Hills Like White Elephantsby Ernest Hemingwaythe Hills Across The Valley

Hills Like White ElephantsBy Ernest HemingwayThe hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On thissiode there was no shade and no trees and the station was between twolines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station therewas the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep outflies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade,outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelonawould come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for twominutes and went to Madrid.'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat andput it on the table.'It's pretty hot,' the man said.'Let's drink beer.''Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.'Yes. Two big ones.'The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put thefelt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man andthe girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They werewhite in the sun and the country was brown and dry. 'They look like white elephants,' she said.'I've never seen one,' the man drank his beer.'No, you wouldn't have.''I might have,' the man said. 'Just because you say I wouldn't havedoesn't prove anything.'The girl looked at the bead curtain. 'They've painted something onit,' she said. 'What does it say?''Anis del Toro. It's a drink.''Could we try it?'The man called 'Listen' through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.'Four reales.' 'We want two Anis del Toro.''With water?''Do you want it with water?''I don't know,' the girl said. 'Is it good with water?''It's all right.''You want them with water?' asked the woman.'Yes, with water.''It tastes like liquorice,' the girl said and put the glass down.'That's the way with everything.''Yes,' said the girl. 'Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially allthe things you've waited so long for, like absinthe.''Oh, cut it out.''You started it,' the girl said. 'I was being amused. I was having a fine time.''Well, let's try and have a fine time.''All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like whiteelephants. Wasn't that bright?''That was bright.''I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look atthings and try new drinks?''I guess so.'The girl looked across at the hills.'They're lovely hills,' she said. 'They don't really look like whiteelephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through thetrees.''Should we have another drink?''All right.'The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.'The beer's nice and cool,' the man said.'It's lovely,' the girl said.'It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig,' the man said. 'It'snot really an operation at all.'The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.'I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's justto let the air in.'The girl did not say anything.'I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just letthe air in and then it's all perfectly natural.''Then what will we do afterwards?' 'We'll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.''What makes you think so?' 'That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that'smade us unhappy.'The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold oftwo of the strings of beads.'And you think then we'll be all right and be happy.''I know we will. Yon don't have to be afraid. I've known lots ofpeople that have done it.''So have I,' said the girl. 'And afterwards they were all so happy.''Well,' the man said, 'if you don't want to you don't have to. Iwouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it'sperfectly simple.''And you really want to?''I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it ifyou don't really want to.''And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?''I love you now. You know I love you.''I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say thingsare like white elephants, and you'll like it?''I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You knowhow I get when I worry.''If I do it you won't ever worry?''I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple.''Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me.' 'What do you mean?''I don't care about me.''Well, I care about you.''Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and theneverything will be fine.''I don't want you to do it if you feel that way.'The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on theother side, were fields of grain and trees along the

banks of theEbro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of acloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river throughthe trees.'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everythingand every day we make it more impossible.''What did you say?''I said we could have everything.''No, we can't.''We can have the whole world.''No, we can't.''We can go everywhere.''No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.''It's ours.''No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.''But they haven't taken it away.''We'll wait and see.''Come on back in the shade,' he said. 'You mustn't feel that way.''I don't feel any way,' the girl said. 'I just know things.''I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do -''Nor that isn't good for me,' she said. 'I know. Could we have another beer?''All right. But you've got to realize - ''I realize,' the girl said. 'Can't we maybe stop talking?'They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills onthe dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.'You've got to realize,' he said, ' that I don't want you to do it ifyou don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if itmeans anything to you.''Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along.' 'Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't wantanyone else. And I know it's perfectly simple.''Yes, you know it's perfectly simple.''It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it.''Would you do something for me now?' 'I'd do anything for you.''Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?'He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of thestation. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.'But I don't want you to,' he said, 'I don't care anything about it.' 'I'll scream,' the girl siad.The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer andput them down on the damp felt pads. 'The train comes in five minutes,' she said.'What did she say?' asked the girl.'That the train is coming in five minutes.'The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.'I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,' theman said. She smiled at him. 'All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer.'He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station tothe other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train.Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting forthe train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at thepeople. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled athim.'Do you feel better?' he asked.'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.'Theme for English Bby Langston HughesThe instructor said,� �Go home and write� �a page tonight.� �And let that page come out of you--� �Then, it will be true.I wonder if it's that simple?I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then hereto this college on the hill above Harlem.I am the only colored student in my class.The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevatorup to my room, sit down, and write this page:It's not easy to know what is true for you or meat twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm whatI feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.I like a pipe for a Christmas present,or records-Bessie, bop, or Bach.I guess being colored doesn't make me not likethe same things other folks like who are other races.So will my page be colored that I write?Being me, it will not be white.But it will bea part of you, instructor.You are white-yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.That's American.Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.Nor do I often want to be a part of you.But we are, that's true!As I learn from you,I guess you learn from me--although you're older-and white--and somewhat more free.This is my page for English B.THE MAN OF THE CROWD.BY EDGAR A. POE.Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.La Bruyere.[column 2:]IT was well said of a certain German book that "er lasst sich nichtlesen" � it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secretswhich do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in theirbeds, wringing the hands of ghostly

confessors, and looking thempiteously in the eyes � die with despair of heart and convulsion ofthroat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscienceof man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be throwndown only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime isundivulged.Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat atthe large bow window of the D�� Coffee-House in London. For somemonths I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, withreturning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which areso precisely the converse of ennui � moods of the keenest appetency,when the film from the mental vision departs � the [[Greek text:]]xxxxx xx �xxxx xxxx [[:Greek text]] � and the intellect, electrified,surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid yetcandid reason of Combe, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merelyto breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even frommany of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitiveinterest in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper inmy lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of theafternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing thepromiscuous company in the room, and now in peering through the smokypanes into the street.This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and hadbeen very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness cameon, the throng momently increased; and by the time the lamps were welllitten two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing pastthe door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human headsfilled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave upat length all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed[column 2:] in contemplation of the scene without. At first myobservations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at thepassengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded withminute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait,visage, and expression of countenance.By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making theirway through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolledquickly, when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced nosymptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on.Others, still a numerous class, were restless in their movements, hadflushed faces, and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as iffeeling in solitude on account of the very denseness of the companyaround. When impeded in their progress these people suddenly ceasedmuttering, but redoubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with anabsent and overdone smile upon the lips, the course of the personsimpeding them. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, andappeared overwhelmed with confusion. � There was nothing very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have noted.Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed thedecent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,tradesmen, stock-jobbers � the Eupatrids and the common-places ofsociety � men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of theirown � conducting business upon their own responsibility. They did notgreatly excite my attention.The tribe of clerks was an obvious one, and here I discerned tworemarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses �young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, andsupercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage,which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner ofthese persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been theperfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. Theywore the cast-off [page 268:] graces of the gentry � and this, Ibelieve, involves the best definition of the class.The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steadyold fellows," it was not possible to mistake. These were known bytheir coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably,with white cravats and waistcoats, broad solidlooking shoes, andthick hose or gaiters. � They had all slightly bald heads, from

whichthe right ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standingoff on end. I observed that they always removed or settled their hatswith both hands, and wore watches, with short, gold chains of asubstantial and ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation ofrespectability � if indeed there be an affectation so honorable.There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily setdown as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets, with which allgreat cities are infested. I watched these gentry with muchinquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they shouldever be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Theirvoluminousness of wristband, with an air of excessive frankness,should betray them at once.The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of thedesperate thimblerig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief,gilt chains, and fillagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulouslyinornate clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable tosuspicion. Still all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, and pallor andcompression of lip. There were two other traits, moreover, by which Icould always detect them � a guarded lowness of tone in conversation,and a more than ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction atright angles with the fingers. � Very often in company with thesesharpers I observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, butstill birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemenwho live by their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in twobattallions [[battalions]] � that of the dandies and that of themilitary men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locksand smiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darkerand deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyesflashing from countenances whose every other feature wore only anexpression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggarsscowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids,upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and who sidled and totteredthrough the mob looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if insearch of some chance consolation, some lost hope; modest young girlsreturning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinkingmore tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whosedirect contact even could not be avoided; women of the town of all kinds and of all ages � the unequivocal beauty in the prime of herwomanhood, [column 2:] putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian,with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth� the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags � the wrinkled,bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at youth �the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association, an adeptin the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabidambition to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkardsinnumerable and indescribable � some in shreds and patches, reeling,inarticulate, with bruised visage and lacklustre eyes � some in wholealthough filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thicksensual lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces � others clothed in materials which had once been good, and which even now werescrupulously wellbrushed � men who walked with a more than naturallyfirm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale,whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quiveringfingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which camewithin their reach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers,sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, thosewho vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborersof every description, and still all full of a noisy and inordinatevivacity which jarred discordantly upon the ear, and gave an achingsensation to the eye.As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene;for not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter(its gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the moreorderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out intobolder relief as the late hour brought forth every species of infamyfrom its den,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in theirstruggle with the dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, andthrew over every thing a fitful and garish

lustre. All was dark yetsplendid � as that ebony to which has been likened the style ofTertullian. The wild effects of the light enchained me to anexamination of individual faces; and although the rapidity with whichthe world of light flitted before the window prevented me from castingmore than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my thenpeculiar mental state, I could frequently read, even in that briefinterval of a glance, the history of long years. With my brow to theglass, I was thus occupied in scrutinising the mob, when suddenlythere came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old man, somesixty-five or seventy years of age,) a countenance which at oncearrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the absoluteidiosyncracy of its expression. Any thing even remotely resemblingthat expression I had never seen before. I well remember that my firstthought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, wouldhave greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of thefiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey,to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedlyand paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, ofcaution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, [page269:] of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessiveterror, of intense, of supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused,startled, fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "iswritten within that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the manin view � to know more of him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, andseizing my hat and cane, I made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the direction which I had seen him take; for hehad already disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length camewithin sight of him, approached, and followed him closely, yetcautiously, so as not to attract his attention.I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes,generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then,within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen,although dirty, was of beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me,or, through a rent in a closely-buttoned, and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a glimpse either of adiamond, or of a dagger. These observations heightened my curiosity,and I resolved to follow the stranger whithersoever he should go.It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,threatening to end in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weatherhad an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once putinto new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. Thewaver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For myown part I did not much regard the rain � the lurking of an old feverin my system rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant.Tying a handkerchief about my mouth I kept on. For half an hour theold man held his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; andI here walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him.Never once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. Byand bye he passed into a cross street, which, although densely filledwith people, was not quite so much thronged as the main one he hadquitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident. He walked moreslowly and with less object than before � more hesitatingly. Hecrossed and re-crossed the street way repeatedly without apparent aim;and the press was still so thick that at every such movement I wasobliged to follow him closely. The street was a narrow and long one,and his course lay within it for nearly an hour, during which thepassengers had gradually diminished to about that number which isordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the Park � so vast adifference is there between a London populace and that of the mostfrequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square,brilliantly litten, and overflowing with life. The old manner of thestranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyesrolled wildly from under his knit brows in every direction upon thosewho hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I wassurprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of thesquare, that he turned and retraced his steps. � [column 2:] Stillmore was I astonished to see him repeat the same walk several times �once nearly detecting me

as he came round with a sudden movement.In this exercise he spent about an hour, at the end of which we metwith far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rainfell fast [[;]] the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With a gesture of what seemed to be petulant impatience,the wanderer passed into a bye-street comparatively deserted. Downthis, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I couldnot have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to muchtrouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busybazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared wellacquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, ashe forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyersand sellers.During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in thisplace, it required much caution on my part to keep him within reachwithout attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of gumover-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment didhe see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing,spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare.I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that weshould not part until I had satisfied myself in some measurerespecting him.A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast desertingthe bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the oldman, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. Hehurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant,and then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked andpeople-less lanes, until we emerged once more upon the greatthoroughfare whence we had started � the street of the D�� Hotel. Itno longer wore, however, the same aspect. It was still brilliant withgas; but the rain fell fiercely, and there were few persons to beseen. The stranger grew pale. He walked moodily some paces up the oncepopulous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned in the direction ofthe river, and, plunging through a great variety of devious ways, cameout at length in view of one of the principal theatres. It was aboutbeing closed, and the audience were thronging from the doors. I sawthe old man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, insome measure, abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appearedas I had seen him at first. I observed that he now took the course inwhich had gone the greater number of the audience � but, upon thewhole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his actions.As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his olduneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followedclosely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this numberone by one dropped off, until three only remained together in a narrowand gloomy [page 270:] lane little frequented. The stranger paused,and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought; then, with every mark ofagitation, pursued rapidly a route which brought us to the verge ofthe city, amid regions very different from those we had hithertotraversed. It was the most noisome quarter of London, where everything wore the worst impress of the most deplorable poverty, and ofthe most desperate crime. By the dim light of an accidental lamp,tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen tottering totheir fall in directions so many and capricious that scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stoneslay at random, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass.Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphereteemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human liferevived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the mostabandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. Thespirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death-hour. � Once more he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenlya corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and westood before one of the huge sub-urban temples of Intemperance � oneof the palaces of the fiend, Gin.It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates stillpressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek ofjoy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his originalbearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object,among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, [column2:] before a rush to the doors gave token that the host was

closingthem for the night. It was something even more intense than despairthat I then observed upon the countenance of the singular being whom Ihad watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career,but with a mad energy retraced his steps at once, to the heart of themighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in thewildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I nowfelt an interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and,when we had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populoustown, the street of the D�� Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on theevening before. And here, long, amid the momently increasingconfusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual,he walked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out theturmoil of that street. And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front of thewanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, butresumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbedin contemplation. "This old man," I said at length, "is the type andthe genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of thecrowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him,nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book thanthe 'Hortulus Anim�," [[sic]] and perhaps it is but one of the greatmercies of God that 'er lasst sich nicht lesen.' "The VampireRudyard Kipling �1897A fool there was and he made his prayer(Even as you or I!)To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,(We called her the woman who did not care),But the fool he called her his lady fair--(Even as you or I!)Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,And the work of our head and handBelong to the woman who did not know(And now we know that she never could know)And did not understand!A fool there was and his goods he spent,(Even as you or I!)Honour and faith and a sure intent(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),But a fool must follow his natural bent(Even as you or I!)Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lostAnd the excellent things we plannedBelong to the woman who didn't know why(And now we know that she never knew why)And did not understand!The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,(Even as you or I!)Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--(But it isn't on record the lady tried)So some of him lived but the most of him died--(Even as you or I!)And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blameThat stings like a white-hot brand--It's coming to know that she never knew why(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)And never could understand!MetamorphosisFranz KafkaTranslated by David WyllieIOne morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he foundhimself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on hisarmour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see hisbrown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections.The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide offany moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size ofthe rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked."What's happened to me?" he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully betweenits four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spreadout on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and above itthere hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustratedmagazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fittedout with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy furmuff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Dropsof rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quitesad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all thisnonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present statecouldn't get into that position. However hard he threw himself ontohis right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have triedit a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look atthe floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild,dull pain there that he had never felt before."Oh, God", he thought, "what a strenuous career it is that I'vechosen! Travelling day in and day out. Doing business like this takesmuch more effort than doing your own business at

home, and on top ofthat there's the curse of travelling, worries about making trainconnections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people allthe time so that you can never get to know anyone or become friendlywith them. It can all go to Hell!" He felt a slight itch up on hisbelly; pushed himself slowly up on his back towards the headboard sothat he could lift his head better; found where the itch was, and sawthat it was covered with lots of little white spots which he didn'tknow what to make of; and when he tried to feel the place with one ofhis legs he drew it quickly back because as soon as he touched it hewas overcome by a cold shudder.He slid back into his former position. "Getting up early all the time", he thought, "it makes you stupid. You've got to get enoughsleep. Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury. For instance,whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning to copy outthe contract, these gentlemen are always still sitting there eatingtheir breakfasts. I ought to just try that with my boss; I'd getkicked out on the spot. But who knows, maybe that would be the bestthing for me. If I didn't have my parents to think about I'd havegiven in my notice a long time ago, I'd have gone up to the boss andtold him just what I think, tell him everything I would, let him knowjust what I feel. He'd fall right off his desk! And it's a funny sortof business to be sitting up there at your desk, talking down at yoursubordinates from up there, especially when you have to go right upclose because the boss is hard of hearing. Well, there's still somehope; once I've got the money together to pay off my parents' debt tohim - another five or six years I suppose - that's definitely whatI'll do. That's when I'll make the big change. First of all though,I've got to get up, my train leaves at five."And he looked over at the alarm clock, ticking on the chest ofdrawers. "God in Heaven!" he thought. It was half past six and thehands were quietly moving forwards, it was even later than half past,more like quarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not rung? He could seefrom the bed that it had been set for four o'clock as it should havebeen; it certainly must have rung. Yes, but was it possible to quietlysleep through that furniture-rattling noise? True, he had not sleptpeacefully, but probably all the more deeply because of that. Whatshould he do now? The next train went at seven; if he were to catchthat he would have to rush like mad and the collection of samples wasstill not packed, and he did not at all feel particularly fresh andlively. And even if he did catch the train he would not avoid hisboss's anger as the office assistant would have been there to see the five o'clock train go, he would have put in his report about Gregor'snot being there a long time ago. The office assistant was the boss'sman, spineless, and with no understanding. What about if he reportedsick? But that would be extremely strained and suspicious as infifteen years of service Gregor had never once yet been ill. His bosswould certainly come round with the doctor from the medical insurancecompany, accuse his parents of having a lazy son, and accept thedoctor's recommendation not to make any claim as the doctor believedthat no-one was ever ill but that many were workshy. And what's more,would he have been entirely wrong in this case? Gregor did in fact,apart from excessive sleepiness after sleeping for so long, feelcompletely well and even felt much hungrier than usual.He was still hurriedly thinking all this through, unable to decide toget out of the bed, when the clock struck quarter to seven. There wasa cautious knock at the door near his head. "Gregor", somebody called- it was his mother - "it's quarter to seven. Didn't you want to gosomewhere?" That gentle voice! Gregor was shocked when he heard hisown voice answering, it could hardly be recognised as the voice he hadhad before. As if from deep inside him, there was a painful anduncontrollable squeaking mixed in with it, the words could be made outat first but then there was a sort of echo which made them unclear,leaving the hearer unsure whether he had heard properly or not. Gregorhad wanted to give a full answer and explain everything, but in thecircumstances contented himself with saying: "Yes, mother, yes,thank-you, I'm getting up now." The change in Gregor's voice probablycould not be noticed outside through the wooden door, as his motherwas satisfied with this explanation and shuffled away. But this shortconversation made the other members of the family aware that Gregor,against their expectations was still at home, and

