—Prologo Toccata
Prologo Toccata - Claudio Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo Favola in Musica
Preface
(It was a very Early Version of what I am now - so I half agree with the work in its whole and I half disagree with it in its parts. But neither fully commend nor condem it. Also, finally, I have been able to describe what the book is about: transformation - the desire to transform and all its challenges.)
Here it is; twenty-seven chapters of my old story We Rats of 20C. I completed this story in the spring of ‘09. It was was a short experiment, which I began in the late summer of ‘08. It went through a few drafts and here lies its final version. It is a version that I might call abandoned, since it is as far as I believe I could take the format and idea in its purest way.
There are conditions in this writing that make it unusual and the book almost immediately starts with these differences of condition, that a novel-enthusiast (someone familiar with literature fictions since the 18th century) will quickly make. One of these, namely, is ‘characterization’. It is an aspect of the “the method” that I find unattractive as a principle within art forms, whether writing, music, film making or photography. I decidedly dispensed with it, in favour of a more spacious landscape, leaving the reader to engage with all the information of the scene. It was important to make sure the reader was not brought too close to the character, and instead draw them towards the characters experience with the environment, introducing the reader to the stage.
Without going in to too much detail, I was my intention to make out of this writing something of extra-traditional piece of literature, which requires an open-mind on behalf of my reader, having deliberately decided not to employ the aesthetic circumstances requires to craft a novel as we think of it presently, but taking the assumption that the reader is well read and has the openness of mind that comes from reading through many transformations of literature. In this I might have failed as much as I succeeded.
The book is principally about one person overcoming their circumstances. Twenty-one of the chapters are written by the protagonist directly in to his journal, which is what you the reader will be reading. There is a continuous reference to history and art throughout the writing, every character within has a shadow from mythology (either grecian, roman, or norse) and their scenes are always loose retellings of such mythological tales.
To say a little about the way I’ve written this. The principle narrative device, besides the metaphorical, is Voice. The voice of a work of literature tells you everything, and a reader should search after writing that stimulate them to read it aloud. Notably, there was a period in history when people would only read literature aloud. You can learn everything there is to know about the character, its author, and what to expect from the work in the instance you hear its Voice. I tried to manipulate the voice throughout the work so that the reader could gain a knowledge of the character without giving away too much about himself. The main character is a window to look through and vehicle to guide you through that world. The protagonist begins with an agitated voice, conflicted, and at times bitter, and vengeful, which is echoed on to the description of his surroundings and the writing itself, as the story progresses all this subsides and the voice becomes calmer during the middle period of the work and likewise echoed in to the above mentioned aspects of the story, and as the fourth part of the work progresses the voice becomes much more joyful and pleasant, and is reflected on to his surroundings and the writing itself. It has always disturbed me that the work begins with the least pleasant aspects of thought and feeling, but if you imagine the work as a whole at every point in reading it, that the work is structured on a upward slant, it helps to know these aspects escalate to more pleasantries as the writing progresses.
The story folds in to four parts, and though I ought not to admit it, I might prefer directing a reader straight to the fourth part, as that is where the preceding parts are urging the reader towards, and therefore aims to be the most gratifying. As a work it aims its reader to continue to press onward, and to read the entire work is one sitting is most preferable. It’s not a work to take your time with, it is best enjoyed quickly, like a short-story.
A last point to make, is that the trouble I had in writing this was that I did not place myself in the work anywhere, especially not in its characters. And shouldn’t be taken to be a treatise of my own personal thoughts and feelings, but a reflection on the thoughts and feelings that occupied a period of time. Only towards the culminations of the story do I begin to see myself. To ask whether I believe in any of this is unanswerable, I might say entirely, but not as these characters seem to announce it. In a sense I think its filled with all sorts of silly half-thoughts, that I was too young to think clear enough and penetratingly enough. But in the experience of how they’re presented they lean in the right direction and are forgiveable.
The entire meaning of the story might be well expressed through these lines:
“Once I lived in sadness and sorrow;
now I rejoice, and these anxieties
that I have suffered for so many years
make my present happy state more dear.”
taken from Alessandro Striggo’s libretto for L’Orfeo
James Anderson (James Roy Dazell)
It’s all totally copyrighted James Anderson 2009
PART 1
Roots: Chant 1
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will to be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
T.S Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets
I had always wanted to experience the meaning of those lines as something glorious, and not as something dissatisfying, as some invisible beauty that wouldn’t be revealed unless you were to peel away the surface layer. But the deeper I got, the more I knew of this place, the more miserable I found it to be.
