He’d rather be quiet, X tells me, but something keeps dragging him along trailing his voice, himself probably, no me, can’t I just shut him up? He’s tired, he says. If I said something, anything, it would shut him up, he’d see his place in the order of things, he’d see how high above himself he’s got and fall in line, so just say something, he says, anything.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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