soon his father cameknocking at one of the side doors, gently, but with his fist. "Gregor,Gregor", he called, "what's wrong?" And after a short while he calledagain with a warning deepness in his voice: "Gregor! Gregor!" At theother side door his sister came plaintively: "Gregor? Aren't you well?Do you need anything?" Gregor answered to both sides: "I'm ready,now", making an effort to remove all the strangeness from his voice byenunciating very carefully and putting long pauses between each,individual word. His father went back to his breakfast, but his sisterwhispered: "Gregor, open the door, I beg of you." Gregor, however, hadno thought of opening the door, and instead congratulated himself forhis cautious habit, acquired from his travelling, of locking all doorsat night even when he was at home.The first thing he wanted to do was to get up in peace without being disturbed, to get dressed, and most of all to have his breakfast. Onlythen would he consider what to do next, as he was well aware that hewould not bring his thoughts to any sensible conclusions by lying inbed. He remembered that he had often felt a slight pain in bed,perhaps caused by lying awkwardly, but that had always turned out tobe pure imagination and he wondered how his imaginings would slowlyresolve themselves today. He did not have the slightest doubt that thechange in his voice was nothing more than the first sign of a seriouscold, which was an occupational hazard for travelling salesmen.It was a simple matter to throw off the covers; he only had to blowhimself up a little and they fell off by themselves. But it becamedifficult after that, especially as he was so exceptionally broad. Hewould have used his arms and his hands to push himself up; but insteadof them he only had all those little legs continuously moving indifferent directions, and which he was moreover unable to control. Ifhe wanted to bend one of them, then that was the first one that wouldstretch itself out; and if he finally managed to do what he wantedwith that leg, all the others seemed to be set free and would moveabout painfully. "This is something that can't be done in bed", Gregorsaid to himself, "so don't keep trying to do it".The first thing he wanted to do was get the lower part of his body outof the bed, but he had never seen this lower part, and could notimagine what it looked like; it turned out to be too hard to move; itwent so slowly; and finally, almost in a frenzy, when he carelessly shoved himself forwards with all the force he could gather, he chosethe wrong direction, hit hard against the lower bedpost, and learnedfrom the burning pain he felt that the lower part of his body mightwell, at present, be the most sensitive. So then he tried to get the top part of his body out of the bed first,carefully turning his head to the side. This he managed quite easily,and despite its breadth and its weight, the bulk of his bodyeventually followed slowly in the direction of the head. But when hehad at last got his head out of the bed and into the fresh air itoccurred to him that if he let himself fall it would be a miracle ifhis head were not injured, so he became afraid to carry on pushinghimself forward the same way. And he could not knock himself out nowat any price; better to stay in bed than lose consciousness.It took just as much effort to get back to where he had been earlier,but when he lay there sighing, and was once more watching his legs as they struggled against each other even harder than before, if that waspossible, he could think of no way of bringing peace and order to thischaos. He told himself once more that it was not possible for him tostay in bed and that the most sensible thing to do would be to getfree of it in whatever way he could at whatever sacrifice. At the sametime, though, he did not forget to remind himself that calmconsideration was much better than rushing to desperate conclusions.At times like this he would direct his eyes to the window and look outas clearly as he could, but unfortunately, even the other side of thenarrow street was enveloped in morning fog and the view had littleconfidence or cheer to offer him. "Seven o'clock, already", he said tohimself when the clock struck again, "seven o'clock, and there's stilla fog like this." And he lay there quietly a while longer, breathinglightly as if he perhaps expected the total stillness to bring thingsback to their real and natural state.But then he said to himself: "Before it strikes quarter past sevenI'll definitely have to have got properly out of bed. And by

thensomebody will have come round from work to ask what's happened to meas well, as they open up at work before seven o'clock." And so he sethimself to the task of swinging the entire length of his body out ofthe bed all at the same time. If he succeeded in falling out of bed inthis way and kept his head raised as he did so he could probably avoidinjuring it. His back seemed to be quite hard, and probably nothingwould happen to it falling onto the carpet. His main concern was forthe loud noise he was bound to make, and which even through all thedoors would probably raise concern if not alarm. But it was somethingthat had to be risked. When Gregor was already sticking half way out of the bed - the newmethod was more of a game than an effort, all he had to do was rockback and forth - it occurred to him how simple everything would be ifsomebody came to help him. Two strong people - he had his father andthe maid in mind - would have been more than enough; they would onlyhave to push their arms under the dome of his back, peel him away from the bed, bend down with the load and then be patient and careful as heswang over onto the floor, where, hopefully, the little legs wouldfind a use. Should he really call for help though, even apart from thefact that all the doors were locked? Despite all the difficulty he wasin, he could not suppress a smile at this thought.After a while he had already moved so far across that it would havebeen hard for him to keep his balance if he rocked too hard. The timewas now ten past seven and he would have to make a final decision verysoon. Then there was a ring at the door of the flat. "That'll besomeone from work", he said to himself, and froze very still, althoughhis little legs only became all the more lively as they danced around.For a moment everything remained quiet. "They're not opening the door", Gregor said to himself, caught in some nonsensical hope. Butthen of course, the maid's firm steps went to the door as ever andopened it. Gregor only needed to hear the visitor's first words ofgreeting and he knew who it was - the chief clerk himself. Why didGregor have to be the only one condemned to work for a company wherethey immediately became highly suspicious at the slightestshortcoming? Were all employees, every one of them, louts, was therenot one of them who was faithful and devoted who would go so mad withpangs of conscience that he couldn't get out of bed if he didn't spendat least a couple of hours in the morning on company business? Was itreally not enough to let one of the trainees make enquiries assumingenquiries were even necessary - did the chief clerk have to comehimself, and did they have to show the whole, innocent family thatthis was so suspicious that only the chief clerk could be trusted tohave the wisdom to investigate it? And more because these thoughts hadmade him upset than through any proper decision, he swang himself withall his force out of the bed. There was a loud thump, but it wasn'treally a loud noise. His fall was softened a little by the carpet, andGregor's back was also more elastic than he had thought, which madethe sound muffled and not too noticeable. He had not held his headcarefully enough, though, and hit it as he fell; annoyed and in pain,he turned it and rubbed it against the carpet."Something's fallen down in there", said the chief clerk in the roomon the left. Gregor tried to imagine whether something of the sortthat had happened to him today could ever happen to the chief clerktoo; you had to concede that it was possible. But as if in gruff replyto this question, the chief clerk's firm footsteps in his highlypolished boots could now be heard in the adjoining room. From the roomon his right, Gregor's sister whispered to him to let him know: "Gregor, the chief clerk is here." "Yes, I know", said Gregor tohimself; but without daring to raise his voice loud enough for hissister to hear him."Gregor", said his father now from the room to his left, "the chiefclerk has come round and wants to know why you didn't leave on theearly train. We don't know what to say to him. And anyway, he wants tospeak to you personally. So please open up this door. I'm sure he'llbe good enough to forgive the untidiness of your room." Then the chiefclerk called "Good morning, Mr. Samsa". "He isn't well", said hismother to the chief clerk, while his father continued to speak throughthe door. "He isn't well, please believe me. Why else would Gregorhave missed a train! The lad only ever thinks about the business. Itnearly makes me cross the way he never goes out in the evenings; he'sbeen in town for a week now but stayed home every evening. He

sitswith us in the kitchen and just reads the paper or studies traintimetables. His idea of relaxation is working with his fretsaw. He'smade a little frame, for instance, it only took him two or threeevenings, you'll be amazed how nice it is; it's hanging up in hisroom; you'll see it as soon as Gregor opens the door. Anyway, I'm gladyou're here; we wouldn't have been able to get Gregor to open the doorby ourselves; he's so stubborn; and I'm sure he isn't well, he saidthis morning that he is, but he isn't." "I'll be there in a moment",said Gregor slowly and thoughtfully, but without moving so that hewould not miss any word of the conversation. "Well I can't think ofany other way of explaining it, Mrs. Samsa", said the chief clerk, "Ihope it's nothing serious. But on the other hand, I must say that ifwe people in commerce ever become slightly unwell then, fortunately or unfortunately as you like, we simply have to overcome it because ofbusiness considerations." "Can the chief clerk come in to see you nowthen?", asked his father impatiently, knocking at the door again."No", said Gregor. In the room on his right there followed a painfulsilence; in the room on his left his sister began to cry.So why did his sister not go and join the others? She had probably only just got up and had not even begun to get dressed. And why wasshe crying? Was it because he had not got up, and had not let thechief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job and if thathappened his boss would once more pursue their parents with the samedemands as before? There was no need to worry about things like thatyet. Gregor was still there and had not the slightest intention of abandoning his family. For the time being he just lay there on thecarpet, and noone who knew the condition he was in would seriouslyhave expected him to let the chief clerk in. It was only a minordiscourtesy, and a suitable excuse could easily be found for it lateron, it was not something for which Gregor could be sacked on the spot.And it seemed to Gregor much more sensible to leave him now in peace instead of disturbing him with talking at him and crying. But theothers didn't know what was happening, they were worried, that wouldexcuse their behaviour.The chief clerk now raised his voice, "Mr. Samsa", he called to him,"what is wrong? You barricade yourself in your room, give us no morethan yes or no for an answer, you are causing serious and unnecessaryconcern to your parents and you fail - and I mention this just by theway - you fail to carry out your business duties in a way that isquite unheard of. I'm speaking here on behalf of your parents and ofyour employer, and really must request a clear and immediateexplanation. I am astonished, quite astonished. I thought I knew youas a calm and sensible person, and now you suddenly seem to be showingoff with peculiar whims. This morning, your employer did suggest apossible reason for your failure to appear, it's true - it had to dowith the money that was recently entrusted to you - but I came near togiving him my word of honour that that could not be the rightexplanation. But now that I see your incomprehensible stubbornness Ino longer feel any wish whatsoever to intercede on your behalf. And nor is your position all that secure. I had originally intended to sayall this to you in private, but since you cause me to waste my timehere for no good reason I don't see why your parents should not alsolearn of it. Your turnover has been very unsatisfactory of late; Igrant you that it's not the time of year to do especially goodbusiness, we recognise that; but there simply is no time of year to dono business at all, Mr. Samsa, we cannot allow there to be.""But Sir", called Gregor, beside himself and forgetting all else inthe excitement, "I'll open up immediately, just a moment. I'm slightlyunwell, an attack of dizziness, I haven't been able to get up. I'mstill in bed now. I'm quite fresh again now, though. I'm just gettingout of bed. Just a moment. Be patient! It's not quite as easy as I'd thought. I'm quite alright now, though. It's shocking, what cansuddenly happen to a person! I was quite alright last night, myparents know about it, perhaps better than me, I had a small symptomof it last night already. They must have noticed it. I don't know whyI didn't let you know at work! But you always think you can get overan illness without staying at home. Please, don't make my parentssuffer! There's no basis for any of the accusations you're making;nobody's ever said a word to me about any of these things. Maybe youhaven't read the latest contracts I

sent in. I'll set off with theeight o'clock train, as well, these few hours of rest have given mestrength. You don't need to wait, sir; I'll be in the office soonafter you, and please be so good as to tell that to the boss andrecommend me to him!"And while Gregor gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he wassaying, he made his way over to the chest of drawers - this was easilydone, probably because of the practise he had already had in bed -where he now tried to get himself upright. He really did want to openthe door, really did want to let them see him and to speak with thechief clerk; the others were being so insistent, and he was curious tolearn what they would say when they caught sight of him. If they wereshocked then it would no longer be Gregor's responsibility and hecould rest. If, however, they took everything calmly he would stillhave no reason to be upset, and if he hurried he really could be atthe station for eight o'clock. The first few times he tried to climbup on the smooth chest of drawers he just slid down again, but hefinally gave himself one last swing and stood there upright; the lowerpart of his body was in serious pain but he no longer gave anyattention to it. Now he let himself fall against the back of a nearbychair and held tightly to the edges of it with his little legs. By nowhe had also calmed down, and kept quiet so that he could listen towhat the chief clerk was saying."Did you understand a word of all that?" the chief clerk asked hisparents, "surely he's not trying to make fools of us". "Oh, God!"called his mother, who was already in tears, "he could be seriouslyill and we're making him suffer. Grete! Grete!" she then cried."Mother?" his sister called from the other side. They communicated across Gregor's room. "You'll have to go for the doctor straight away.Gregor is ill. Quick, get the doctor. Did you hear the way Gregorspoke just now?" "That was the voice of an animal", said the chiefclerk, with a calmness that was in contrast with his mother's screams."Anna! Anna!" his father called into the kitchen through the entrancehall, clapping his hands, "get a locksmith here, now!" And the two girls, their skirts swishing, immediately ran out through the hall,wrenching open the front door of the flat as they went. How had hissister managed to get dressed so quickly? There was no sound of thedoor banging shut again; they must have left it open; people often doin homes where something awful has happened.Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer. So they couldn'tunderstand his words any more, although they seemed clear enough tohim, clearer than before - perhaps his ears had become used to thesound. They had realised, though, that there was something wrong withhim, and were ready to help. The first response to his situation hadbeen confident and wise, and that made him feel better. He felt thathe had been drawn back in among people, and from the doctor and thelocksmith he expected great and surprising achievements - although hedid not really distinguish one from the other. Whatever was said nextwould be crucial, so, in order to make his voice as clear as possible,he coughed a little, but taking care to do this not too loudly as eventhis might well sound different from the way that a human coughs andhe was no longer sure he could judge this for himself. Meanwhile, ithad become very quiet in the next room. Perhaps his parents were satat the table whispering with the chief clerk, or perhaps they were allpressed against the door and listening.Gregor slowly pushed his way over to the door with the chair. Oncethere he let go of it and threw himself onto the door, holding himselfupright against it using the adhesive on the tips of his legs. Herested there a little while to recover from the effort involved andthen set himself to the task of turning the key in the lock with hismouth. He seemed, unfortunately, to have no proper teeth - how was he, then, to grasp the key? - but the lack of teeth was, of course, madeup for with a very strong jaw; using the jaw, he really was able tostart the key turning, ignoring the fact that he must have beencausing some kind of damage as a brown fluid came from his mouth,flowed over the key and dripped onto the floor. "Listen", said thechief clerk in the next room, "he's turning the key." Gregor was greatly encouraged by this; but they all should have been calling tohim, his father and his mother too: "Well done, Gregor", they shouldhave cried, "keep at it, keep hold of the lock!" And with the ideathat they were all excitedly following his efforts, he bit on the keywith all his strength, paying no attention

to the pain he was causinghimself. As the key turned round he turned around the lock with it,only holding himself upright with his mouth, and hung onto the key or pushed it down again with the whole weight of his body as needed. Theclear sound of the lock as it snapped back was Gregor's sign that hecould break his concentration, and as he regained his breath he saidto himself: "So, I didn't need the locksmith after all". Then he layhis head on the handle of the door to open it completely.Because he had to open the door in this way, it was already wide open before he could be seen. He had first to slowly turn himself aroundone of the double doors, and he had to do it very carefully if he didnot want to fall flat on his back before entering the room. He wasstill occupied with this difficult movement, unable to pay attentionto anything else, when he heard the chief clerk exclaim a loud "Oh!",which sounded like the soughing of the wind. Now he also saw him - hewas the nearest to the door - his hand pressed against his open mouthand slowly retreating as if driven by a steady and invisible force.Gregor's mother, her hair still dishevelled from bed despite the chiefclerk's being there, looked at his father. Then she unfolded her arms,took two steps forward towards Gregor and sank down onto the floorinto her skirts that spread themselves out around her as her headdisappeared down onto her breast. His father looked hostile, and clenched his fists as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room.Then he looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyeswith his hands and wept so that his powerful chest shook.So Gregor did not go into the room, but leant against the inside ofthe other door which was still held bolted in place. In this way onlyhalf of his body could be seen, along with his head above it which heleant over to one side as he peered out at the others. Meanwhile theday had become much lighter; part of the endless, grey-black buildingon the other side of the street - which was a hospital - could be seenquite clearly with the austere and regular line of windows piercingits fa�ade; the rain was still falling, now throwing down large, individual droplets which hit the ground one at a time. The washing upfrom breakfast lay on the table; there was so much of it because, forGregor's father, breakfast was the most important meal of the day andhe would stretch it out for several hours as he sat reading a numberof different newspapers. On the wall exactly opposite there wasphotograph of Gregor when he was a lieutenant in the army, his swordin his hand and a carefree smile on his face as he called forth respect for his uniform and bearing. The door to the entrance hall wasopen and as the front door of the flat was also open he could see ontothe landing and the stairs where they began their way down below."Now, then", said Gregor, well aware that he was the only one to have kept calm, "I'll get dressed straight away now, pack up my samples andset off. Will you please just let me leave? You can see", he said tothe chief clerk, "that I'm not stubborn and like I like to do my job;being a commercial traveller is arduous but without travelling Icouldn't earn my living. So where are you going, in to the office?Yes? Will you report everything accurately, then? It's quite possiblefor someone to be temporarily unable to work, but that's just theright time to remember what's been achieved in the past and considerthat later on, once the difficulty has been removed, he will certainlywork with all the more diligence and concentration. You're well awarethat I'm seriously in debt to our employer as well as having to lookafter my parents and my sister, so that I'm trapped in a difficultsituation, but I will work my way out of it again. Please don't make things any harder for me than they are already, and don't take sidesagainst me at the office. I know that nobody likes the travellers.They think we earn an enormous wage as well as having a soft time ofit. That's just prejudice but they have no particular reason to thinkbetter it. But you, sir, you have a better overview than the rest ofthe staff, in fact, if I can say this in confidence, a better overview than the boss himself - it's very easy for a businessman like him tomake mistakes about his employees and judge them more harshly than heshould. And you're also well aware that we travellers spend almost thewhole year away from the office, so that we can very easily fallvictim to gossip and chance and groundless complaints, and it's almostimpossible to defend yourself from that sort of thing, we don't

