X tells me he’s spent all day drinking himself into the place where he can think. Slowly. For despite his nerves he’s a slow man, he says, a man whose mind develops slowly but surely, like something ponderous moving through water, finding the right current.
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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