The field at dawn, still half hidden in the night. Each element of the landscape slowly comes into focus: each row of cabbage in the field, each tree in the stand of birches beyond it, each pole in the fence between them. A pair of pigeons pecking at the ground between molehills. As the dawn separates things out it also reveals their interconnection. The landscape makes sense, it’s as if it’s happening, and I with it as I stand looking out the window, slowly waking. Then I sit down, open the laptop with a yawn to check my emails, find the internet’s playing up again, and the spell is broken, as they say.
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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