usually even hear about them, or if at all it's when we arrive backhome exhausted from a trip, and that's when we feel the harmfuleffects of what's been going on without even knowing what caused them.Please, don't go away, at least first say something to show that yougrant that I'm at least partly right!"But the chief clerk had turned away as soon as Gregor had started tospeak, and, with protruding lips, only stared back at him over histrembling shoulders as he left. He did not keep still for a momentwhile Gregor was speaking, but moved steadily towards the door withouttaking his eyes off him. He moved very gradually, as if there had been some secret prohibition on leaving the room. It was only when he hadreached the entrance hall that he made a sudden movement, drew hisfoot from the living room, and rushed forward in a panic. In the hall,he stretched his right hand far out towards the stairway as if outthere, there were some supernatural force waiting to save him.Gregor realised that it was out of the question to let the chief clerkgo away in this mood if his position in the firm was not to be putinto extreme danger. That was something his parents did not understandvery well; over the years, they had become convinced that this jobwould provide for Gregor for his entire life, and besides, they had somuch to worry about at present that they had lost sight of any thoughtfor the future. Gregor, though, did think about the future. The chiefclerk had to be held back, calmed down, convinced and finally won over; the future of Gregor and his family depended on it! If only hissister were here! She was clever; she was already in tears whileGregor was still lying peacefully on his back. And the chief clerk wasa lover of women, surely she could persuade him; she would close thefront door in the entrance hall and talk him out of his shocked state.But his sister was not there, Gregor would have to do the job himself.And without considering that he still was not familiar with how wellhe could move about in his present state, or that his speech stillmight not - or probably would not - be understood, he let go of thedoor; pushed himself through the opening; tried to reach the chiefclerk on the landing who, ridiculously, was holding on to the banisterwith both hands; but Gregor fell immediately over and, with a littlescream as he sought something to hold onto, landed on his numerous little legs. Hardly had that happened than, for the first time thatday, he began to feel alright with his body; the little legs had thesolid ground under them; to his pleasure, they did exactly as he toldthem; they were even making the effort to carry him where he wanted togo; and he was soon believing that all his sorrows would soon befinally at an end. He held back the urge to move but swayed from side to side as he crouched there on the floor. His mother was not far awayin front of him and seemed, at first, quite engrossed in herself, butthen she suddenly jumped up with her arms outstretched and her fingersspread shouting: "Help, for pity's sake, Help!" The way she held herhead suggested she wanted to see Gregor better, but the unthinking wayshe was hurrying backwards showed that she did not; she had forgottenthat the table was behind her with all the breakfast things on it;when she reached the table she sat quickly down on it without knowingwhat she was doing; without even seeming to notice that the coffee pothad been knocked over and a gush of coffee was pouring down onto thecarpet."Mother, mother", said Gregor gently, looking up at her. He hadcompletely forgotten the chief clerk for the moment, but could nothelp himself snapping in the air with his jaws at the sight of theflow of coffee. That set his mother screaming anew, she fled from thetable and into the arms of his father as he rushed towards her.Gregor, though, had no time to spare for his parents now; the chiefclerk had already reached the stairs; with his chin on the banister,he looked back for the last time. Gregor made a run for him; he wantedto be sure of reaching him; the chief clerk must have expected something, as he leapt down several steps at once and disappeared; hisshouts resounding all around the staircase. The flight of the chiefclerk seemed, unfortunately, to put Gregor's father into a panic aswell. Until then he had been relatively self controlled, but now,instead of running after the chief clerk himself, or at least notimpeding Gregor as he ran after him, Gregor's father seized the chiefclerk's stick in his right hand (the chief clerk had left it behind ona chair, along with his hat and overcoat), picked up a large newspaper

from the table with his left, and used them to drive Gregor back intohis room, stamping his foot at him as he went. Gregor's appeals to hisfather were of no help, his appeals were simply not understood,however much he humbly turned his head his father merely stamped hisfoot all the harder. Across the room, despite the chilly weather,Gregor's mother had pulled open a window, leant far out of it andpressed her hands to her face. A strong draught of air flew in fromthe street towards the stairway, the curtains flew up, the newspaperson the table fluttered and some of them were blown onto the floor.Nothing would stop Gregor's father as he drove him back, makinghissing noises at him like a wild man. Gregor had never had anypractice in moving backwards and was only able to go very slowly. IfGregor had only been allowed to turn round he would have been back inhis room straight away, but he was afraid that if he took the time todo that his father would become impatient, and there was the threat ofa lethal blow to his back or head from the stick in his father's handany moment. Eventually, though, Gregor realised that he had no choiceas he saw, to his disgust, that he was quite incapable of going backwards in a straight line; so he began, as quickly as possible andwith frequent anxious glances at his father, to turn himself round. Itwent very slowly, but perhaps his father was able to see his goodintentions as he did nothing to hinder him, in fact now and then heused the tip of his stick to give directions from a distance as towhich way to turn. If only his father would stop that unbearable hissing! It was making Gregor quite confused. When he had nearlyfinished turning round, still listening to that hissing, he made amistake and turned himself back a little the way he had just come. Hewas pleased when he finally had his head in front of the doorway, butthen saw that it was too narrow, and his body was too broad to getthrough it without further difficulty. In his present mood, it obviously did not occur to his father to open the other of the doubledoors so that Gregor would have enough space to get through. He wasmerely fixed on the idea that Gregor should be got back into his roomas quickly as possible. Nor would he ever have allowed Gregor the timeto get himself upright as preparation for getting through the doorway.What he did, making more noise than ever, was to drive Gregor forwardsall the harder as if there had been nothing in the way; it sounded to Gregor as if there was now more than one father behind him; it was nota pleasant experience, and Gregor pushed himself into the doorwaywithout regard for what might happen. One side of his body lifteditself, he lay at an angle in the doorway, one flank scraped on thewhite door and was painfully injured, leaving vile brown flecks on it,soon he was stuck fast and would not have been able to move at all byhimself, the little legs along one side hung quivering in the air while those on the other side were pressed painfully against theground. Then his father gave him a hefty shove from behind whichreleased him from where he was held and sent him flying, and heavilybleeding, deep into his room. The door was slammed shut with thestick, then, finally, all was quiet.IIIt was not until it was getting dark that evening that Gregor awokefrom his deep and coma-like sleep. He would have woken soon afterwardsanyway even if he hadn't been disturbed, as he had had enough sleepand felt fully rested. But he had the impression that some hurriedsteps and the sound of the door leading into the front room beingcarefully shut had woken him. The light from the electric street lamps shone palely here and there onto the ceiling and tops of thefurniture, but down below, where Gregor was, it was dark. He pushedhimself over to the door, feeling his way clumsily with his antennae -of which he was now beginning to learn the value - in order to seewhat had been happening there. The whole of his left side seemed likeone, painfully stretched scar, and he limped badly on his two rows of legs. One of the legs had been badly injured in the events of thatmorning - it was nearly a miracle that only one of them had been - anddragged along lifelessly.It was only when he had reached the door that he realised what itactually was that had drawn him over to it; it was the smell ofsomething to eat. By the door there was a dish filled with sweetenedmilk with little pieces of white bread floating in it. He was sopleased he almost laughed, as he was even hungrier than he had been that morning, and immediately dipped his head into the milk, nearlycovering his

eyes with it. But he soon drew his head back again indisappointment; not only did the pain in his tender left side make itdifficult to eat the food - he was only able to eat if his whole bodyworked together as a snuffling whole - but the milk did not taste atall nice. Milk like this was normally his favourite drink, and his sister had certainly left it there for him because of that, but heturned, almost against his own will, away from the dish and crawledback into the centre of the room.Through the crack in the door, Gregor could see that the gas had beenlit in the living room. His father at this time would normally be satwith his evening paper, reading it out in a loud voice to Gregor'smother, and sometimes to his sister, but there was now not a sound tobe heard. Gregor's sister would often write and tell him about thisreading, but maybe his father had lost the habit in recent times. Itwas so quiet all around too, even though there must have been somebodyin the flat. "What a quiet life it is the family lead", said Gregor to himself, and, gazing into the darkness, felt a great pride that he wasable to provide a life like that in such a nice home for his sisterand parents. But what now, if all this peace and wealth and comfortshould come to a horrible and frightening end? That was something thatGregor did not want to think about too much, so he started to moveabout, crawling up and down the room.Once during that long evening, the door on one side of the room wasopened very slightly and hurriedly closed again; later on the door onthe other side did the same; it seemed that someone needed to enterthe room but thought better of it. Gregor went and waited immediatelyby the door, resolved either to bring the timorous visitor into theroom in some way or at least to find out who it was; but the door wasopened no more that night and Gregor waited in vain. The previousmorning while the doors were locked everyone had wanted to get inthere to him, but now, now that he had opened up one of the doors andthe other had clearly been unlocked some time during the day, no-onecame, and the keys were in the other sides.It was not until late at night that the gaslight in the living roomwas put out, and now it was easy to see that parents and sister hadstayed awake all that time, as they all could be distinctly heard asthey went away together on tip-toe. It was clear that no-one wouldcome into Gregor's room any more until morning; that gave him plentyof time to think undisturbed about how he would have to re-arrange hislife. For some reason, the tall, empty room where he was forced toremain made him feel uneasy as he lay there flat on the floor, eventhough he had been living in it for five years. Hardly aware of whathe was doing other than a slight feeling of shame, he hurried underthe couch. It pressed down on his back a little, and he was no longer able to lift his head, but he nonetheless felt immediately at ease andhis only regret was that his body was too broad to get it allunderneath.He spent the whole night there. Some of the time he passed in a lightsleep, although he frequently woke from it in alarm because of hishunger, and some of the time was spent in worries and vague hopeswhich, however, always led to the same conclusion: for the time beinghe must remain calm, he must show patience and the greatestconsideration so that his family could bear the unpleasantness thathe, in his present condition, was forced to impose on them.Gregor soon had the opportunity to test the strength of his decisions,as early the next morning, almost before the night had ended, his sister, nearly fully dressed, opened the door from the front room andlooked anxiously in. She did not see him straight away, but when shedid notice him under the couch - he had to be somewhere, for God'ssake, he couldn't have flown away she was so shocked that she lostcontrol of herself and slammed the door shut again from outside. Butshe seemed to regret her behaviour, as she opened the door again straight away and came in on tip-toe as if entering the room ofsomeone seriously ill or even of a stranger. Gregor had pushed hishead forward, right to the edge of the couch, and watched her. Wouldshe notice that he had left the milk as it was, realise that it wasnot from any lack of hunger and bring him in some other food that wasmore suitable? If she didn't do it herself he would rather go hungrythan draw her attention to it, although he did feel a terrible urge torush forward from under the couch, throw himself at his sister's feetand beg her for something good to eat. However, his sister noticed thefull dish immediately and looked at it and

the few drops of milksplashed around it with some surprise. She immediately picked it up -using a rag, not her bare hands - and carried it out. Gregor wasextremely curious as to what she would bring in its place, imaginingthe wildest possibilities, but he never could have guessed what hissister, in her goodness, actually did bring. In order to test histaste, she brought him a whole selection of things, all spread out onan old newspaper. There were old, half-rotten vegetables; bones fromthe evening meal, covered in white sauce that had gone hard; a fewraisins and almonds; some cheese that Gregor had declared inedible twodays before; a dry roll and some bread spread with butter and salt. Aswell as all that she had poured some water into the dish, which hadprobably been permanently set aside for Gregor's use, and placed itbeside them. Then, out of consideration for Gregor's feelings, as sheknew that he would not eat in front of her, she hurried out again andeven turned the key in the lock so that Gregor would know he could make things as comfortable for himself as he liked. Gregor's littlelegs whirred, at last he could eat. What's more, his injuries mustalready have completely healed as he found no difficulty in moving.This amazed him, as more than a month earlier he had cut his fingerslightly with a knife, he thought of how his finger had still hurt theday before yesterday. "Am I less sensitive than I used to be, then?",he thought, and was already sucking greedily at the cheese which hadimmediately, almost compellingly, attracted him much more than theother foods on the newspaper. Quickly one after another, his eyeswatering with pleasure, he consumed the cheese, the vegetables and thesauce; the fresh foods, on the other hand, he didn't like at all, andeven dragged the things he did want to eat a little way away from them because he couldn't stand the smell. Long after he had finished eatingand lay lethargic in the same place, his sister slowly turned the keyin the lock as a sign to him that he should withdraw. He wasimmediately startled, although he had been half asleep, and he hurriedback under the couch. But he needed great self-control to stay thereeven for the short time that his sister was in the room, as eating so much food had rounded out his body a little and he could hardlybreathe in that narrow space. Half suffocating, he watched withbulging eyes as his sister unselfconsciously took a broom and swept upthe left-overs, mixing them in with the food he had not even touchedat all as if it could not be used any more. She quickly dropped it allinto a bin, closed it with its wooden lid, and carried everything out.She had hardly turned her back before Gregor came out again from underthe couch and stretched himself.This was how Gregor received his food each day now, once in themorning while his parents and the maid were still asleep, and thesecond time after everyone had eaten their meal at midday as hisparents would sleep for a little while then as well, and Gregor'ssister would send the maid away on some errand. Gregor's father andmother certainly did not want him to starve either, but perhaps itwould have been more than they could stand to have any more experienceof his feeding than being told about it, and perhaps his sister wantedto spare them what distress she could as they were indeed sufferingenough.It was impossible for Gregor to find out what they had told the doctorand the locksmith that first morning to get them out of the flat. Asnobody could understand him, nobody, not even his sister, thought thathe could understand them, so he had to be content to hear his sister'ssighs and appeals to the saints as she moved about his room. It wasonly later, when she had become a little more used to everything -there was, of course, no question of her ever becoming fully used tothe situation - that Gregor would sometimes catch a friendly comment,or at least a comment that could be construed as friendly. "He'senjoyed his dinner today", she might say when he had diligentlycleared away all the food left for him, or if he left most of it,which slowly became more and more frequent, she would often say,sadly, "now everything's just been left there again".Although Gregor wasn't able to hear any news directly he did listen tomuch of what was said in the next rooms, and whenever he heard anyonespeaking he would scurry straight to the appropriate door and presshis whole body against it. There was seldom any conversation,especially at first, that was not about him in some way, even if onlyin secret. For two whole days, all the talk

at every mealtime wasabout what they should do now; but even between meals they spoke aboutthe same subject as there were always at least two members of thefamily at home - nobody wanted to be at home by themselves and it wasout of the question to leave the flat entirely empty. And on the veryfirst day the maid had fallen to her knees and begged Gregor's motherto let her go without delay. It was not very clear how much she knewof what had happened but she left within a quarter of an hour,tearfully thanking Gregor's mother for her dismissal as if she haddone her an enormous service. She even swore emphatically not to tellanyone the slightest about what had happened, even though no-one hadasked that of her.Now Gregor's sister also had to help his mother with the cooking;although that was not so much bother as no-one ate very much. Gregoroften heard how one of them would unsuccessfully urge another to eat,and receive no more answer than "no thanks, I've had enough" orsomething similar. No-one drank very much either. His sister wouldsometimes ask his father whether he would like a beer, hoping for thechance to go and fetch it herself. When his father then said nothingshe would add, so that he would not feel selfish, that she could sendthe housekeeper for it, but then his father would close the matterwith a big, loud "No", and no more would be said.Even before the first day had come to an end, his father had explainedto Gregor's mother and sister what their finances and prospects were.Now and then he stood up from the table and took some receipt ordocument from the little cash box he had saved from his business whenit had collapsed five years earlier. Gregor heard how he opened thecomplicated lock and then closed it again after he had taken the itemhe wanted. What he heard his father say was some of the first good news that Gregor heard since he had first been incarcerated in hisroom. He had thought that nothing at all remained from his father'sbusiness, at least he had never told him anything different, andGregor had never asked him about it anyway. Their business misfortunehad reduced the family to a state of total despair, and Gregor's onlyconcern at that time had been to arrange things so that they could allforget about it as quickly as possible. So then he started workingespecially hard, with a fiery vigour that raised him from a juniorsalesman to a travelling representative almost overnight, bringingwith it the chance to earn money in quite different ways. Gregorconverted his success at work straight into cash that he could lay onthe table at home for the benefit of his astonished and delighted family. They had been good times and they had never come again, atleast not with the same splendour, even though Gregor had later earnedso much that he was in a position to bear the costs of the wholefamily, and did bear them. They had even got used to it, both Gregorand the family, they took the money with gratitude and he was glad toprovide it, although there was no longer much warm affection given inreturn. Gregor only remained close to his sister now. Unlike him, shewas very fond of music and a gifted and expressive violinist, it washis secret plan to send her to the conservatory next year even thoughit would cause great expense that would have to be made up for in someother way. During Gregor's short periods in town, conversation withhis sister would often turn to the conservatory but it was only evermentioned as a lovely dream that could never be realised. Theirparents did not like to hear this innocent talk, but Gregor thoughtabout it quite hard and decided he would let them know what he plannedwith a grand announcement of it on Christmas day.That was the sort of totally pointless thing that went through his mind in his present state, pressed upright against the door andlistening. There were times when he simply became too tired tocontinue listening, when his head would fall wearily against the doorand he would pull it up again with a start, as even the slightestnoise he caused would be heard next door and they would all go silent."What's that he's doing now", his father would say after a while,clearly having gone over to the door, and only then would theinterrupted conversation slowly be taken up again.When explaining things, his father repeated himself several times,partly because it was a long time since he had been occupied with these matters himself and partly because Gregor's mother did notunderstand everything first time. From these repeated explanationsGregor learned, to his pleasure, that despite all their misfortunesthere was still some money available

from the old days. It was not alot, but it had not been touched in the meantime and some interest hadaccumulated. Besides that, they had not been using up all the moneythat Gregor had been bringing home every month, keeping only a littlefor himself, so that that, too, had been accumulating. Behind thedoor, Gregor nodded with enthusiasm in his pleasure at this unexpectedthrift and caution. He could actually have used this surplus money toreduce his father's debt to his boss, and the day when he could havefreed himself from that job would have come much closer, but now itwas certainly better the way his father had done things.This money, however, was certainly not enough to enable the family tolive off the interest; it was enough to maintain them for, perhaps,one or two years, no more. That's to say, it was money that should notreally be touched but set aside for emergencies; money to live on hadto be earned. His father was healthy but old, and lacking in self confidence. During the five years that he had not been working - thefirst holiday in a life that had been full of strain and no success -he had put on a lot of weight and become very slow and clumsy. WouldGregor's elderly mother now have to go and earn money? She sufferedfrom asthma and it was a strain for her just to move about the home,every other day would be spent struggling for breath on the sofa bythe open window. Would his sister have to go and earn money? She wasstill a child of seventeen, her life up till then had been veryenviable, consisting of wearing nice clothes, sleeping late, helpingout in the business, joining in with a few modest pleasures and mostof all playing the violin. Whenever they began to talk of the need toearn money, Gregor would always first let go of the door and thenthrow himself onto the cool, leather sofa next to it, as he becamequite hot with shame and regret.He would often lie there the whole night through, not sleeping a winkbut scratching at the leather for hours on end. Or he might go to allthe effort of pushing a chair to the window, climbing up onto the silland, propped up in the chair, leaning on the window to stare out ofit. He had used to feel a great sense of freedom from doing this, butdoing it now was obviously something more remembered than experienced,as what he actually saw in this way was becoming less distinct everyday, even things that were quite near; he had used to curse theever-present view of the hospital across the street, but now he couldnot see it at all, and if he had not known that he lived inCharlottenstrasse, which was a quiet street despite being in themiddle of the city, he could have thought that he was looking out thewindow at a barren waste where the grey sky and the grey earth mingledinseparably. His observant sister only needed to notice the chairtwice before she would always push it back to its exact position bythe window after she had tidied up the room, and even left the innerpane of the window open from then on.If Gregor had only been able to speak to his sister and thank her for all that she had to do for him it would have been easier for him tobear it; but as it was it caused him pain. His sister, naturally,tried as far as possible to pretend there was nothing burdensome aboutit, and the longer it went on, of course, the better she was able todo so, but as time went by Gregor was also able to see through it allso much better. It had even become very unpleasant for him, now,whenever she entered the room. No sooner had she come in than shewould quickly close the door as a precaution so that no-one would haveto suffer the view into Gregor's room, then she would go straight tothe window and pull it hurriedly open almost as if she weresuffocating. Even if it was cold, she would stay at the windowbreathing deeply for a little while. She would alarm Gregor twice aday with this running about and noise making; he would stay under thecouch shivering the whole while, knowing full well that she wouldcertainly have liked to spare him this ordeal, but it was impossiblefor her to be in the same room with him with the windows closed.One day, about a month after Gregor's transformation when his sisterno longer had any particular reason to be shocked at his appearance,she came into the room a little earlier than usual and found him stillstaring out the window, motionless, and just where he would be mosthorrible. In itself, his sister's not coming into the room would havebeen no surprise for Gregor as it would have been difficult for her to immediately open the window while he was still there, but not only didshe not come