In the beginning, Bjorkvard was a peaceful place, a northern temperature climate, and all species were easily grown from seed, the trees grew with the town, and the people were what grew there.
My mother and father, along with my first born sister, Karelian, were amongst the first villagers to settle in this town. The landscape had grown to semi-sized birch trees and small feathered shrubs. The bark of the birch was still strong, and still scratched with the markings of lenticles.
On the first winter the leaves fell, the town became reclusive, but only for the season, and if one were to have flown over the town at this time, it would have appeared that none yet lived here at all. From the sky you might only have seen a few of the hundreds, walking the streets from one place to another, or leaving their vehicle to enter their home.
Though the land would have appeared dead at this time, more were arriving with each passing month. The calls of the geese could be heard from any place, and echoed to every corner. Yet the trees were still preparing. The aments had formed and were holding rigid through the bitter cold. And soon at the coming of spring, each were to bear flower.
By the summer, my parent’s second child was to be born, Carelica, and the landscape now resembled those Oriental gardens. The trees would reach high, in coatings of silver bark, spraying thin leaves with a short audience of shrubs.
My father would work as part of the community, as did other fathers and husbands at the time, to utilize the birch, which became our resource for many things. Though the paper on the birch would hold tight, with little effort it could be extracted and washed.
The summer: a lovely time of year, as birds wisped across the sky, butterflies (reds, whites, soft blues and pinks) would flutter across the garden, and at night, when the sun sank, to hear the song of summer sounds.
On the following summer, I was to be born. As I grew older in the village, I would enjoy resting in the garden, between thin stemmed leaves, which sprouted and curled, and the flowering tall trees, listening to the concertos of the birds behind leaves.
Time had passed and the village had now formed itself, and not before long, migrants arrived in the season of simple leaves. People had begun to arrive from the neighbouring towns, and the smaller surrounding villages, the trees continued to grow with these Dorian arrivals, and the variety of simple leaves would differ little.
They would often appear in pairs, but seemed to be borne on two-leafed stems. Those who migrated were vastly different from the first generation that developed the town in to what it was. And with them, they brought their habits as though larvae. They brought poorer spoken words, which confused the dialect of the town, until all voices began to become lost to each other, scattered and segregated amongst its people. Whilst the leaves still grew, appearing either toothed or lobed.
They admired our homes and we taught them to build their own the same. But as they saw us, not building but watching, they resented their work and built homes of poorer quality. And whilst the trees still grew, the female catkins would fall apart to release seeds unlike the woody cone of the female adler.
The town then became divided between the first and the last. The first began to leave, to leave to areas that resembled the village they had sown, and not that they had not wished to reap. This was the season when allergies were ripe. And still the birch trees grew, and many trees perished at being left overgrown. The last would remain and even some from the first, but the town was no longer of one but of many. But still all species were easily grown from seed, and the people were still what grew there.
“Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.”
Winter was conceived, as snow had fallen over night, and all around the village, on to the bare necks of birch trees, layering the ground, and rooftop, snow wrapped the town in its frosty coat. And wherever snow had failed to settle, barks and stones were coated in rivers of moss.
The clouds hung overhead so ugly that Wordsworth himself would not have thought them worth his ink, and no matter how strong the winds blow, nothing ever causes them to leave. As for its form, it covers the entire village, and neither sun nor sky could be seen through, and so we’re left underneath stubborn ochre clouds, that even if they thinned, they become so blinding they were unbearable to look at.
The air fills with noise which travels from the through roads and by roads, and the roaring hum of heavy vehicles, and less and less chirping is noticed from waking birds. Public bins that have been burnt, street lights that have been uprooted, and shattered glass lies on the street by the bus shelters that had been knocked through the night before. Yet tomorrow it will all be repaired, as that is all the Lepidoptera will ever do; replace the damage, and have forgotten with it.
Yet despite its dull sight, my reader, an apartment window, high above the ground, served well as an eye to the village, or perhaps better expressed, an eyrie. From it most of the village could be seen, the houses of each district, by their shape and colour, so distinctive that it is as if they were trees marked with brushes of paint to be cut. It proved as useful as the eyes of Pausanias to the east the Demos of Pendula, to see to the west the Demos of Pumila, and between, the Lutea And somewhere around, out of view from such a window, was Weidvag Heath, an area of waste made of birch forests and moss lands.
