nothing to conceal or to be ashamed of; we celebrate our election openly, honestly, in daylight. I see them all vote for the Well-Doer and everybody sees me vote for the Well-Doer. How could it be otherwise, since “all” and “I” are one “we”? How ennobling, sincere, lofty, is this compared with the cowardly, thievish “secrecy” of the ancients! Moreover, how much more expedient! For even admitting for a moment the impossible, that is the outbreak of some dissonance in our customary unity, in that case our unseen Guardians are always right there among us, are they not, to register the Numbers who would fall into error and save them from any further false steps? The United State is theirs, the Numbers’! And besides....

They say the ancients held their elections in secret, sneaking around like thieves. Some of our historians even claim that they came to the election celebrations completely masked. Imagine the strange, fantastic scene! Night. A plaza. Figures in cloaks creeping along the walls. The red flames of torches dancing in the wind.... Why was such secrecy necessary? No one has ever explained it satisfactorily. Probably, elections were associated with mystical and superstitious, perhaps even criminal, ceremonies. We have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. We celebrate our election openly, honestly, in daylight. I see everyone vote for the Well-Doer, and everyone sees me vote for the Well-Doer. How could it be otherwise, since “all” and “I” are one “we”? How noble, sincere, and lofty this is compared with the cowardly, thievish “secrecy” of the ancients! And how much more practical! For suppose, just for a moment, the impossible happened. Suppose a disagreement broke out in our usual unity. In that case, our unseen Guardians would be right there among us, wouldn’t they? They would register the Numbers who had fallen into error and save them from further false steps. The United State belongs to them, to the Numbers! And besides....

Through the wall to my left a she-number before the mirror-door of the closet; she is hastily unbuttoning her unif. For a second, swiftly—eyes, lips, two sharp, pink ... the curtains fell. Within me instantly awoke all that happened yesterday and now I no longer know what I meant to say by “besides....” I no longer wish to;—I cannot. I want one thing. I want I-330. I want her every minute, every second, to be with me, with no one else. All that I wrote about Unanimity is of no value; it is not what I want; I have a desire to cross it out, to tear it to pieces and throw it away. For I know (be it a sacrilege, yet it is the truth), that a glorious Day is possible only with her and only then when we are side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Without her the Sun of tomorrow will appear to me only as a little circle cut out of a tin sheet, and the sky a sheet of tin painted blue, and I myself ... I snatched the telephone receiver.

Through the wall to my left, a she-number stands before the mirrored closet door. She is hastily unbuttoning her unif. For a second, a quick glimpse of eyes, lips, two sharp, pink ... the curtains fell. Everything that happened yesterday came back to me at once. Now I no longer know what I meant to say by “besides....” I no longer want to say it. I cannot. I want one thing. I want I-330. I want her with me every minute, every second, with no one else. Everything I wrote about Unanimity is worthless. It is not what I want. I want to cross it out, tear it to pieces, and throw it away. For I know that a glorious Day is possible only with her. It is possible only when we stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder. It may be sacrilege, but it is the truth. Without her, tomorrow’s Sun will seem to me like a little circle cut from a sheet of tin. The sky will seem like a sheet of tin painted blue, and I myself ... I grabbed the telephone receiver.

“I-330, are you there?”

“I-330, are you there?”

“Yes, it is I. Why so late?”

“Yes, it’s me. Why so late?”

“Perhaps not too late yet. I want to ask you ... I want you to be with me tomorrow—dear!”

“Perhaps it's not too late yet. I want to ask you ... I want you to be with me tomorrow, dear!”

“Dear” I said in a very low voice. And for some reason a thing I saw this morning at the docks flashed through my mind: just for fun someone put a watch under the hundred-ton sledge-hammer.... A swing, a breath of wind in the face and the silent hundred-ton, knife-like weight on the breakable watch....

“Dear,” I said in a very low voice. For some reason, I suddenly remembered something I saw at the docks that morning. Just for fun, someone had put a watch under the hundred-ton sledgehammer.... A swing, a breath of wind against my face, and the silent, hundred-ton weight, sharp as a knife, coming down on the fragile watch....

A silence. I thought I heard someone’s whisper in I-330’s room. Then her voice:

Silence. I thought I heard someone whispering in I-330’s room. Then I heard her voice:

“No, I cannot. Of course you understand that I myself.... No, I cannot. ‘Why?’ You shall see tomorrow.”

“No, I can’t. Of course you understand that I myself.... No, I can’t. ‘Why?’ You’ll see tomorrow.”

Night.

Night.