in, she went straight back and closed the door behindher, a stranger would have thought he had threatened her and tried tobite her. Gregor went straight to hide himself under the couch, ofcourse, but he had to wait until midday before his sister came backand she seemed much more uneasy than usual. It made him realise thatshe still found his appearance unbearable and would continue to do so,she probably even had to overcome the urge to flee when she saw thelittle bit of him that protruded from under the couch. One day, inorder to spare her even this sight, he spent four hours carrying thebedsheet over to the couch on his back and arranged it so that he wascompletely covered and his sister would not be able to see him even ifshe bent down. If she did not think this sheet was necessary then allshe had to do was take it off again, as it was clear enough that itwas no pleasure for Gregor to cut himself off so completely. She leftthe sheet where it was. Gregor even thought he glimpsed a look ofgratitude one time when he carefully looked out from under the sheetto see how his sister liked the new arrangement.For the first fourteen days, Gregor's parents could not bringthemselves to come into the room to see him. He would often hear themsay how they appreciated all the new work his sister was doing eventhough, before, they had seen her as a girl who was somewhat uselessand frequently been annoyed with her. But now the two of them, fatherand mother, would often both wait outside the door of Gregor's roomwhile his sister tidied up in there, and as soon as she went out againshe would have to tell them exactly how everything looked, what Gregorhad eaten, how he had behaved this time and whether, perhaps, anyslight improvement could be seen. His mother also wanted to go in andvisit Gregor relatively soon but his father and sister at first persuaded her against it. Gregor listened very closely to all this,and approved fully. Later, though, she had to be held back by force,which made her call out: "Let me go and see Gregor, he is myunfortunate son! Can't you understand I have to see him?", and Gregorwould think to himself that maybe it would be better if his mothercame in, not every day of course, but one day a week, perhaps; shecould understand everything much better than his sister who, for allher courage, was still just a child after all, and really might nothave had an adult's appreciation of the burdensome job she had takenon.Gregor's wish to see his mother was soon realised. Out ofconsideration for his parents, Gregor wanted to avoid being seen atthe window during the day, the few square meters of the floor did notgive him much room to crawl about, it was hard to just lie quietlythrough the night, his food soon stopped giving him any pleasure atall, and so, to entertain himself, he got into the habit of crawlingup and down the walls and ceiling. He was especially fond of hangingfrom the ceiling; it was quite different from lying on the floor; hecould breathe more freely; his body had a light swing to it; and upthere, relaxed and almost happy, it might happen that he wouldsurprise even himself by letting go of the ceiling and landing on thefloor with a crash. But now, of course, he had far better control ofhis body than before and, even with a fall as great as that, causedhimself no damage. Very soon his sister noticed Gregor's new way ofentertaining himself - he had, after all, left traces of the adhesivefrom his feet as he crawled about - and got it into her head to makeit as easy as possible for him by removing the furniture that got inhis way, especially the chest of drawers and the desk. Now, this wasnot something that she would be able to do by herself; she did notdare to ask for help from her father; the sixteen year old maid hadcarried on bravely since the cook had left but she certainly would nothave helped in this, she had even asked to be allowed to keep thekitchen locked at all times and never to have to open the door unlessit was especially important; so his sister had no choice but to choosesome time when Gregor's father was not there and fetch his mother tohelp her. As she approached the room, Gregor could hear his motherexpress her joy, but once at the door she went silent. First, ofcourse, his sister came in and looked round to see that everything inthe room was alright; and only then did she let her mother enter.Gregor had hurriedly pulled the sheet down lower over the couch andput more folds into it so that everything really looked as if it hadjust been thrown down by chance. Gregor also refrained, this time,from spying out from under the sheet; he gave up the chance

to see hismother until later and was simply glad that she had come. "You cancome in, he can't be seen", said his sister, obviously leading her inby the hand. The old chest of drawers was too heavy for a pair offeeble women to be heaving about, but Gregor listened as they pushedit from its place, his sister always taking on the heaviest part ofthe work for herself and ignoring her mother's warnings that she wouldstrain herself. This lasted a very long time. After labouring at itfor fifteen minutes or more his mother said it would be better toleave the chest where it was, for one thing it was too heavy for themto get the job finished before Gregor's father got home and leaving itin the middle of the room it would be in his way even more, and foranother thing it wasn't even sure that taking the furniture away wouldreally be any help to him. She thought just the opposite; the sight ofthe bare walls saddened her right to her heart; and why wouldn'tGregor feel the same way about it, he'd been used to this furniture inhis room for a long time and it would make him feel abandoned to be inan empty room like that. Then, quietly, almost whispering as ifwanting Gregor (whose whereabouts she did not know) to hear not eventhe tone of her voice, as she was convinced that he did not understandher words, she added "and by taking the furniture away, won't it seem like we're showing that we've given up all hope of improvement andwe're abandoning him to cope for himself? I think it'd be best toleave the room exactly the way it was before so that when Gregor comesback to us again he'll find everything unchanged and he'll be able toforget the time in between all the easier".Hearing these words from his mother made Gregor realise that the lackof any direct human communication, along with the monotonous life ledby the family during these two months, must have made him confused -he could think of no other way of explaining to himself why he hadseriously wanted his room emptied out. Had he really wanted totransform his room into a cave, a warm room fitted out with the nicefurniture he had inherited? That would have let him crawl aroundunimpeded in any direction, but it would also have let him quicklyforget his past when he had still been human. He had come very closeto forgetting, and it had only been the voice of his mother, unheardfor so long, that had shaken him out of it. Nothing should be removed; everything had to stay; he could not do without the good influence thefurniture had on his condition; and if the furniture made it difficultfor him to crawl about mindlessly that was not a loss but a greatadvantage.His sister, unfortunately, did not agree; she had become used to theidea, not without reason, that she was Gregor's spokesman to hisparents about the things that concerned him. This meant that hismother's advice now was sufficient reason for her to insist onremoving not only the chest of drawers and the desk, as she hadthought at first, but all the furniture apart from the all-importantcouch. It was more than childish perversity, of course, or theunexpected confidence she had recently acquired, that made her insist;she had indeed noticed that Gregor needed a lot of room to crawl aboutin, whereas the furniture, as far as anyone could see, was of no useto him at all. Girls of that age, though, do become enthusiastic aboutthings and feel they must get their way whenever they can. Perhapsthis was what tempted Grete to make Gregor's situation seem even moreshocking than it was so that she could do even more for him. Gretewould probably be the only one who would dare enter a room dominatedby Gregor crawling about the bare walls by himself.So she refused to let her mother dissuade her. Gregor's mother alreadylooked uneasy in his room, she soon stopped speaking and helpedGregor's sister to get the chest of drawers out with what strength shehad. The chest of drawers was something that Gregor could do withoutif he had to, but the writing desk had to stay. Hardly had the twowomen pushed the chest of drawers, groaning, out of the room thanGregor poked his head out from under the couch to see what he could doabout it. He meant to be as careful and considerate as he could, but,unfortunately, it was his mother who came back first while Grete inthe next room had her arms round the chest, pushing and pulling at itfrom side to side by herself without, of course, moving it an inch. His mother was not used to the sight of Gregor, he might have made herill, so Gregor hurried backwards to the far end of the couch. In hisstartlement, though, he was not able to prevent the sheet at its frontfrom moving a little. It was

enough to attract his mother's attention.She stood very still, remained there a moment, and then went back outto Grete.Gregor kept trying to assure himself that nothing unusual washappening, it was just a few pieces of furniture being moved afterall, but he soon had to admit that the women going to and fro, theirlittle calls to each other, the scraping of the furniture on thefloor, all these things made him feel as if he were being assailedfrom all sides. With his head and legs pulled in against him and hisbody pressed to the floor, he was forced to admit to himself that hecould not stand all of this much longer. They were emptying his roomout; taking away everything that was dear to him; they had alreadytaken out the chest containing his fretsaw and other tools; now theythreatened to remove the writing desk with its place clearly worn intothe floor, the desk where he had done his homework as a businesstrainee, at high school, even while he had been at infant school - hereally could not wait any longer to see whether the two women'sintentions were good. He had nearly forgotten they were there anyway,as they were now too tired to say anything while they worked and hecould only hear their feet as they stepped heavily on the floor. So, while the women were leant against the desk in the other roomcatching their breath, he sallied out, changed direction four timesnot knowing what he should save first before his attention wassuddenly caught by the picture on the wall which was already denudedof everything else that had been on it - of the lady dressed incopious fur. He hurried up onto the picture and pressed himselfagainst its glass, it held him firmly and felt good on his hot belly.This picture at least, now totally covered by Gregor, would certainlybe taken away by no-one. He turned his head to face the door into theliving room so that he could watch the women when they came back.They had not allowed themselves a long rest and came back quite soon;Grete had put her arm around her mother and was nearly carrying her."What shall we take now, then?", said Grete and looked around. Hereyes met those of Gregor on the wall. Perhaps only because her motherwas there, she remained calm, bent her face to her so that she wouldnot look round and said, albeit hurriedly and with a tremor in hervoice: "Come on, let's go back in the living room for a while?" Gregorcould see what Grete had in mind, she wanted to take her mothersomewhere safe and then chase him down from the wall. Well, she couldcertainly try it! He sat unyielding on his picture. He would ratherjump at Grete's face.But Grete's words had made her mother quite worried, she stepped to one side, saw the enormous brown patch against the flowers of thewallpaper, and before she even realised it was Gregor that she sawscreamed: "Oh God, oh God!" Arms outstretched, she fell onto the couchas if she had given up everything and stayed there immobile. "Gregor!"shouted his sister, glowering at him and shaking her fist. That wasthe first word she had spoken to him directly since his transformation. She ran into the other room to fetch some kind ofsmelling salts to bring her mother out of her faint; Gregor wanted tohelp too - he could save his picture later, although he stuck fast tothe glass and had to pull himself off by force; then he, too, ran intothe next room as if he could advise his sister like in the old days;but he had to just stand behind her doing nothing; she was looking into various bottles, he startled her when she turned round; a bottlefell to the ground and broke; a splinter cut Gregor's face, some kindof caustic medicine splashed all over him; now, without delaying anylonger, Grete took hold of all the bottles she could and ran with themin to her mother; she slammed the door shut with her foot. So nowGregor was shut out from his mother, who, because of him, might benear to death; he could not open the door if he did not want to chasehis sister away, and she had to stay with his mother; there wasnothing for him to do but wait; and, oppressed with anxiety andself-reproach, he began to crawl about, he crawled over everything,walls, furniture, ceiling, and finally in his confusion as the wholeroom began to spin around him he fell down into the middle of the dinner table.He lay there for a while, numb and immobile, all around him it was quiet, maybe that was a good sign. Then there was someone at the door.The maid, of course, had locked herself in her kitchen so that Gretewould have to go and answer it. His father had arrived home. "What'shappened?" were his first words; Grete's

appearance must have madeeverything clear to him. She answered him with subdued voice, andopenly pressed her face into his chest: "Mother's fainted, but she's better now. Gregor got out." "Just as I expected", said his father,"just as I always said, but you women wouldn't listen, would you." Itwas clear to Gregor that Grete had not said enough and that his fathertook it to mean that something bad had happened, that he wasresponsible for some act of violence. That meant Gregor would now haveto try to calm his father, as he did not have the time to explain things to him even if that had been possible. So he fled to the doorof his room and pressed himself against it so that his father, when hecame in from the hall, could see straight away that Gregor had thebest intentions and would go back into his room without delay, that itwould not be necessary to drive him back but that they had only toopen the door and he would disappear.His father, though, was not in the mood to notice subtleties likethat; "Ah!", he shouted as he came in, sounding as if he were bothangry and glad at the same time. Gregor drew his head back from thedoor and lifted it towards his father. He really had not imagined his father the way he stood there now; of late, with his new habit ofcrawling about, he had neglected to pay attention to what was going onthe rest of the flat the way he had done before. He really ought tohave expected things to have changed, but still, still, was thatreally his father? The same tired man as used to be laying thereentombed in his bed when Gregor came back from his business trips, whowould receive him sitting in the armchair in his nightgown when hecame back in the evenings; who was hardly even able to stand up but,as a sign of his pleasure, would just raise his arms and who, on thecouple of times a year when they went for a walk together on a Sundayor public holiday wrapped up tightly in his overcoat between Gregorand his mother, would always labour his way forward a little more slowly than them, who were already walking slowly for his sake; whowould place his stick down carefully and, if he wanted to saysomething would invariably stop and gather his companions around him.He was standing up straight enough now; dressed in a smart blueuniform with gold buttons, the sort worn by the employees at the banking institute; above the high, stiff collar of the coat his strongdouble-chin emerged; under the bushy eyebrows, his piercing, dark eyeslooked out fresh and alert; his normally unkempt white hair was combeddown painfully close to his scalp. He took his cap, with its goldmonogram from, probably, some bank, and threw it in an arc rightacross the room onto the sofa, put his hands in his trouser pockets,pushing back the bottom of his long uniform coat, and, with look of determination, walked towards Gregor. He probably did not even knowhimself what he had in mind, but nonetheless lifted his feet unusuallyhigh. Gregor was amazed at the enormous size of the soles of hisboots, but wasted no time with that - he knew full well, right fromthe first day of his new life, that his father thought it necessary toalways be extremely strict with him. And so he ran up to his father, stopped when his father stopped, scurried forwards again when hemoved, even slightly. In this way they went round the room severaltimes without anything decisive happening, without even giving theimpression of a chase as everything went so slowly. Gregor remainedall this time on the floor, largely because he feared his father mightsee it as especially provoking if he fled onto the wall or ceiling.Whatever he did, Gregor had to admit that he certainly would not beable to keep up this running about for long, as for each step hisfather took he had to carry out countless movements. He becamenoticeably short of breath, even in his earlier life his lungs had notbeen very reliable. Now, as he lurched about in his efforts to musterall the strength he could for running he could hardly keep his eyesopen; his thoughts became too slow for him to think of any other wayof saving himself than running; he almost forgot that the walls werethere for him to use although, here, they were concealed behindcarefully carved furniture full of notches and protrusions - then,right beside him, lightly tossed, something flew down and rolled infront of him. It was an apple; then another one immediately flew athim; Gregor froze in shock; there was no longer any point in runningas his father had decided to bombard him. He had filled his pocketswith fruit from the bowl on the sideboard and now, without even takingthe time for careful aim, threw

one apple after another. These little,red apples rolled about on the floor, knocking into each other as ifthey had electric motors. An apple thrown without much force glancedagainst Gregor's back and slid off without doing any harm. Another onehowever, immediately following it, hit squarely and lodged in hisback; Gregor wanted to drag himself away, as if he could remove thesurprising, the incredible pain by changing his position; but he feltas if nailed to the spot and spread himself out, all his senses inconfusion. The last thing he saw was the door of his room being pulledopen, his sister was screaming, his mother ran out in front of her inher blouse (as his sister had taken off some of her clothes after shehad fainted to make it easier for her to breathe), she ran to hisfather, her skirts unfastened and sliding one after another to theground, stumbling over the skirts she pushed herself to his father,her arms around him, uniting herself with him totally - now Gregorlost his ability to see anything her hands behind his father's headbegging him to spare Gregor's life.IIINo-one dared to remove the apple lodged in Gregor's flesh, so itremained there as a visible reminder of his injury. He had suffered itthere for more than a month, and his condition seemed serious enoughto remind even his father that Gregor, despite his current sad andrevolting form, was a family member who could not be treated as anenemy. On the contrary, as a family there was a duty to swallow anyrevulsion for him and to be patient, just to be patient.Because of his injuries, Gregor had lost much of his mobility -probably permanently. He had been reduced to the condition of anancient invalid and it took him long, long minutes to crawl across hisroom crawling over the ceiling was out of the question - but thisdeterioration in his condition was fully (in his opinion) made up forby the door to the living room being left open every evening. He gotinto the habit of closely watching it for one or two hours before itwas opened and then, lying in the darkness of his room where he couldnot be seen from the living room, he could watch the family in thelight of the dinner table and listen to their conversation - witheveryone's permission, in a way, and thus quite differently frombefore.They no longer held the lively conversations of earlier times, ofcourse, the ones that Gregor always thought about with longing when hewas tired and getting into the damp bed in some small hotel room. Allof them were usually very quiet nowadays. Soon after dinner, his father would go to sleep in his chair; his mother and sister wouldurge each other to be quiet; his mother, bent deeply under the lamp,would sew fancy underwear for a fashion shop; his sister, who hadtaken a sales job, learned shorthand and French in the evenings sothat she might be able to get a better position later on. Sometimeshis father would wake up and say to Gregor's mother "you're doing somuch sewing again today!", as if he did not know that he had beendozing - and then he would go back to sleep again while mother andsister would exchange a tired grin. With a kind of stubbornness, Gregor's father refused to take hisuniform off even at home; while his nightgown hung unused on its pegGregor's father would slumber where he was, fully dressed, as ifalways ready to serve and expecting to hear the voice of his superioreven here. The uniform had not been new to start with, but as a resultof this it slowly became even shabbier despite the efforts of Gregor's mother and sister to look after it. Gregor would often spend the wholeevening looking at all the stains on this coat, with its gold buttonsalways kept polished and shiny, while the old man in it would sleep,highly uncomfortable but peaceful. As soon as it struck ten, Gregor's mother would speak gently to hisfather to wake him and try to persuade him to go to bed, as hecouldn't sleep properly where he was and he really had to get hissleep if he was to be up at six to get to work. But since he had beenin work he had become more obstinate and would always insist onstaying longer at the table, even though he regularly fell asleep andit was then harder than ever to persuade him to exchange the chair forhis bed. Then, however much mother and sister would importune him withlittle reproaches and warnings he would keep slowly shaking his headfor a quarter of an hour with his eyes closed and refusing to get up.Gregor's mother would tug at his sleeve, whisper endearments into hisear, Gregor's sister would leave her work to help her mother, butnothing would have any effect on him. He would just sink deeper intohis chair.

