when all kinds of things—the starry sky above a Caucasian spa, a book read in the toilet, one’s own
conjectures about the cosmos, the deli-cious panic of solipsism—are in themselves enough to provoke a
frenzy in all the senses of an adolescent human being? There is no reason for me to become an
executioner; I have no intention of annihilating en-emy regiments through a megaphone; in short, there
is no one for me to confide in.»
«I asked you two questions, Falter, and you have twice proved to me t he impossibility of an
answer. It seems to me useless to ask you about anything else—say, about the limits of the universe, or
the origin of life. You would probably suggest that I be content with a speckled minute on a second-rate
planet, served by a second-rate sun, or else you would again reduce everything to a riddle: is the word
‘heterolo-gous’ heterologous itself.»
«Probably,» agreed Falter, giving a lengthy yawn. His brother-in-law quietly scooped his watch
out of his waistcoat and glanced at his wife.
«I lore’s the odd thing, though, Falter. How does superhuman knowledge of the ultimate truth
combine in you with the adroitness of a banal sophist who knows nothing? Admit it, all your absurd
quibbling was nothing more than an elaborate sneer.»
«Oh well, that is my only defense,» said Falter, squinting at his sister, who was nimbly extracting
a long gray woolen scarf from the sleeve of the overcoat already being offered to him by his brother-in-
law. «Otherwise, you know, you might have teased it out of me. However,» he added, inserting the
wrong arm, and then the right one in the sleeve, and simultaneously moving away from the helping
shoves of his assistants, «however, even if I did browbeat you a little, let me console you: amid all the
piffle and prate I inadvertently gave myself away—only two or three words, but in them flashed a fringe
of abso lute insight—luckily, though, you paid no attention.»
He was led away, and thus ended our rather diabolical dialogue. Not only had Falter told me
nothing, he had not even allowed me to get close, and no doubt his last pronouncement was as much of
a mockery as all the preceding ones. The following day his brother-in-law’s dull voice informed me on
the telephone that Falter charged 100 francs for a visit; I asked why on earth had I not been warned of
this, and he promptly replied that if the interview were to be repeated, two conversations would cost
me only 150. The purchase of Truth, even at a discount, did not tempt me, and, after sending him the
sum of that unexpected debt, I forced myself not to think about Falter any more. Yesterday, though….
Yes, yesterday I received a note from Falter himself, from the hospital: he wrote, in a clear hand, that he
would die on Tuesday, and that in parting he ventured to inform me that—here-followed two lines
which had been painstakingly and, it seemed, ironically, blacked out. I replied that I was grateful for his
thoughtfulness and that I wished him interesting posthumous impressions and a pleas ant eternity.
But all this brings me no nearer to you, my angel. Just in case, I am keeping all the windows and
doors of life wide open, even though I sense that you will not condescend to the time-honored ways of
appa ritions. Most terrifying of all is the thought that, inasmuch as you glow henceforth within me, I
must safeguard my life. My transitory bodily frame is perhaps the only guarantee of your ideal
existence: when I vanish, it will vanish as well. Alas, with a pauper’s passion I am doomed to use physical
nature in order to finish recounting you to myself, and then to rely on my own ellipsis…