With time the different parts of Bjorkvard had aged to different degrees, and though once everything could had resembled each other, with deserved attention received or lacking, each part of the town took on a new appearance so much that there were distinctive differences between two places by even turning a corner.
In the Demos of Lutea, beneath the over passage and dual carriage ways, beneath the b-roads, and through subways, it is tiled with graffiti; a name, the years, obscene words, dressed with cigarette packets scattered on the floor. And standing cold and forgotten is the abandoned church of Bjorkvard that had once been lead by Father Rusalki. Hidden from view by the trees, behind the rooftops and central to the village, is the park, that was once a place to play and take pleasant walks at night across the field and beside the lake, but are no longer safe to do, due to the haunt of the satyrs on their weekly liberella, who turn to drink and flood the park to play juvenile pranks, and public displays of sexual behaviour.
My reader, there comes a shriek so strange, I can neither tell if it is man or woman, and my eyes are drawn to the street. I see three boys aggressively throwing snowballs at an elderly woman, who is cowering and covering her head with her hands as one would expect. Yet the boys, showing no signs of shame for themselves, continue to reach down for clumps of snow and hurl them at the elderly woman, who I could not believe had done a thing to have provoked this since when even being pelted in this manner she does not utter a foul word against them. And now the woman takes to her feet, and with a slow and dizzy-like manner, runs from the boys, who are laughing and begin to follow seeming to find it all the more amusing the more distressed the woman becomes. They seem to have given up now the woman has fled. They’re standing, talking, as though nothing has taken place at all and now appear bored, nudging the snow with their feet and folding their arms.
I turn away from the window, feeling dissatisfied with what I have seen, and retuned to my writing desk where I feel comfortable and at liberty to speak of myself.
I am living in an apartment here, though it is nothing special. The apartment block needs looking after, parts of the interior need redecorating, the grounds require tending to, and the light on my ceiling hasn’t been working for months. A simple light bulb change is all that’s necessary, but I’d grown to adapt to using a small lamp and so no longer noticed its fault. But of all the places I could find myself in, it was this small closet apartment that I cherished the most. I am free behind these four walls, I could live out the world from in here. It is only when I am outside that I am contained. No, in here, I am free.
As I said, I am at my writing desk, and all this is written down in my notebook. Yet no matter how pleasing it is for me to put pen to paper, I can not help but feel I do so out boredom. That my life had reached stillness and I do this simply to pass time.
I deny myself the pleasures of most things in society because they too leave me bored. And the repetition of seeing other tenants of the apartment block quickly leaves me fed up, yet I could not understand why everything now felt different, what reason the world felt dull to me and where my own passions went or the feeling that my body was awake. And it all drove me here, to my writing desk, scrawling ramblings in notebooks.
Something was so very different about how I see myself in my memories, more than nostalgia, I felt as though I were then a different person, someone else who still retained much of their cheerfulness, and good humour, who knew nothing of words like malicious. And as I traced back in my mind, I questioned if it had been the years of my adolescence that had cause me to drift and loosen the strings on what I valued. But like a magnetised piece iron that floats in salt water, assisting sailors to their destination, there was always my conscience to set bearings to my misguided thoughts.
I could not account this ennui on money or loneliness, but that my life lacked purpose, lacked direction. It was not a civil purpose but a personal one; what drove a person’s life. And perhaps it was not myself I needed to understand, but all that was around me, to discover what had been lost.
And sinking down in my chair, putting my elbow on the table and resting my forehead against my fingers, it has occurred to me, it is not only ennui, but sorrow. I am sorrowful, and have been so for a long time without my realizing.
And in this moment, I have stood up, and look around the room, that seems different, as though in agreement with my confession. Yes, I repeat, I am sorrowful, and must be rid of it.
Yes, when I am moved, when my feelings are moved to speak as though for themselves, that is what I wish to regain and what will rid me of my sorrow. And my stomach felt tense and feelings rose upwards as if expressing words of their own:
Conscience, sing the song of my age, the song that has delivered me sorrow and shunned me of gladness, and unfurl in gentle words the stalks of all my sorrow.
PART 2
Bole: Chant 1
It was pouring down with rain, I heard the splattering of footsteps in puddles that formed on the uneven pavement, and from my apartment view, appearing like a charcoal sketch of an old Victorian town, I followed the sound with my eyes until they reached two figures walking along the pavement below.