Only when the two women took him under the arms he wouldabruptly open his eyes, look at them one after the other and say:"What a life! This is what peace I get in my old age!" And supportedby the two women he would lift himself up carefully as if he werecarrying the greatest load himself, let the women take him to thedoor, send them off and carry on by himself while Gregor's motherwould throw down her needle and his sister her pen so that they couldrun after his father and continue being of help to him.Who, in this tired and overworked family, would have had time to givemore attention to Gregor than was absolutely necessary? The householdbudget became even smaller; so now the maid was dismissed; anenormous, thick-boned charwoman with white hair that flapped aroundher head came every morning and evening to do the heaviest work;everything else was looked after by Gregor's mother on top of thelarge amount of sewing work she did. Gregor even learned, listening tothe evening conversation about what price they had hoped for, that several items of jewellery belonging to the family had been sold, eventhough both mother and sister had been very fond of wearing them atfunctions and celebrations. But the loudest complaint was thatalthough the flat was much too big for their present circumstances,they could not move out of it, there was no imaginable way oftransferring Gregor to the new address. He could see quite well,though, that there were more reasons than consideration for him thatmade it difficult for them to move, it would have been quite easy totransport him in any suitable crate with a few air holes in it; themain thing holding the family back from their decision to move wasmuch more to do with their total despair, and the thought that theyhad been struck with a misfortune unlike anything experienced byanyone else they knew or were related to. They carried out absolutelyeverything that the world expects from poor people, Gregor's fatherbrought bank employees their breakfast, his mother sacrificed herselfby washing clothes for strangers, his sister ran back and forth behindher desk at the behest of the customers, but they just did not havethe strength to do any more. And the injury in Gregor's back began tohurt as much as when it was new. After they had come back from takinghis father to bed Gregor's mother and sister would now leave theirwork where it was and sit close together, cheek to cheek; his motherwould point to Gregor's room and say "Close that door, Grete", andthen, when he was in the dark again, they would sit in the next roomand their tears would mingle, or they would simply sit there staringdry-eyed at the table.Gregor hardly slept at all, either night or day. Sometimes he wouldthink of taking over the family's affairs, just like before, the nexttime the door was opened; he had long forgotten about his boss and thechief clerk, but they would appear again in his thoughts, the salesmenand the apprentices, that stupid teaboy, two or three friends fromother businesses, one of the chambermaids from a provincial hotel, atender memory that appeared and disappeared again, a cashier from ahat shop for whom his attention had been serious but too slow, - allof them appeared to him, mixed together with strangers and others hehad forgotten, but instead of helping him and his family they were allof them inaccessible, and he was glad when they disappeared. Othertimes he was not at all in the mood to look after his family, he wasfilled with simple rage about the lack of attention he was shown, andalthough he could think of nothing he would have wanted, he made plansof how he could get into the pantry where he could take all the thingshe was entitled to, even if he was not hungry. Gregor's sister nolonger thought about how she could please him but would hurriedly pushsome food or other into his room with her foot before she rushed outto work in the morning and at midday, and in the evening she wouldsweep it away again with the broom, indifferent as to whether it hadbeen eaten or - more often than not - had been left totally untouched.She still cleared up the room in the evening, but now she could nothave been any quicker about it. Smears of dirt were left on the walls,here and there were little balls of dust and filth. At first, Gregorwent into one of the worst of these places when his sister arrived asa reproach to her, but he could have stayed there for weeks withouthis sister doing anything about it; she could see the dirt as well ashe could but she had simply decided to leave him to it. At the sametime she became touchy in a way that was quite new for her and whicheveryone in the family understood - cleaning

up Gregor's room was forher and her alone. Gregor's mother did once thoroughly clean his room,and needed to use several bucketfuls of water to do it - although thatmuch dampness also made Gregor ill and he lay flat on the couch,bitter and immobile. But his mother was to be punished still more forwhat she had done, as hardly had his sister arrived home in theevening than she noticed the change in Gregor's room and, highlyaggrieved, ran back into the living room where, despite her mothersraised and imploring hands, she broke into convulsive tears. Herfather, of course, was startled out of his chair and the two parentslooked on astonished and helpless; then they, too, became agitated;Gregor's father, standing to the right of his mother, accused her ofnot leaving the cleaning of Gregor's room to his sister; from herleft, Gregor's sister screamed at her that she was never to cleanGregor's room again; while his mother tried to draw his father, whowas beside himself with anger, into the bedroom; his sister, quakingwith tears, thumped on the table with her small fists; and Gregor hissed in anger that no-one had even thought of closing the door tosave him the sight of this and all its noise.Gregor's sister was exhausted from going out to work, and lookingafter Gregor as she had done before was even more work for her, buteven so his mother ought certainly not to have taken her place.Gregor, on the other hand, ought not to be neglected. Now, though, thecharwoman was here. This elderly widow, with a robust bone structurethat made her able to withstand the hardest of things in her longlife, wasn't really repelled by Gregor. Just by chance one day, ratherthan any real curiosity, she opened the door to Gregor's room andfound herself face to face with him. He was taken totally by surprise,noone was chasing him but he began to rush to and fro while she juststood there in amazement with her hands crossed in front of her. Fromthen on she never failed to open the door slightly every evening andmorning and look briefly in on him. At first she would call to him asshe did so with words that she probably considered friendly, such as"come on then, you old dung-beetle!", or "look at the old dungbeetlethere!" Gregor never responded to being spoken to in that way, butjust remained where he was without moving as if the door had nevereven been opened. If only they had told this charwoman to clean up hisroom every day instead of letting her disturb him for no reasonwhenever she felt like it! One day, early in the morning while a heavyrain struck the windowpanes, perhaps indicating that spring wascoming, she began to speak to him in that way once again. Gregor wasso resentful of it that he started to move toward her, he was slow andinfirm, but it was like a kind of attack. Instead of being afraid, thecharwoman just lifted up one of the chairs from near the door andstood there with her mouth open, clearly intending not to close hermouth until the chair in her hand had been slammed down into Gregor'sback. "Aren't you coming any closer, then?", she asked when Gregor turned round again, and she calmly put the chair back in the corner.Gregor had almost entirely stopped eating. Only if he happened to findhimself next to the food that had been prepared for him he might takesome of it into his mouth to play with it, leave it there a few hoursand then, more often than not, spit it out again. At first he thoughtit was distress at the state of his room that stopped him eating, buthe had soon got used to the changes made there. They had got into thehabit of putting things into this room that they had no room foranywhere else, and there were now many such things as one of the roomsin the flat had been rented out to three gentlemen. These earnestgentlemen - all three of them had full beards, as Gregor learnedpeering through the crack in the door one day - were painfullyinsistent on things' being tidy. This meant not only in their own room but, since they had taken a room in this establishment, in the entireflat and especially in the kitchen. Unnecessary clutter was somethingthey could not tolerate, especially if it was dirty. They had moreoverbrought most of their own furnishings and equipment with them. Forthis reason, many things had become superfluous which, although theycould not be sold, the family did not wish to discard. All thesethings found their way into Gregor's room. The dustbins from the kitchen found their way in there too. The charwoman was always in ahurry, and anything she couldn't use for the time being she would justchuck in there. He,

fortunately, would usually see no more than theobject and the hand that held it. The woman most likely meant to fetchthe things back out again when she had time and the opportunity, or tothrow everything out in one go, but what actually happened was thatthey were left where they landed when they had first been thrown unless Gregor made his way through the junk and moved it somewhereelse. At first he moved it because, with no other room free where hecould crawl about, he was forced to, but later on he came to enjoy italthough moving about in the way left him sad and tired to death andhe would remain immobile for hours afterwards.The gentlemen who rented the room would sometimes take their eveningmeal at home in the living room that was used by everyone, and so thedoor to this room was often kept closed in the evening. But Gregorfound it easy to give up having the door open, he had, after all,often failed to make use of it when it was open and, without thefamily having noticed it, lain in his room in its darkest corner. One time, though, the charwoman left the door to the living room slightlyopen, and it remained open when the gentlemen who rented the room camein in the evening and the light was put on. They sat up at the tablewhere, formerly, Gregor had taken his meals with his father andmother, they unfolded the serviettes and picked up their knives andforks. Gregor's mother immediately appeared in the doorway with a dishof meat and soon behind her came his sister with a dish piled highwith potatoes. The food was steaming, and filled the room with itssmell. The gentlemen bent over the dishes set in front of them as ifthey wanted to test the food before eating it, and the gentleman inthe middle, who seemed to count as an authority for the other two, didindeed cut off a piece of meat while it was still in its dish, clearly wishing to establish whether it was sufficiently cooked or whether itshould be sent back to the kitchen. It was to his satisfaction, andGregor's mother and sister, who had been looking on anxiously, beganto breathe again and smiled.The family themselves ate in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Gregor's fathercame into the living room before he went into the kitchen, bowed oncewith his cap in his hand and did his round of the table. The gentlemenstood as one, and mumbled something into their beards. Then, once theywere alone, they ate in near perfect silence. It seemed remarkable toGregor that above all the various noises of eating their chewing teethcould still be heard, as if they had wanted to Show Gregor that you need teeth in order to eat and it was not possible to perform anythingwith jaws that are toothless however nice they might be. "I'd like toeat something", said Gregor anxiously, "but not anything like they'reeating. They do feed themselves. And here I am, dying!"Throughout all this time, Gregor could not remember having heard theviolin being played, but this evening it began to be heard from the kitchen. The three gentlemen had already finished their meal, the onein the middle had produced a newspaper, given a page to each of theothers, and now they leant back in their chairs reading them andsmoking. When the violin began playing they became attentive, stood upand went on tip-toe over to the door of the hallway where they stoodpressed against each other. Someone must have heard them in the kitchen, as Gregor's father called out: "Is the playing perhapsunpleasant for the gentlemen? We can stop it straight away." "On thecontrary", said the middle gentleman, "would the young lady not liketo come in and play for us here in the room, where it is, after all,much more cosy and comfortable?" "Oh yes, we'd love to", called backGregor's father as if he had been the violin player himself. The gentlemen stepped back into the room and waited. Gregor's father soonappeared with the music stand, his mother with the music and hissister with the violin. She calmly prepared everything for her tobegin playing; his parents, who had never rented a room out before andtherefore showed an exaggerated courtesy towards the three gentlemen,did not even dare to sit on their own chairs; his father leant againstthe door with his right hand pushed in between two buttons on hisuniform coat; his mother, though, was offered a seat by one of thegentlemen and sat leaving the chair where the gentleman happened tohave placed it - out of the way in a corner.His sister began to play; father and mother paid close attention, one on each side, to the movements of her hands. Drawn in by the playing,Gregor had dared to come forward a little and already had his head inthe living room. Before,

he had taken great pride in how consideratehe was but now it hardly occurred to him that he had become sothoughtless about the others. What's more, there was now all the morereason to keep himself hidden as he was covered in the dust that lay everywhere in his room and flew up at the slightest movement; hecarried threads, hairs, and remains of food about on his back andsides; he was much too indifferent to everything now to lay on hisback and wipe himself on the carpet like he had used to do severaltimes a day. And despite this condition, he was not too shy to moveforward a little onto the immaculate floor of the living room.No-one noticed him, though. The family was totally preoccupied withthe violin playing; at first, the three gentlemen had put their handsin their pockets and come up far too close behind the music stand tolook at all the notes being played, and they must have disturbedGregor's sister, but soon, in contrast with the family, they withdrewback to the window with their heads sunk and talking to each other athalf volume, and they stayed by the window while Gregor's fatherobserved them anxiously. It really now seemed very obvious that theyhad expected to hear some beautiful or entertaining violin playing buthad been disappointed, that they had had enough of the wholeperformance and it was only now out of politeness that they allowedtheir peace to be disturbed. It was especially unnerving, the way theyall blew the smoke from their cigarettes upwards from their mouth andnoses. Yet Gregor's sister was playing so beautifully. Her face wasleant to one side, following the lines of music with a careful andmelancholy expression. Gregor crawled a little further forward,keeping his head close to the ground so that he could meet her eyes ifthe chance came. Was he an animal if music could captivate him so? Itseemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknownnourishment he had been yearning for. He was determined to make hisway forward to his sister and tug at her skirt to show her she mightcome into his room with her violin, as no-one appreciated her playinghere as much as he would. He never wanted to let her out of his room,not while he lived, anyway; his shocking appearance should, for once,be of some use to him; he wanted to be at every door of his room atonce to hiss and spit at the attackers; his sister should not beforced to stay with him, though, but stay of her own free will; shewould sit beside him on the couch with her ear bent down to him whilehe told her how he had always intended to send her to theconservatory, how he would have told everyone about it last Christmas- had Christmas really come and gone already? - if this misfortunehadn't got in the way, and refuse to let anyone dissuade him from it.On hearing all this, his sister would break out in tears of emotion,and Gregor would climb up to her shoulder and kiss her neck, which,since she had been going out to work, she had kept free without anynecklace or collar."Mr. Samsa!", shouted the middle gentleman to Gregor's father,pointing, without wasting any more words, with his forefinger at Gregor as he slowly moved forward. The violin went silent, the middleof the three gentlemen first smiled at his two friends, shaking hishead, and then looked back at Gregor. His father seemed to think itmore important to calm the three gentlemen before driving Gregor out,even though they were not at all upset and seemed to think Gregor wasmore entertaining that the violin playing had been. He rushed up tothem with his arms spread out and attempted to drive them back intotheir room at the same time as trying to block their view of Gregorwith his body. Now they did become a little annoyed, and it was notclear whether it was his father's behaviour that annoyed them or thedawning realisation that they had had a neighbour like Gregor in thenext room without knowing it. They asked Gregor's father for explanations, raised their arms like he had, tugged excitedly at theirbeards and moved back towards their room only very slowly. MeanwhileGregor's sister had overcome the despair she had fallen into when herplaying was suddenly interrupted. She had let her hands drop and letviolin and bow hang limply for a while but continued to look at themusic as if still playing, but then she suddenly pulled herselftogether, lay the instrument on her mother's lap who still satlaboriously struggling for breath where she was, and ran into the nextroom which, under pressure from her father, the three gentlemen weremore quickly moving toward. Under his sister's experienced hand, thepillows and covers on the beds flew up and

were put into order and shehad already finished making the beds and slipped out again before thethree gentlemen had reached the room. Gregor's father seemed so obsessed with what he was doing that he forgot all the respect he owedto his tenants. He urged them and pressed them until, when he wasalready at the door of the room, the middle of the three gentlemenshouted like thunder and stamped his foot and thereby brought Gregor'sfather to a halt. "I declare here and now", he said, raising his handand glancing at Gregor's mother and sister to gain their attentiontoo, "that with regard to the repugnant conditions that prevail inthis flat and with this family" - here he looked briefly butdecisively at the floor "I give immediate notice on my room. For thedays that I have been living here I will, of course, pay nothing atall, on the contrary I will consider whether to proceed with some kindof action for damages from you, and believe me it would be very easyto set out the grounds for such an action." He was silent and looked straight ahead as if waiting for something. And indeed, his twofriends joined in with the words: "And we also give immediate notice."With that, he took hold of the door handle and slammed the door.Gregor's father staggered back to his seat, feeling his way with hishands, and fell into it; it looked as if he was stretching himself outfor his usual evening nap but from the uncontrolled way his head kept nodding it could be seen that he was not sleeping at all. Throughoutall this, Gregor had lain still where the three gentlemen had firstseen him. His disappointment at the failure of his plan, and perhapsalso because he was weak from hunger, made it impossible for him tomove. He was sure that everyone would turn on him any moment, and hewaited. He was not even startled out of this state when the violin onhis mother's lap fell from her trembling fingers and landed loudly onthe floor."Father, Mother", said his sister, hitting the table with her hand asintroduction, "we can't carry on like this. Maybe you can't see it,but I can. I don't want to call this monster my brother, all I can sayis: we have to try and get rid of it. We've done all that's humanlypossible to look after it and be patient, I don't think anyone couldaccuse us of doing anything wrong.""She's absolutely right", said Gregor's father to himself. His mother,who still had not had time to catch her breath, began to cough dully,her hand held out in front of her and a deranged expression in hereyes.Gregor's sister rushed to his mother and put her hand on her forehead.Her words seemed to give Gregor's father some more definite ideas. Hesat upright, played with his uniform cap between the plates left bythe three gentlemen after their meal, and occasionally looked down atGregor as he lay there immobile."We have to try and get rid of it", said Gregor's sister, now speakingonly to her father, as her mother was too occupied with coughing to listen, "it'll be the death of both of you, I can see it coming. Wecan't all work as hard as we have to and then come home to be torturedlike this, we can't endure it. I can't endure it any more." And shebroke out so heavily in tears that they flowed down the face of hermother, and she wiped them away with mechanical hand movements."My child", said her father with sympathy and obvious understanding, "what are we to do?"His sister just shrugged her shoulders as a sign of the helplessnessand tears that had taken hold of her, displacing her earliercertainty. "If he could just understand us", said his father almost as aquestion; his sister shook her hand vigorously through her tears as asign that of that there was no question."If he could just understand us", repeated Gregor's father, closinghis eyes in acceptance of his sister's certainty that that was quiteimpossible, "then perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangementwith him. But as it is ...""It's got to go", shouted his sister, "that's the only way, Father.You've got to get rid of the idea that that's Gregor. We've onlyharmed ourselves by believing it for so long. How can that be Gregor?If it were Gregor he would have seen long ago that it's not possiblefor human beings to live with an animal like that and he would havegone of his own free will. We wouldn't have a brother any more, then,but we could carry on with our lives and remember him with respect. Asit is this animal is persecuting us, it's driven out our tenants, itobviously wants to take over the whole flat and force us to sleep onthe streets. Father, look, just look", she suddenly screamed, "he'sstarting again!" In her alarm, which was totally beyond

Gregor'scomprehension, his sister even abandoned his mother as she pushedherself vigorously out of her chair as if more willing to sacrificeher own mother than stay anywhere near Gregor. She rushed over tobehind her father, who had become excited merely because she was andstood up half raising his hands in front of Gregor's sister as if toprotect her.But Gregor had had no intention of frightening anyone, least of allhis sister. All he had done was begin to turn round so that he couldgo back into his room, although that was in itself quite startling ashis pain-wracked condition meant that turning round required a greatdeal of effort and he was using his head to help himself do it,repeatedly raising it and striking it against the floor. He stoppedand looked round. They seemed to have realised his good intention andhad only been alarmed briefly. Now they all looked at him in unhappysilence. His mother lay in her chair with her legs stretched out andpressed against each other, her eyes nearly closed with exhaustion;his sister sat next to his father with her arms around his neck."Maybe now they'll let me turn round", thought Gregor and went back towork. He could not help panting loudly with the effort and hadsometimes to stop and take a rest. No-one was making him rush any more, everything was left up to him. As soon as he had finallyfinished turning round he began to move straight ahead. He was amazedat the great distance that separated him from his room, and could notunderstand how he had covered that distance in his weak state a littlewhile before and almost without noticing it. He concentrated oncrawling as fast as he could and hardly noticed that there was not aword, not any cry, from his family to distract him. He did not turnhis head until he had reached the doorway. He did not turn it all theway round as he felt his neck becoming stiff, but it was nonethelessenough to see that nothing behind him had changed, only his sister hadstood up. With his last glance he saw that his mother had now fallencompletely asleep.He was hardly inside his room before the door was hurriedly shut,bolted and locked. The sudden noise behind Gregor so startled him thathis little legs collapsed under him. It was his sister who had been inso much of a rush. She had been standing there waiting and sprungforward lightly, Gregor had not heard her coming at all, and as sheturned the key in the lock she said loudly to her parents "At last!"."What now, then?", Gregor asked himself as he looked round in thedarkness. He soon made the discovery that he could no longer move atall. This was no surprise to him, it seemed rather that being able toactually move around on those spindly little legs until then wasunnatural. He also felt relatively comfortable. It is true that his entire body was aching, but the pain seemed to be slowly gettingweaker and weaker and would finally disappear altogether. He couldalready hardly feel the decayed apple in his back or the inflamed areaaround it, which was entirely covered in white dust. He thought backof his family with emotion and love. If it was possible, he felt thathe must go away even more strongly than his sister. He remained inthis state of empty and peaceful rumination until he heard the clock tower strike three in the morning. He watched as it slowly began toget light everywhere outside the window too. Then, without his willingit, his head sank down completely, and his last breath flowed weaklyfrom his nostrils.When the cleaner came in early in the morning - they'd often asked hernot to keep slamming the doors but with her strength and in her hurryshe still did, so that everyone in the flat knew when she'd arrivedand from then on it was impossible to sleep in peace she made herusual brief look in on Gregor and at first found nothing special. She thought he was laying there so still on purpose, playing the martyr;she attributed all possible understanding to him. She happened to beholding the long broom in her hand, so she tried to tickle Gregor withit from the doorway. When she had no success with that she tried tomake a nuisance of herself and poked at him a little, and only whenshe found she could shove him across the floor with no resistance atall did she start to pay attention. She soon realised what had really happened, opened her eyes wide, whistled to herself, but did not wastetime to yank open the bedroom doors and shout loudly into the darknessof the bedrooms: "Come and 'ave a look at this, it's dead, just lyingthere, stone dead!"Mr. and Mrs. Samsa sat upright there in their marriage bed and had tomake an effort to get over

the shock caused by the cleaner before theycould grasp what she was saying. But then, each from his own side,they hurried out of bed. Mr. Samsa threw the blanket over hisshoulders, Mrs. Samsa just came out in her nightdress; and that is howthey went into Gregor's room. On the way they opened the door to theliving room where Grete had been sleeping since the three gentlemenhad moved in; she was fully dressed as if she had never been asleep,and the paleness of her face seemed to confirm this. "Dead?", askedMrs. Samsa, looking at the charwoman enquiringly, even though shecould have checked for herself and could have known it even without checking. "That's what I said", replied the cleaner, and to prove itshe gave Gregor's body another shove with the broom, sending itsideways across the floor. Mrs. Samsa made a movement as if she wantedto hold back the broom, but did not complete it. "Now then", said Mr.Samsa, "let's give thanks to God for that". He crossed himself, andthe three women followed his example. Grete, who had not taken hereyes from the corpse, said: "Just look how thin he was. He didn't eatanything for so long. The food came out again just the same as when itwent in". Gregor's body was indeed completely dried up and flat, theyhad not seen it until then, but now he was not lifted up on his littlelegs, nor did he do anything to make them look away."Grete, come with us in here for a little while", said Mrs. Samsa witha pained smile, and Grete followed her parents into the bedroom butnot without looking back at the body. The cleaner shut the door andopened the window wide. Although it was still early in the morning thefresh air had something of warmth mixed in with it. It was already theend of March, after all.The three gentlemen stepped out of their room and looked round inamazement for their breakfasts; they had been forgotten about. "Whereis our breakfast?", the middle gentleman asked the cleaner irritably.She just put her finger on her lips and made a quick and silent signto the men that they might like to come into Gregor's room. They didso, and stood around Gregor's corpse with their hands in the pocketsof their well-worn coats. It was now quite light in the room.Then the door of the bedroom opened and Mr. Samsa appeared in hisuniform with his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other. All ofthem had been crying a little; Grete now and then pressed her face against her father's arm."Leave my home. Now!", said Mr. Samsa, indicating the door and withoutletting the women from him. "What do you mean?", asked the middle ofthe three gentlemen somewhat disconcerted, and he smiled sweetly. Theother two held their hands behind their backs and continually rubbedthem together in gleeful anticipation of a loud quarrel which couldonly end in their favour. "I mean just what I said", answered Mr.Samsa, and, with his two companions, went in a straight line towardsthe man. At first, he stood there still, looking at the ground as if the contents of his head were rearranging themselves into newpositions. "Alright, we'll go then", he said, and looked up at Mr.Samsa as if he had been suddenly overcome with humility and wantedpermission again from Mr. Samsa for his decision. Mr. Samsa merelyopened his eyes wide and briefly nodded to him several times. At that,and without delay, the man actually did take long strides into thefront hallway; his two friends had stopped rubbing their hands sometime before and had been listening to what was being said. Now theyjumped off after their friend as if taken with a sudden fear that Mr.Samsa might go into the hallway in front of them and break theconnection with their leader. Once there, all three took their hats from the stand, took their sticks from the holder, bowed without aword and left the premises. Mr. Samsa and the two women followed themout onto the landing; but they had had no reason to mistrust the men'intentions and as they leaned over the landing they saw how the threegentlemen made slow but steady progress down the many steps. As theyturned the corner on each floor they disappeared and would reappear afew moments later; the further down they went, the more that the Samsa family lost interest in them; when a butcher's boy, proud of posturewith his tray on his head, passed them on his way up and came nearerthan they were, Mr. Samsa and the women came away from the landing andwent, as if relieved, back into the flat.They decided the best way to make use of that day was for relaxationand to go for a walk; not only had they earned a break from work butthey were in serious need of it. So they sat at the table and wrotethree letters of excusal, Mr. Samsa

to his employers, Mrs. Samsa toher contractor and Grete to her principal. The cleaner came in whilethey were writing to tell them she was going, she'd finished her workfor that morning. The three of them at first just nodded withoutlooking up from what they were writing, and it was only when thecleaner still did not seem to want to leave that they looked up inirritation. "Well?", asked Mr. Samsa. The charwoman stood in thedoorway with a smile on her face as if she had some tremendous goodnews to report, but would only do it if she was clearly asked to. Thealmost vertical little ostrich feather on her hat, which had beensource of irritation to Mr. Samsa all the time she had been workingfor them, swayed gently in all directions. "What is it you wantthen?", asked Mrs. Samsa, whom the cleaner had the most respect for."Yes", she answered, and broke into a friendly laugh that made herunable to speak straight away, "well then, that thing in there, youneedn't worry about how you're going to get rid of it. That's all beensorted out." Mrs. Samsa and Grete bent down over their letters as ifintent on continuing with what they were writing; Mr. Samsa saw thatthe cleaner wanted to start describing everything in detail but, withoutstretched hand, he made it quite clear that she was not to. So, asshe was prevented from telling them all about it, she suddenly remembered what a hurry she was in and, clearly peeved, called out"Cheerio then, everyone", turned round sharply and left, slamming thedoor terribly as she went. "Tonight she gets sacked", said Mr. Samsa, but he received no replyfrom either his wife or his daughter as the charwoman seemed to havedestroyed the peace they had only just gained. They got up and wentover to the window where they remained with their arms around eachother. Mr. Samsa twisted round in his chair to look at them and satthere watching for a while. Then he called out: "Come here, then.Let's forget about all that old stuff, shall we. Come and give me abit of attention". The two women immediately did as he said, hurryingover to him where they kissed him and hugged him and then they quicklyfinished their letters.After that, the three of them left the flat together, which wassomething they had not done for months, and took the tram out to theopen country outside the town. They had the tram, filled with warmsunshine, all to themselves. Leant back comfortably on their seats,they discussed their prospects and found that on closer examinationthey were not at all bad - until then they had never asked each otherabout their work but all three had jobs which were very good and heldparticularly good promise for the future. The greatest improvement forthe time being, of course, would be achieved quite easily by movinghouse; what they needed now was a flat that was smaller and cheaperthan the current one which had been chosen by Gregor, one that was ina better location and, most of all, more practical. All the time,Grete was becoming livelier. With all the worry they had been havingof late her cheeks had become pale, but, while they were talking, Mr.and Mrs. Samsa were struck, almost simultaneously, with the thought ofhow their daughter was blossoming into a well built and beautifulyoung lady. They became quieter. Just from each other's glance andalmost without knowing it they agreed that it would soon be time tofind a good man for her. And, as if in confirmation of their newdreams and good intentions, as soon as they reached their destinationGrete was the first to get up and stretch out her young body.The Futurist ManifestoF. T. Marinetti, 1909We have been up all night, my friends and I, beneath mosque lampswhose brass cupolas are bright as our souls, because like them theywere illuminated by the internal glow of electric hearts. Andtrampling underfoot our native sloth on opulent Persian carpets, wehave been discussing right up to the limits of logic and scrawling thepaper with demented writing.Our hearts were filled with an immense pride at feeling ourselvesstanding quite alone, like lighthouses or like the sentinels in anoutpost, facing the army of enemy stars encamped in their celestialbivouacs. Alone with the engineers in the infernal stokeholes of greatships, alone with the black spirits which rage in the belly of roguelocomotives, alone with the drunkards beating their wings against thewalls.Then we were suddenly distracted by the rumbling of huge double decker trams that went leaping by, streaked with light like the villagescelebrating their festivals, which the Po in flood suddenly knocksdown and uproots, and, in the

rapids and eddies of a deluge, dragsdown to the sea.Then the silence increased. As we listened to the last faint prayer ofthe old canal and the crumbling of the bones of the moribund palaceswith their green growth of beard, suddenly the hungry automobilesroared beneath our windows."Come, my friends!" I said. "Let us go! At last Mythology and themystic cult of the ideal have been left behind. We are going to bepresent at the birth of the centaur and we shall soon see the firstangels fly! We must break down the gates of life to test the bolts andthe padlocks! Let us go! Here is they very first sunrise on earth!Nothing equals the splendor of its red sword which strikes for thefirst time in our millennial darkness."We went up to the three snorting machines to caress their breasts. Ilay along mine like a corpse on its bier, but I suddenly revived againbeneath the steering wheel � a guillotine knife � which threatened mystomach. A great sweep of madness brought us sharply back to ourselvesand drove us through the streets, steep and deep, like dried uptorrents. Here and there unhappy lamps in the windows taught us todespise our mathematical eyes. "Smell," I exclaimed, "smell is goodenough for wild beasts!"And we hunted, like young lions, death with its black fur dappled withpale crosses, who ran before us in the vast violet sky, palpable andliving.And yet we had no ideal Mistress stretching her form up to the clouds,nor yet a cruel Queen to whom to offer our corpses twisted into theshape of Byzantine rings! No reason to die unless it is the desire tobe rid of the too great weight of our courage!We drove on, crushing beneath our burning wheels, like shirt-collarsunder the iron, the watch dogs on the steps of the houses.Death, tamed, went in front of me at each corner offering me his handnicely, and sometimes lay on the ground with a noise of creaking jawsgiving me velvet glances from the bottom of puddles."Let us leave good sense behind like a hideous husk and let us hurlourselves, like fruit spiced with pride, into the immense mouth andbreast of the world! Let us feed the unknown, not from despair, butsimply to enrich the unfathomable reservoirs of the Absurd!"As soon as I had said these words, I turned sharply back on my trackswith the mad intoxication of puppies biting their tails, and suddenlythere were two cyclists disapproving of me and tottering in front ofme like two persuasive but contradictory reasons. Their stupid swayinggot in my way. What a bore! Pouah! I stopped short, and in disgusthurled myself � vlan! � head over heels in a ditch. Oh, maternal ditch, half full of muddy water! A factory gutter! Isavored a mouthful of strengthening muck which recalled the black teatof my Sudanese nurse! As I raised my body, mud-spattered and smelly, I felt the red hotpoker of joy deliciously pierce my heart. A crowd of fishermen andgouty naturalists crowded terrified around this marvel. With patientand tentative care they raised high enormous grappling irons to fishup my car, like a vast shark that had run aground. It rose slowlyleaving in the ditch, like scales, its heavy coachwork of good sense and its upholstery of comfort.We thought it was dead, my good shark, but I woke it with a singlecaress of its powerful back, and it was revived running as fast as it could on its fins.Then with my face covered in good factory mud, covered with metalscratches, useless sweat and celestial grime, amidst the complaint ofstaid fishermen and angry naturalists, we dictated our first will andtestament to all the living men on earth.MANIFESTO OF FUTURISMWe want to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and rashness.The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity and revolt.Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy andslumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and theblow with the fist.We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a newbeauty: the beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnetadorned with great tubes like serpents with explosive breath ... aroaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is morebeautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.We want to sing the man at the wheel, the ideal axis of which crossesthe earth, itself hurled along its orbit.The poet must spend himself with warmth, glamour and prodigality toincrease the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has notan aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on theforces of the unknown, to force them to bow before

man.We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use oflooking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shuttersof the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are alreadyliving in the absolute, since we have already created eternal,omnipresent speed.We want to glorify war � the only cure for the world � militarism,patriotism, the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautifulideas which kill, and contempt for woman.We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminismand all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure andrevolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in moderncapitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshopsbeneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stationsdevouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by thethread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung acrossthe diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffingthe horizon; great-breasted locomotives, puffing on the rails likeenormous steel horses with long tubes for bridle, and the glidingflight of aeroplanes whose propeller sounds like the flapping of aflag and the applause of enthusiastic crowds.It is in Italy that we are issuing this manifesto of ruinous andincendiary violence, by which we today are founding Futurism, becausewe want to deliver Italy from its gangrene of professors,archaeologists, tourist guides and antiquaries.Italy has been too long the great second-hand market. We want to get rid of the innumerable museums which cover it with innumerablecemeteries.Museums, cemeteries! Truly identical in their sinister juxtapositionof bodies that do not know each other. Public dormitories where yousleep side by side for ever with beings you hate or do not know.Reciprocal ferocity of the painters and sculptors who murder eachother in the same museum with blows of line and color. To make a visitonce a year, as one goes to see the graves of our dead once a year,that we could allow! We can even imagine placing flowers once a yearat the feet of the Gioconda! But to take our sadness, our fragilecourage and our anxiety to the museum every day, that we cannot admit!Do you want to poison yourselves? Do you want to rot?What can you find in an old picture except the painful contortions of the artist trying to break uncrossable barriers which obstruct thefull expression of his dream?To admire an old picture is to pour our sensibility into a funeral urninstead of casting it forward with violent spurts of creation andaction. Do you want to waste the best part of your strength in auseless admiration of the past, from which you will emerge exhausted,diminished, trampled on?Indeed daily visits to museums, libraries and academies (thosecemeteries of wasted effort, calvaries of crucified dreams, registersof false starts!) is for artists what prolonged supervision by theparents is for intelligent young men, drunk with their own talent andambition.For the dying, for invalids and for prisoners it may be all right. Itis, perhaps, some sort of balm for their wounds, the admirable past,at a moment when the future is denied them. But we will have none ofit, we, the young, strong and living Futurists!Let the good incendiaries with charred fingers come! Here they are!Heap up the fire to the shelves of the libraries! Divert the canals toflood the cellars of the museums! Let the glorious canvases swimashore! Take the picks and hammers! Undermine the foundation of venerable towns!The oldest among us are not yet thirty years old: we have therefore atleast ten years to accomplish our task. When we are forty let younger and stronger men than we throw us in the waste paper basket likeuseless manuscripts! They will come against us from afar, leaping onthe light cadence of their first poems, clutching the air with theirpredatory fingers and sniffing at the gates of the academies the goodscent of our decaying spirits, already promised to the catacombs ofthe libraries.But we shall not be there. They will find us at last one winter'snight in the depths of the country in a sad hangar echoing with thenotes of the monotonous rain, crouched near our trembling aeroplanes,warming our hands at the wretched fire which our books of today willmake when they flame gaily beneath the glittering flight of theirpictures.They will crowd around us, panting with anguish and disappointment,and exasperated by our proud indefatigable courage, will hurlthemselves forward to kill us, with all the more hatred as their

hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us. And stronghealthy Injustice will shine radiantly from their eyes. For art canonly be violence, cruelty, injustice.The oldest among us are not yet thirty, and yet we have already wasted treasures, treasures of strength, love, courage and keen will,hastily, deliriously, without thinking, with all our might, till weare out of breath.Look at us! We are not out of breath, our hearts are not in the leasttired. For they are nourished by fire, hatred and speed! Does thissurprise you? it is because you do not even remember being alive!Standing on the world's summit, we launch once more our challenge tothe stars!Your objections? All right! I know them! Of course! We know just whatour beautiful false intelligence affirms: "We are only the sum and theprolongation of our ancestors," it says. Perhaps! All right! What doesit matter? But we will not listen! Take care not to repeat thoseinfamous words! Instead, lift up your head!Standing on the world's summit we launch once again our insolentchallenge to the stars!THE SAND-MAN. (1817) (1)by ERNST T.W. HOFFMANN NATHANAEL TO LOTHAlRI KNOW you are all very uneasy because I have not written for such along, long time. Mother, to be sure, is angry, and Clara, I dare say, believes I am living here in riot and revelry, and quite forgetting mysweet angel, whose image is so deeply engraved upon my heart and mind.But that is not so; daily and hourly do I think of you all, and mylovely Clara's form comes to gladden me in my dreams, and smiles uponme with her bright eyes, as graciously as she used to do in the dayswhen I went in and out amongst you. Oh! how could I write to you inthe distracted state of mind in which I have been, and which, untilnow, has quite bewildered me! A terrible thing has happened to me.Dark forebodings of some awful fate threatening me are spreadingthemselves out over my head like black clouds, impenetrable to everyfriendly ray of sunlight. I must now tell you what has taken place; Imust, that I see well enough, but only to think upon it makes the wild laughter burst from my lips. Oh! my dear, dear Lothair, what shall Isay to make you feel, if only in an inadequate way, that that whichhappened to me a few days ago could thus really exercise such ahostile and disturbing influence upon my life? Oh that you were hereto see for yourself! but now you will, I suppose, take me for asuperstitious ghost-seer. In a word, the terrible thing which I have experienced, the fatal effect of which I in vain exert every effort toshake off, is simply that some days ago, namely, on the 30th October,at twelve o'clock at noon, a dealer in weather-glasses came into myroom and wanted to sell me one of his wares. I bought nothing, andthreatened to kick him downstairs, whereupon he went away of his ownaccord.�You will conclude that it can only be very peculiar relations �relations intimately intertwined with my life � that can give significance to this event, and that it must be the person of thisunfortunate hawker which has had such a very inimical effect upon me.And so it really is. I will summon up all my faculties in order tonarrate to you calmly and patiently as much of the early days of myyouth as will suffice to put matters before you in such a way thatyour keen sharp intellect may grasp everything clearly and distinctly,in bright and living pictures. Just as I am beginning, I hear youlaugh and Clara say, "What's all this childish nonsense about!" Well,laugh at me, laugh heartily at me, pray do. But, good God! my hair isstanding on end, and I seem to be entreating you to laugh at me in thesame sort of frantic despair in which Franz Moor entreated Daniel tolaugh him to scorn.(2) But to my story.�(2) See Schiller's R�uber, Act V., Scene I. Franz Moor, seeing thatthe failure of all his villainous schemes is inevitable, and that hisown ruin is close upon him, is at length overwhelmed with the madnessof despair, and unburdens the terrors of his conscience to the oldservant Daniel, bidding him laugh him to scorn.�Except at dinner we, i.e., I and my brothers and sisters, saw butlittle of our father all day long. His business no doubt took up mostof his time. After our evening meal, which, in accordance with an oldcustom, was served at seven o'clock, we all went, mother with us, intofather's room, and took our places around a round table. My fathersmoked his pipe, drinking a large glass of beer to it. Often he toldus many wonderful stories, and got so excited over them that his pipealways went out; I used then to light it for him with a spill, andthis formed my chief amusement.