One was a young child, though I was not able to accurately say how old, accompanied by, who I will presume from his hunched posture, his lean frame and the greying of his wet hair, to be the young child’s grandfather. But the child was cold and, as frequently happens with young children, his hunger had revived. I could soon identify the young child as a boy from his grandfather’s comforting words, which expressed his name repeatedly as though it would encourage a relaxing effect. The grandfather, after pulling up his hood, noticing they had now stopped and how discomforting the rain was, knelt at the boy whose hands were placed in his pockets. And the grandfather, taking out a pair of mittens (though he referred them gloves) from the bag he had been holding, placed one after the other on the young boys hands, who held them both out together, one warming by the mitten, one getting wet by the rain. And the grandfather wiped off his hand before placing the other on, then rose to his feet, and took out a small biscuit or cake, I could not clearly see, and handed to it to the young boy. And after also having one for himself, all he now heard was the rain at his feet, and taking the boy’s hand, they continued along the pavement, whether having far or short to go, receiving no comfort from the rainfall. I watched them continue to walk down the road, and my attention was turned, no longer on the two of them, but to the rain as it landed in puddles on the ground.
The sight of this had provoked a sensation which drew me towards my chest of draws where in the bottom draw I would keep an assortment of objects that found no suitable place either on the walls or on flat surfaces. And I reached in, having known what it was I was provoked to find, and removed a picture still encased in its frame. I turned the frame over, unpicking the hinges and clips, and removed the photograph, placing the frame on top of the chest of draws. The photograph was an old image of my father, and it seemed fitting that it was not a recent one, yet the memory was lost of how or when I had acquired it. But on seeing it before me, it roused feelings within me that felt discordant, as though for a moment I had been short of breath. And as I saw a light drift from one corner of the room to the other, it evoked the passing of time. And as the shadows fell on to my books and passed over the photograph, I could not help but think of an earlier time, when for my birthday, two years ago but not to the day, I had coffee at a table with my father, where I was to see him for the last time. I remember it vividly. The café was small and dressed in auburn colours, my father wore his clean suit, but not his cleanest as he did not like to project he had a job that allowed him time for those kind of errands. And as we pulled out our chairs to take our seats a waitress approached to take our orders.
—Hi, he says as the waitress greets us at our table. I’ll have a beer, he orders. And what do you want? A beer?
—I don’t drink, Dad, I say. I’ll have a coffee, please, I order from the waitress.
—That’s what you drink? he says with a look as if I’d just told him I was ill. Alright, he says. Two coffees.
The waitress leaves and my father wriggles in his chair and pushes back his shoulders so they crack.
—You look well, he says.
—I’m not doing bad, I reply
He nods and looks at me for a moment to think of another question.
—Your place is …it’s working out?
—It’s comfortable, I say. I like it.
—Good.
He brushes his chin with his hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against his fingers.
—What about. . girls? He asks. You still got that pretty one I saw you with last time?
—Who? Oh, I say remembering the scene. No, you got the wrong idea, she’s just my neighbour.
—Ah, he says, a little offended that I had found him mistaken. He takes a sip of his coffee. So you got a girl?
—Not for a while, no.
—Well you better get another one, he says. I hate to break it to you, but they’re not all lined up waiting for you.
I saw he found his remark amusing without noticing that I were not amused also. But I ignored it so as not to encourage another.
—What about yourself, Dad. How’s the work going?
—Ah, I work too much, he says sitting back as though rather proud of being overworked. Life of an architect, he continues. You work hard on something and they reward you by working you harder.
—Like Emelyán, I say.
—What’s that? Is that from one of your books?
—Nevermind.
—You should cut a hole in one of those books. Then maybe you’d take a look at life once in a while.
I had received that comment from him once before.
—I’m thinking about going to Crete, he says trying to change the subject.
—Oh, really, I say with faint interest.
—Yes. You should get away too, Zy. But, he says with a wave of his hand, I know you hate to fly.
—Oh, the flying part I’m fine with, I say. It’s the death part that worries me.
He doesn’t laugh and instead places his elbows on the table before him and wraps one hand over the other, with an expression of pity, that I wouldn’t bring myself to do something, which on several occasions, he had tried to convince me would be perfectly fine.
He looked at the table and began to arrange his cutlery in size order, starting with the smallest to the largest, so they were spread out like a fan. But as he was about to say something, the waitress returned with our order and hands my father his coffee and then my own, offering me her smile, which I returned with my own.
—What took you so long? says my father. It take three of you to make it?