Often, again, he would give uspicture-books to look at, whilst he sat silent and motionless in hiseasy-chair, puffing out such dense clouds of smoke that we were all asit were enveloped in mist. On such evenings mother was very sad; anddirectly it struck nine she said, "Come, children! off to bed! Come!The 'Sand-man' is come I see." And I always did seem to hear somethingtrampling upstairs with slow heavy steps; that must be the Sand-man.Once in particular I was very much frightened at this dull tramplingand knocking; as mother was leading us out of the room I asked her, "Omamma! but who is this nasty Sand-man who always sends us away frompapa? What does he look like?" Except at dinner we, i.e., I and mybrothers and "There is no Sand-man, my dear child," mother answered;"when I say the Sand-man is come, I only mean that you are sleepy andcan't keep your eyes open, as if somebody had put sand in them." Thisanswer of mother's did not satisfy me; nay, in my childish mind thethought clearly unfolded itself that mother denied there was aSand-man only to prevent us being afraid, � why, I always heard himcome upstairs. Full of curiosity to learn something more about thisSand-man and what he had to do with us children, I at length asked theold woman who acted as my youngest sister's attendant, what sort of aman he was � the Sand-man? "Why, 'thanael, darling, don't you know?"she replied. "Oh! he's a wicked man, who comes to little children whenthey won't go to bed and throws handfuls of sand in their eyes, sothat they jump out of their heads all bloody; and he puts them into abag and takes them to the half-moon as food for his little ones; andthey sit there in the nest and have hooked beaks like owls, and theypick naughty little boys' and girls' eyes out with them." After this I formed in my own mind a horrible picture of the cruel Sand-man. Whenanything came blundering upstairs at night I trembled with fear anddismay; and all that my mother could get out of me were the stammeredwords "The Sandman! the Sand-man!" whilst the tears coursed down mycheeks. Then I ran into my bedroom, and the whole night throughtormented myself with the terrible apparition of the Sand-man. I was quite old enough to perceive that the old woman's tale about theSand-man and his little ones' nest in the half-moon couldn't bealtogether true; nevertheless the Sand-man continued to be for me afearful incubus, and I was always seized with terror � my blood alwaysran cold, not only when I heard anybody come up the stairs, but when Iheard anybody noisily open my father's room door and go in. Often hestayed away for a long season altogether; then he would come severaltimes in close succession.�This went on for years, without my being able to accustom myself tothis fearful apparition, without the image of the horrible Sand-man growing any fainter in my imagination. His intercourse with my fatherbegan to occupy my fancy ever more and more; I was restrained fromasking my father about him by an unconquerable shyness; but as theyears went on the desire waxed stronger and stronger within me tofathom the mystery myself and to see the fabulous Sandman. He hadbeen the means of disclosing to me the path of the wonderful and the adventurous, which so easily find lodgment in the mind of the child. Iliked nothing better than to hear or read horrible stories of goblins,witches, Tom Thumbs, and so on; but always at the head of them allstood the Sand-man, whose picture I scribbled in the mostextraordinary and repulsive forms with both chalk and coal everywhere,on the tables, and cupboard doors, and walls. When I was ten years oldmy mother removed me from the nursery into a little chamber off thecorridor not far from my father's room. We still had to withdrawhastily whenever, on the stroke of nine, the mysterious unknown washeard in the house. As I lay in my little chamber I could hear him gointo father's room, and soon afterwards I fancied there was a fine and peculiar smelling steam spreading itself through the house. As mycuriosity waxed stronger, my resolve to make somehow or other theSand-man's acquaintance took deeper root. Often when my mother hadgone past, I slipped quickly out of my room into the corridor, but Icould never see anything, for always before I could reach the placewhere I could get sight of him, the Sand-man was well inside the door.At last, unable to resist the impulse any longer, I determined toconceal myself in father's room and there wait for the Sand-man.�One evening I perceived from my father's silence and mother'ssadness that the Sand-man would come; accordingly,

pleading that I wasexcessively tired, I left the room before nine o'clock and concealedmyself in a hiding-place close beside the door. The street doorcreaked, and slow, heavy, echoing steps crossed the passage towardsthe stairs. Mother hurried past me with my brothers and sisters.Softly � softly � I opened father's room door. He sat as usual, silentand motionless, with his back towards it; he did not hear me; and in amoment I was in and behind a curtain drawn before my father's openwardrobe, which stood just inside the room. Nearer and nearer andnearer came the echoing footsteps. There was a strange coughing andshuffling and mumbling outside. My heart beat with expectation andfear. A quick step now close, close beside the door, a noisy rattle ofthe handle, and the door flies open with a bang. Recovering my couragewith an effort, I take a cautious peep out. In the middle of the roomin front of my father stands the Sand-man, the bright light of thelamp falling full upon his face. The Sand-man, the terrible Sand-man,is the old advocate Coppelius who often comes to dine with us.�But the most hideous figure could not have awakened greatertrepidation in my heart than this Coppelius did. Picture to yourself alarge broad-shouldered man, with an immensely big head, a face thecolour of yellow-ochre, grey bushy eyebrows, from beneath which two piercing, greenish, cat-like eyes glittered, and a prominent Romannose hanging over his upper lip. His distorted mouth was often screwedup into a malicious smile; then two dark-red spots appeared on hischeeks, and a strange hissing noise proceeded from between his tightlyclenched teeth. He always wore an ash-grey coat of an old-fashionedcut, a waistcoat of the same, and nether extremities to match, butblack stockings and buckles set with stones on his shoes. His littlewig scarcely extended beyond the crown of his head, his hair wascurled round high up above his big red ears, and plastered to histemples with cosmetic, and a broad closed hair-bag stood outprominently from his neck, so that you could see the silver bucklethat fastened his folded neck-cloth. Altogether he was a most disagreeable and horribly ugly figure; but what we children detestedmost of all was his big coarse hairy hands; we could never fancyanything that he had once touched. This he had noticed; and so,whenever our good mother quietly placed a piece of cake or sweet fruiton our plates, he delighted to touch it under some pretext or other,until the bright tears stood in our eyes, and from disgust and loathing we lost the enjoyment of the tit-bit that was intended toplease us. And he did just the same thing when father gave us a glassof sweet wine on holidays. Then he would quickly pass his hand overit, or even sometimes raise the glass to his blue lips, and he laughedquite sardonically when all we dared do was to express our vexation instifled sobs. He habitually called us the "little brutes;" and when hewas present we might not utter a sound; and we cursed the uglyspiteful man who deliberately and intentionally spoilt all our littlepleasures. Mother seemed to dislike this hateful Coppelius as much aswe did for as soon as he appeared her cheerfulness and bright andnatural manner were transformed into sad, gloomy seriousness. Fathertreated him as if he were a being of some higher race, whoseill-manners were to be tolerated, whilst no efforts ought to be sparedto keep him in good-humour. He had only to give a slight hint, and hisfavourite dishes were cooked for him and rare wine uncorked.�As soon as I saw this Coppelius, therefore, the fearful and hideousthought arose in my mind that he, and he alone, must be the Sand-man;but I no longer conceived of the Sand-man as the bugbear in the oldnurse's fable, who fetched children's eyes and took them to thehalf-moon as food for his little ones � no I but as an uglyspectre-like fiend bringing trouble and misery and ruin, both temporaland everlasting, everywhere wherever he appeared.�I was spell-bound on the spot. At the risk of being discovered, and,as I well enough knew, of being severely punished, I remained as Iwas, with my head thrust through the curtains listening. My fatherreceived Coppelius in a ceremonious manner. "Come, to work!" cried thelatter, in a hoarse snarling voice, throwing off his coat. Gloomilyand silently my father took off his dressing-gown, and both put onlong black smock-frocks. Where they took them from I forgot to notice.Father opened the folding-doors of a cupboard in the wall; but I sawthat what I had so long taken to be a cupboard was really a darkrecess, in which was a

little hearth. Coppelius approached it, and ablue flame crackled upwards from it. Round about were all kinds ofstrange utensils. Good God! as my old father bent down over the firehow different he looked! His gentle and venerable features seemed tobe drawn up by some dreadful convulsive pain into an ugly, repulsive Satanic mask. He looked like Coppelius. Coppelius plied the red-hottongs and drew bright glowing masses out of the thick smoke and beganassiduously to hammer them. I fancied that there were men's facesvisible round about, but without eyes, having ghastly deep black holeswhere the eyes should have been. "Eyes here! Eyes here!" criedCoppelius, in a hollow sepulchral voice. My blood ran cold withhorror; I screamed and tumbled out of my hiding-place into the floor.Coppelius immediately seized upon me. "You little brute! You littlebrute!" he bleated, grinding his teeth. Then, snatching me up, hethrew me on the hearth, so that the flames began to singe my hair."Now we've got eyes � eyes � a beautiful pair of children's eyes," hewhispered, and, thrusting his hands into the flames he took out someredhot grains and was about to strew t~em into my eyes. Then myfather clasped his hands and entreated him, saying, "Master, master,let my Nathanael keep his eyes � oh! do let him keep them." Coppeliuslaughed shrilly and replied, "Well then, the boy may keep his eyes andwhine and pule his way through the world; but we will now at any rateobserve the mechanism of the hand and the foot." And therewith he roughly laid hold upon me, so that my joints cracked, and twisted myhands and my feet, pulling them now this way, and now that, "That'snot quite right altogether! It's better as it was! � the old fellowknew what he was about." Thus lisped and hissed Coppelius; but allaround me grew black and dark; a sudden convulsive pain shot throughall my nerves and bones I knew nothing more.�I felt a soft warm breath fanning my cheek; I awakened as if out ofthe sleep of death; my mother was bending over me. "Is the Sand-manstill there?" I stammered. "No, my dear child; he's been gone a long,long time; he'll not hurt you." Thus spoke my mother, as she kissedher recovered darling and pressed him to her heart. But why should Itire you, my dear Lothair? why do I dwell at such length on thesedetails, when there's so much remains to be said? Enough � I wasdetected in my eavesdropping, and roughly handled by Coppelius. Fearand terror had brought on a violent fever, of which I lay ill severalweeks. "Is the Sand-man still there?" these were the first words I uttered on coming to myself again, the first sign of my recovery, ofmy safety. Thus, you see, I have only to relate to you the mostterrible moment of my youth for you to thoroughly understand that itmust not be ascribed to the weakness of my eyesight if all that I seeis colourless, but to the fact that a mysterious destiny has hung adark veil of clouds about my life, which I shall perhaps only break through when I die.�Coppelius did not show himself again; it was reported he had left the town.�It was about a year later when, in pursuance of the old unchanged custom, we sat around the round table in the evening. Father was invery good spirits, and was telling us amusing tales about his youthfultravels. As it was striking nine we all at once heard the street doorcreak on its hinges, and slow ponderous steps echoed across thepassage and up the stairs. "That is Coppelius," said my mother,turning pale. "Yes, it is Coppelius," replied my father in a faint broken voice. The tears started from my mother's eyes. "But, father,father," she cried, "must it be so?" "This is the last time," hereplied; "this is the last time he will come to me, I promise you. Gonow, go and take the children. Go, go to bed � good-night."�As for me, I felt as if I were converted into cold, heavy stone; Icould not get my breath. As I stood there immovable my mother seized me by the arm. "Come, Nathanael! do come along!" I suffered myself tobe led away; I went into my room. "Be a good boy and keep quiet,"mother called after me; "get into bed and go to sleep." But, torturedby indescribable fear and uneasiness, I could not close my eyes. Thathateful, hideous Coppelius stood before me with his glittering eyes,smiling maliciously down upon me; in vain did I strive to banish theimage. Somewhere about midnight there was a terrific crack, as if acannon were being fired off. The whole house shook; something wentrustling and clattering past my door; the house door was pulled towith a bang. "That is Coppelius," I cried, terror-struck, and leaptout of bed. Then I heard a wild heartrending scream; I

rushed into myfather's room; the door stood open, and clouds of suffocating smoke came rolling towards me. The servant-maid shouted, "Oh! my master! mymaster! On the floor in front of the smoking hearth lay my father,dead, his face burned black and fearfully distorted, my sistersweeping and moaning around him, and my mother lying near them in aswoon. "Coppelius, you atrocious fiend, you've killed my father," Ishouted. My senses left me. Two days later, when my father was placedin his coffin; his features were mild and gentle again as they hadbeen when he was alive. I found great consolation in the thought thathis association with the diabolical Coppelius could not have ended inhis everlasting ruin.�Our neighbours had been awakened by the explosion; the affair gottalked about, and came before the magisterial authorities, who wishedto cite Coppelius to clear himself. But he had disappeared from theplace, leaving no traces behind him.�Now when I tell you, my dear friend, that the weather-glass hawker Ispoke of was the villain Coppelius, you will not blame me for seeingimpending mischief in his inauspicious reappearance. He wasdifferently dressed; but Coppelius's figure and features are toodeeply impressed upon my mind for me to be capable of making a mistakein the matter. Moreover, he has not even changed his name. Heproclaims himself here, I learn, to be a Piedmontese mechanician, andstyles himself Giuseppe Coppola.�I am resolved to enter the lists against him and revenge my father'sdeath, let the consequences be what they may.�Don't say a word to mother about the reappearance of this odiousmonster. Give my love to my darling Clara; I will write to her when Iam in a somewhat calmer frame of mind. Adieu, &c.CLARA TO NATHANAEL�You are right, you have not written to me for a very long time, butnevertheless I believe that I still retain a place in your mind andthoughts. It is a proof that you were thinking a good deal about mewhen you were sending off your last letter to brother Lothair, forinstead of directing it to him you directed it to me. With joy I tore open the envelope, and did not perceive the mistake until I read thewords, "Oh! my dear, dear Lothair." Now I know I ought not to haveread any more of the letter, but ought to have given it to my brother.But as you have so often in innocent raillery made it a sort ofreproach against me that I possessed such a calm, and, for a woman,cool-headed temperament that I should be like the woman we read of �if the house was threatening to tumble down, I should, before hastilyfleeing, stop to smooth down a crumple in the window-curtains � I needhardly tell you that the beginning of your letter quite upset me. Icould scarcely breathe; there was a bright mist before my eyes. Oh! mydarling Nathanael! what could this terrible thing be that hadhappened? Separation from you � never to see you again, the thoughtwas like a sharp knife in my heart. I read on and on. Your descriptionof that horrid Coppelius made my flesh creep. I now learnt for thefirst time what a terrible and violent death your good old fatherdied. Brother Lothair, to whom I handed over his property, sought tocomfort me, but with little success. That horrid weather-glass hawkerGiuseppe Coppola followed me everywhere; and I am almost ashamed toconfess it, but he was able to disturb my sound and in general calmsleep with all sorts of wonderful dream-shapes. But soon � the nextday � I saw everything in a different light. Oh! do not be angry withme, my best-beloved, if, despite your strange presentiment thatCoppelius will do you some mischief, Lothair tells you I am in quiteas good spirits, and just the same as ever.�I will frankly confess, it seems to me that all that was fearsomeand terrible of which you speak, existed only in your own self, andthat the real true outer world had but little to do with it. I canquite admit that old Coppelius may have been highly obnoxious to youchildren, but your real detestation of him arose from the fact that hehated children.�Naturally enough the gruesome Sand-man of the old nurse's story was associated in your childish mind with old Coppelius, who, even thoughyou had not believed in the Sand-man, would have been to you a ghostlybugbear, especially dangerous to children. His mysterious laboursalong with your father at night-time were, I daresay, nothing morethan secret experiments in alchemy, with which your mother could notbe over well pleased, owing to the large sums of money that most likely were thrown away upon them; and besides, your father, his mindfull of the deceptive striving after higher knowledge, may probablyhave become rather