He looks at me as if his comment impressed me. And the waitress bites her smile and walks away.
—I tell you, he says to me, more work and less skirt, and this place would be going somewhere.
I fake a smile and reach for my coffee, which is too hot to drink and so only allow it to touch my lips to receive its taste and fragrance.
—So, what is it you’re actually doing here? he asks me bluntly.
—Working …thinking …occasionally living.
—Well, maybe if you occasionally thought, he says amused, you’d do more living.
Realizing I was not as amused as he was with his response, he asks.
—Do you have any plans for the future?
—I don’t know, I say. Or maybe I do, and it’s just been weathered away by the lack of knowing how to do it.
—Well, work is very important, he says. What else can you do, he asks me rhetorically.
—I’d thought about more schooling.
—Why? So you can delay more time of not getting a real job?
—I was just thinking about it, I say.
—I just don’t know what it is you’re going to do. Do you know what it is you’re going to do? I don’t see how you’re going to get yourself out of this.
—It’s not really much worse than your situation.
—I have a career, son. You have a job that doesn’t pay very much. Don’t you appreciate the things you can buy with a good job?
—What if I went to study architecture?
—An architect? A long way to go if you’re going to pull out. Four years of schooling, industry experience, two more years of schooling, and then at least another year before anyone’s even going to take you on. You think you can do that? No, I think a son should follow their own direction.
—I appreciate your confidence.
—I’m being realistic. Don’t aim too high or too low.
—So, you’re working pretty hard right now? I ask him changing the subject.
—Yes, he says. I’m very good at what I do, but I believe I’ve got myself in to something inescapable.
—I’m sure you’ll find your way out, I say
Since you’ve built yourself in to it, I wished I’d continued.
—Yes, they’ll lock you up until stress is your only company.
—What is it you’re working on?
—A grand design, he says becoming more enthusiastic. I tell you this construction I am working on is so high, that from the top you can see heaven.
—And what’s at the bottom? I ask.
—The city, he says.
—It sounds as though your career is doing alright at least.
—Yes, well it’s very competitive though, he says seriously. Another architect becomes your rival. And you would not believe the deceitfulness of people, Zylitol. Let me give you a lesson, he says leaning forward to speak to me seriously. Don’t give anyone a chance, he says. Not a mile, not an inch. There just aren’t enough people in this world you can trust.
—Hm, I say. Maybe then I’m not doing so bad.
He looks at me confused with what I had said.
—I didn’t say any of that was bad, he says. It’s business.
—Well, I’ll figure something out, I say.
—Well, just know, no matter what you do, or how hard you strive, I’m your father, and I won’t be too disheartened if or when you fail.
A dog ran in through the front entrance and up to our table. Their owner ran inside after it and apologized, taking their dog by the collar.
—They’re like children aren’t they? he said to my father
—Yes, he replied sternly. Except they have less reason to be ashamed.
The owner looked confused by what my father had said, but laughed it off as a remark which he had misunderstood its meaning.
My father watched the owner lead his dog out of the entrance by the collar and turn the corner out of sight, before returned his eyes to me.
—What is it I can do for you? he asks. Money? Do you want money?
—No, I don’t care about money, I say.
—You don’t care about money? he says astounded. I put money in your account each month. You don’t work for it. Maybe I should take I back, if you’re not going to even work up a respect for it.
—I just meant that I don’t need… I just meant that I . . that I’m alright, I say trying to think of a safe answer.
—Hm, he says settling himself. Well.
I saw the waitress looking over at our table, with a concerned expression, whether out of curiosity, whether out of concern for the business, or whether out of sympathy for myself, I wasn’t sure.
He lets out a deep sigh and appears to run over the things I had said.
—I thought I’d left you in good hands, he says. Didn’t Samara raise you right?
—This is nothing to do with my mother, I say quickly. Maybe if you weren’t absent so long.
—Well, I… he begins to say but cuts himself off in favour of a different approach. Of course, I’d love to come up to see you more often, he says. But you know very well, I have a practice to run, and there’s the house, and my… and those living in it, and all prices are rising. Everything has to be paid for. You’re not thinking realistically, you’re just thinking of what you want, and that you deserve to have it because you want it.
—Maybe if you cared more about me than about your work, I mumble.
He went livid.
—Do you not think for a moment that I care about my work because I care for you? Do you think if I dropped all of this it would make everything easier? breathing fire to his words. You want to stop reading books with happy endings, he says. Wake up!
—You just don’t seem to show it, I say as if having written it on a napkin and passed it to him across the table.
—You don’t think I care? I’d build a temple in your honour if you ever gave me a reason to.
I look down at my table, and reach for my cup of coffee, but no longer feeling a thirst for it, I simply hold on to the handle.
—Don’t you appreciate that I come up here? he says. That we get to sit here, and talk, that you get to see me? Because I do. But it bothers me that I feel I come up here for nothing.
—Maybe if you hadn’t left in the first place, I say glancing up at him.
—Look, he says in a calmer tone. Your mother and I had our obstacles. She didn’t have it in her, he says. She couldn’t tolerate my … well … my behaviour.
He would always try to soften the truth with a lie, as though I were too young and naive to see through it.
—I don’t like when you answer me like a child, I say.
—Then don’t ask childish questions, he pronounces.
I sigh and sit back in my chair with my arms folded and resting on my lap.
—Some fathers don’t do this at all, he continues. Some don’t get to see their fathers again. Would you prefer that? I’m doing you a favour, Zylitol. You should appreciate it.
I let my eyes glance about room while he talks and noticed couples of people eating at tables close by had ceased their conversations and were looking over having felt uncomfortable to pleasantly continue their meals. Whether my father had also noticed, or whether he was too focused and lost in his temper, I wasn’t sure.
—Don’t forget you have not once visited me, he says. And I hardly receive a phone call. So don’t fire all your arrows at me.
I remove my cup of coffee from its saucer and take a gulp, causing my cheeks to puff out, and swallow, feeling its warmth as it trickles down my throat.
—I know… .I know it bothers you. It bothers me too, he says.
I look at him with surprise.
—It bothers me that I have to come up here because it bothers you.
Not surprised.
—You’re growing up, Zylitol, he says. I shouldn’t have to come up here to wipe your tears.
He breathes for a moment, and looks at me, cracks his shoulders once more and speaks calmly.
—Why don’t you come down to visit me? he says
—I don’t think I’m … I don’t.
I wanted to tell him I was angry that he had asked me, that I felt it offensive that I would repeat the same answer time and time again, but he continued to look at me, waiting for an answer, as though this were the time I was to say something different.
—I don’t think so, I say.
—Well, I’ll keep asking.
—Thanks for asking, I say. But understand that it might upset me if you repeat your asking.
—Well, he says smiling. I’ll take my chances.
He lifted his cup to his mouth to drink the last drop of coffee, and made an dissatisfied face, as though his cheek muscles had twitched him.
—Worst drink I’ve ever had, he says and places the cup to its saucer.
Yeah, I think to myself. Me too, Dad.
—Damn drink when straight through me, he announces. I’m going to find the lavatory.
He stands up, putting both hands on the table to raise himself, buttons his suit jacket and looks first to the left, then to the right to locate a sign for the toilets.
—They’re over there, I say.
—I see them, he says without looking to me and walks to where I had shown him.
I sat for a minute, allowing my emotions to find their direction and settle where they found peace, but they were determined to continue moving and collide with one another. I stared at my empty coffee cup. How cold it was now, how pale it seemed to me and how I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up from the table, walked to the entrance, putting on my coat as I went and left him there. I wanted to walk out on him. As I walked through the front entrance on to the street I heard him calling my name from inside, without knowing which way to find me.
—Zylitol? Zylitol? I hear. Where are you?
I still held the photograph in my hand and after a sigh I could not hold its image before me, but had to remove it from my hands. But after sitting for a moment with my elbow on the desk, my forehead rested on the base of my palm, it felt to be a nuisance and rising from my seat I snatched it up and walked over to the draws and slung the photograph in the draw where I had rediscovered it.
No, I thought, it was wrong to remove it.
And with that, turning away from my desk for a moment, filled with a temper and displeasure at things which were not my own, I began to stamp around my apartment in circles, which must have made a racket on the ceiling to the floor below, pointing at this item and that which were all things inherited from my father and I no longer found myself wanting to keep. And in erratic gestures, I at once wished them all to be gone from my sight and return to whom they belonged. I pulled all the objects off the walls, and lifted all the objects that stood on table surfaces and shoved them all in to a bag, and without sensible care, though some were sharp and some were rusted. Yet by now, having realized the time, and understood that not only I did not find myself in the mood to continue in this strange manner, it was late and I decided tomorrow would come too quickly whether I slept or not.