indifferent to his family, as so often happens inthe case of such experimentalists. So also it is equally probable thatyour father brought about his death by his own imprudence, and thatCoppelius is not to blame for it. I must tell you that yesterday Iasked our experienced neighbour, the chemist, whether in experimentsof this kind an explosion could take place which would have a momentarily fatal effect. He said, "Oh, certainly!" and described tome in his prolix and circumstantial way how it could be occasioned,mentioning at the same time so many strange and funny words that Icould not remember them at all. Now I know you will be angry at yourClara, and will say, "Of the Mysterious which often clasps man in itsinvisible arms there's not a ray can find its way into this cold heart. She sees only the varied surface of the things of the world,and, like the little child, is pleased with the golden glitteringfruit, at the kernel of which lies the fatal poison."�Oh! my beloved Nathanael, do you believe then that the intuitiveprescience of a dark power working within us to our own ruin cannotexist also in minds which are cheerful, natural, free from care? Butplease forgive me that I, a simple girl, presume in my way to indicateto you what I really think of such an inward strife. After all, Ishould not find the proper words, and you would only laugh at me, notbecause my thoughts were stupid, but because I was so foolish as toattempt to tell them to you.�If there is a dark and hostile power which traitorously fixes athread in our hearts in order that, laying hold of it and drawing usby means of it along a dangerous road to ruin, which otherwise weshould not have trod � if, I say, there is such a power, it mustassume within us a form like ourselves, nay, it must be ourselves; foronly in that way can we believe in it, and only so understood do weyield to it so far that it is able to accomplish its secret purpose.So long as we have sufficient firmness, fortified by cheerfulness, toalways acknowledge foreign hostile influences for what they really are, whilst we quietly pursue the path pointed out to us by bothinclination and calling, then this mysterious power perishes in itsfutile struggles to attain the form which is to be the reflected imageof ourselves. It is also certain, Lothair adds, that if we have oncevoluntarily given ourselves up to this dark physical power, it oftenreproduces within us the strange forms which the outer world throws inour way, so that thus it is we ourselves who engender within ourselvesthe spirit which by some remarkable delusion we imagine to speak inthat outer form. It is the phantom of our own self whose intimaterelationship with, and whose powerful influence upon our soul eitherplunges us into hell or elevates us.to heaven. Thus you will see, mybeloved Nathanael, that I and brother Lothair have well talked overthe subject of dark powers and forces; and now, after I have with some difficulty written down the principal results of our discussion, theyseem to me to contain many really profound thoughts. Lothair's lastwords, however, I don't quite understand altogether; I only dimlyguess what he means; and yet I cannot help thinking it is all verytrue. I beg you, dear, strive to forget the ugly advocate Coppelius aswell as the weather-glass hawker Giuseppe Coppola. Try and convince yourself that these foreign influences can have no power over you,that it is only the belief in their hostile power which can in realitymake them dangerous to you. If every line of your letter did notbetray the violent excitement of your mind, and if I did notsympathise with your condition from the bottom of my heart, I could intruth jest about the advocate Sand-man and weather-glass hawkerCoppelius. Pluck up your spirits! Be cheerful! I have resolved toappear to you as your guardian-angel if that ugly man Coppola shoulddare take it into his head to bother you in your dreams, and drive himaway with a good hearty laugh. I'm not afraid of him and his nastyhands, not the least little bit; I won't let him either as advocatespoil any dainty tit-bit I've taken, or as Sand-man rob me of my eyes.My darling, darling Nathanael,Eternally your, &c. &c.NATHANAEL TO LOTHAIR.�I am very sorry that Clara opened and read my last letter to you; ofcourse the mistake is to be attributed to my own absence of mind. Shehas written me a very deep philosophical letter, proving conclusivelythat Coppelius and Coppola only exist in my own mind and are phantomsof my own self, which will at once be dissipated, as soon as I lookupon them in that light. In

very truth one can hardly believe that themind which so often sparkles in those bright, beautifully smiling,childlike eyes of hers like a sweet lovely dream could draw suchsubtle and scholastic distinctions. She also mentions your name. Youhave been talking about me. I suppose you have been giving herlectures, since she sifts and refines everything so acutely. Butenough of this! I must now tell you it is most certain that theweather-glass hawker Giuseppe Coppola is not the advocate Coppelius. Iam attending the lectures of our recently appointed Professor of Physics, who, like the distinguished naturalist,(3) is calledSpalanzani, and is of Italian origin. He has known Coppola for manyyears; and it is also easy to tell from his accent that he really is aPiedmontese. Coppelius was a German, though no honest German, I fancy.Nevertheless I am not quite satisfied. You and Clara will perhaps takeme for a gloomy dreamer, but nohow can I get rid of the impression which Coppelius's cursed face made upon me. I am glad to learn fromSpalanzani that he has left the town. This Professor Spalanzani is avery queer fish. He is a little fat man, with prominent cheek-bones,thin nose, projecting lips, and small piercing eyes. You cannot get abetter picture of him than by turning over one of the Berlinpocket-almanacs(4) and looking at Cagliostro's(5) portrait engraved by Chodowiecki;(6) Spalanzani looks just like him.�(3) Lazaro Spallanzani, a celebrated anatomist and naturalist(1729-1799), filled for several years the chair of Natural History atPavia, and travelled extensively for scientific purposes in Italy,Turkey, Sicily, Switzerland, &c.�(4) Or Almanacs of the Muses, as they were also sometimes called,were periodical, mostly yearly publications, containing all kinds ofliterary effusions; mostly, however, lyrical. They originated in the eighteenth century. Schiller, A. W. and F. Schlegel, Tieck, andChamisso, amongst others, conducted undertakings of this nature.�(5) Joseph Balsamo, a Sicilian by birth, calling himself countCagliostro, one of the greatest impostors of modern times, livedduring the latter part of the eighteenth century. See Carlyle's "Miscellanies" for an account of his life and character.�(6) Daniel Nikolas Chodowiecki, painter and engraver, of Polishdescent, was born at Dantzic in 1726. For some years he was so popularan artist that few books were published in Prussia without plates orvignettes by him. The catalogue of his works is said to include 3000items.�Once lately, as I went up the steps to his house, I perceived that beside the curtain which generally covered a glass door there was asmall chink. What it was that excited my curiosity I cannot explain;but I looked through. In the room I saw a female, tall, very slender,but of perfect proportions, and splendidly dressed, sitting at alittle table, on which she had placed both her arms, her hands beingfolded together. She sat opposite the door, so that I could easily seeher angelically beautiful face. She did not appear to notice me, and there was moreover a strangely fixed look about her eyes, I mightalmost say they appeared as if they had no power of vision; I thoughtshe was sleeping with her eyes open. I felt quite uncomfortable, andso I slipped away quietly into the Professor's lecture-room, which wasclose at hand. Afterwards I learnt that the figure which I had seenwas Spalanzani's daughter, Olimpia, whom he keeps locked in a mostwicked and unaccountable way, and no man is ever allowed to come nearher. Perhaps, however, there is after all something peculiar abouther; perhaps she's an idiot or something of that sort. But why am Itelling you all this? I could have told you it all better and more indetail when I see you. For in a fortnight I shall be amongst you. Imust see my dear sweet angel, my Clara, again. Then the little bit ofill-temper, which, I must confess, took possession of me after her fearfully sensible letter, will be blown away. And that is the reasonwhy I am not writing to her as well to-day. With all best wishes, &c.�Nothing more strange and extraordinary can be imagined, graciousreader, than what happened to my poor friend, the young studentNathanael, and which I have undertaken to relate to you. Have you everlived to experience anything that completely took possession of your heart and mind and thoughts to the utter exclusion of everything else?All was seething and boiling within you; your blood, heated to feverpitch, leapt through your veins and inflamed your cheeks. Your gazewas so peculiar, as if seeking to grasp in empty space forms not seenof any other eye, and all your words ended in

sighs betokening somemystery. Then your friends asked you, "What is the matter with you, mydear friend? What do you see?" And, wishing to describe the inner pictures in all their vivid colours, with their lights and theirshades, you in vain struggled to find words with which to expressyourself. But you felt as if you must gather up all the events thathad happened, wonderful, splendid, terrible, jocose, and awful, in thevery first word, so that the whole might be revealed by a singleelectric discharge, so to speak. Yet every word and all that partookof the nature of communication by intelligible sounds seemed to becolourless, cold, and dead. Then you try and try again, and stutterand stammer, whilst your friends' prosy questions strike like icywinds upon your heart's hot fire until they extinguish it. But if,like a bold painter, you had first sketched in a few audacious strokesthe outline of the picture you had in your soul, you would then easilyhave been able to deepen and intensify the colours one after theother, until the varied throng of living figures carried your friendsaway, and they, like you, saw themselves in the midst of the scenethat had proceeded out of your own soul. �Strictly speaking, indulgent reader, I must indeed confess to you,nobody has asked me for the history of young Nathanael; but you arevery well aware that I belong to that remarkable class of authors who,when they are bearing anything about in their minds in the manner Ihave just described, feel as if everybody who comes near them, andalso the whole world to boot, were asking, "Oh! what is it? Oh! dotell us, my good sir?" Hence I was most powerfully impelled to narrateto you Nathanael's ominous life. My soul was full of the elements ofwonder and extraordinary peculiarity in it; but, for this very reason,and because it was necessary in the very beginning to dispose you,indulgent reader, to bear with what is fantastic � and that is not alittle thing I racked my brain to find a way of commencing the storyin a significant and original manner, calculated to arrest yourattention. To begin with "Once upon a time," the best beginning for astory, seemed to me too tame; with "In the small country town S��lived," rather better, at any rate allowing plenty of room to work upto the climax; or to plunge at once in medias res, "'Go to the devil!'cried the student Nathanael, his eyes blazing wildly with rage andfear, when the weather-glass hawker Giuseppe Coppola" � well, that iswhat I really had written, when I thought I detected something of the ridiculous in Nathanael's wild glance; and the history is anything butlaughable. I could not find any words which seemed fitted to reflectin even the feeblest degree the brightness of the colours of my mentalvision. I determined not to begin at all. So I pray you, graciousreader, accept the three letters which my friend Lothair has been sokind as to communicate to me as the outline of the picture, into whichI will endeavour to introduce more and more colour as I proceed withmy narrative. Perhaps, like a good portrait-painter, I may succeed indepicting more than one figure in such wise that you will recognise itas a good likeness without being acquainted with the original, andfeel as if you had very often seen the original with your own bodilyeyes. Perhaps, too, you will then believe that nothing is morewonderful, nothing more fantastic than real life, and that all that awriter can do is to present it as a dark reflection from a dim cutmirror.�In order to make the very commencement more intelligible, it isnecessary to add to the letters that, soon after the death ofNathanael's father, Clara and Lothair, the children of a distantrelative, who had likewise died, leaving them orphans, were taken byNathanael's mother into her own house. Clara and Nathanael conceived awarm affection for each other, against which not the slightestobjection in the world could be urged. When therefore Nathanael lefthome to prosecute his studies in G��, they were betrothed. It is fromG�� that his last letter is written, where he is attending thelectures of Spalanzani, the distinguished Professor of Physics. �I might now proceed comfortably with my narration, did not at thismoment Clara's image rise up so vividly before my eyes that I cannotturn them away from it, just as I never could when she looked upon meand smiled so sweetly. Nowhere would she have passed for beautifulthat was the unanimous opinion of all who professed to have anytechnical knowledge of beauty. But whilst architects praised the pure proportions of her figure and form, painters averred that her neck,shoulders, and

bosom were almost too chastely modelled, and yet, onthe other hand, one and all were in love with her glorious Magdalenehair, and talked a good deal of nonsense about Battoni-like(7)colouring. One of them, a veritable romanticist, strangely enoughlikened her eyes to a lake by Ruisdael,(8) in which is reflected thepure azure of the cloudless sky, the beauty of woods and flowers, andall the bright and varied life of a living landscape. Poets andmusicians went still further and said, "What's all this talk aboutseas and reflections? How can we look upon the girl without feelingthat wonderful heavenly songs and melodies beam upon us from her eyes,penetrating deep down into our hearts, till all becomes awake andthrobbing with emotion? And if we cannot sing anything at all passable then, why, we are not worth much; and this we can also plainly read inthe rare smile which flits around her lips when we have the hardihoodto squeak out something in her presence which we pretend to callsinging, in spite of the fact that it is nothing more than a fewsingle notes confusedly linked together." And it really was so. Clarahad the powerful fancy of a bright, innocent, unaffected child, awoman's deep and sympathetic heart, and an understanding clear, sharp,and discriminating. Dreamers and visionaries had but a bad time of itwith her; for without saying very much � she was not by nature of atalkative disposition � she plainly asked, by her calm steady look,and rare ironical smile, "How can you imagine, my dear friends, that Ican take these fleeting shadowy images for true living and breathingforms?" For this reason many found fault with her as being cold,prosaic, and devoid of feeling; others, however, who had reached aclearer and deeper conception of life, were extremely fond of theintelligent, childlike, large-hearted girl. But none had such anaffection for her as Nathanael, who was a zealous and cheerfulcultivator of the fields of science and art. Clara clung to her loverwith all her heart; the first clouds she encountered in life were whenhe had to separate from her. With what delight did she fly into hisarms when, as he had promised in his last letter to Lothair, he reallycame back to his native town and entered his mother's room! And asNathanael had foreseen, the moment he saw Clara again he no longerthought about either the advocate Coppelius or her sensible letter;his ill-humour had quite disappeared.�(7) Pompeo Girolamo Batoni, an Italian painter of the eighteenthcentury, whose works were at one time greatly over-estimated.�(8) Jakob Ruysdael (c. 1625-1682), a painter of Haarlem, in Holland.His favourite subjects were remote farms, lonely stagnant water,deep~haded woods with marshy paths, the sea-coast � subjects of a darkmelancholy kind. His sea-pieces are greatly admired.�Nevertheless Nathanael was right when he told his friend Lothairthat the repulsive vendor of weather-glasses, Coppola, had exercised afatal and disturbing influence upon his life. It was quite patent toall; for even during the first Few days he showed that he wascompletely and entirely changed. He gave himself up to gloomyreveries, and moreover acted so strangely; they had never observedanything at all like it in him before. Everything, even his own life,was to him but dreams and presentiments. His constant theme was thatevery man who delusively imagined himself to be free was merely theplaything of the cruel sport of mysterious powers, and it was vain forman to resist them; he must humbly submit to whatever destiny haddecreed for him. He went so far as to maintain that it was foolish tobelieve that a man could do anything in art or science of his ownaccord; for the inspiration in which alone any true artistic workcould be done did not proceed from the spirit within outwards, but wasthe result of the operation directed inwards of some Higher Principleexisting without and beyond ourselves. �This mystic extravagance was in the highest degree repugnant toClara's clear intelligent mind, but it seemed vain to enter upon anyattempt at refutation. Yet when Nathanael went on to prove thatCoppelius was the Evil Principle which had entered into him and takenpossession of him at the time he was listening behind the curtain, andthat this hateful demon would in some terrible way ruin their happiness, then Clara grew grave and said, "Yes, Nathanael. You areright; Coppelius is an Evil Principle; he can do dreadful things, asbad as could a Satanic power which should assume a living physicalform, but only � only if you do not banish him from your mind andthoughts. So long as you believe in him he exists

and is at work; yourbelief in him is his only power." Whereupon Nathanael, quite angrybecause Clara would only grant the existence of the demon in his ownmind, began to dilate at large upon the whole mystic doctrine ofdevils and awful powers, but Clara abruptly broke off the theme bymaking, to Nathanael's very great disgust, some quite commonplaceremark. Such deep mysteries are sealed books to cold, unsusceptiblecharacters, he thought, without being clearly conscious to himselfthat he counted Clara amongst these inferior natures, and accordinglyhe did not remit his efforts to initiate her into these mysteries. Inthe morning, when she was helping to prepare breakfast, he would takehis stand beside her, and read all sorts of mystic books to her, untilshe begged him � "But, my dear Nathanael, I shall have to scold you asthe Evil Principle which exercises a fatal influence upon my coffee.For if I do as you wish, and let things go their own way, and look into your eyes whilst you read, the coffee will all boil over into thefire, and you will none of you get any breakfast." Then Nathanaelhastily banged the book to and ran away in great displeasure to hisown room.�Formerly he had possessed a peculiar talent for writing pleasing,sparkling tales, which Clara took the greatest delight in listeningto; but now his productions were gloomy, unintelligible, and wantingin form, so that, although Clara out of forbearance towards him didnot say so, he nevertheless felt how very little interest she took inthem. There was nothing that Clara disliked so much as what wastedious; at such times her intellectual sleepiness was not to beovercome; it was betrayed both in her glances and in her words.Nathanael's effusions were, in truth, exceedingly tedious. Hisill-humour at Clara's cold prosaic temperament continued to increase; Clara could not conceal her distaste of his dark, gloomy, wearyingmysticism; and thus both began to be more and more estranged from eachother without exactly being aware of it themselves. The image of theugly Coppelius had, as Nathanael was obliged to confess to himself,faded considerably in bis fancy, and it often cost him great pains topresent him in vivid colours in his literary efforts, in which heplayed the part of the ghoul of Destiny. At length it entered into hishead to make his dismal presentiment that Coppelius would ruin hishappiness the subject of a poem. He made himself and Clara, united bytrue love, the central figures, but represented a black hand as beingfrom time to time thrust into their life and plucking out a joy thathad blossomed for them. At length, as they were standing at the altar,the terrible Coppelius appeared and touched Clara's lovely eyes, which leapt into Nathanael's own bosom, burning and hissing like bloodysparks. Then Coppelius laid hold upon him, and hurled him into ablazing circle of fire, which spun round with the speed of awhirlwind, and, storming and blustering, dashed away with him. Thefearful noise it made was like a furious hurricane lashing the foamingsea-waves until they rise up like black, white-headed giants in themidst of the raging struggle. But through the midst of the savage furyof the tempest he heard Clara's voice calling, "Can you not see me,dear? Coppelius has deceived you; they were not my eyes which burnedso in your bosom; they were fiery drops of your own heart's blood.Look at me, I have got my own eyes still." Nathanael thought, "Yes,that is Clara, and I am hers for ever." Then this thought laid apowerful grasp upon the fiery circle so that it stood still, and theriotous turmoil died away rumbling down a dark abyss. Nathanael lookedinto Clara's eyes; but it was death whose gaze rested so kindly uponhim.�Whilst Nathanael was writing this work he was very quiet andsober-minded; he filed and polished every line, and as he had chosento submit himself to the limitations of metre, he did not rest untilall was pure and musical. When, however, he had at length finished itand read it aloud to himself he was seized with horror and awfuldread, and he screamed, "Whose hideous voice is this?" But he sooncame to see in it again nothing beyond a very successful poem, and heconfidently believed it would enkindle Clara's cold temperament,though to what end she should be thus aroused was not quite clear to his own mind, nor yet what would be the real purpose served bytormenting her with these dreadful pictures, which prophesied aterrible and ruinous end to her affection.�Nathanael and Clara sat in his mother's little garden. Clara wasbright and cheerful, since for three entire days her lover, who hadbeen busy writing his

poem, had not teased her with his dreams orforebodings Nathanael, too, spoke in a gay and vivacious way of thingsof merry import, as he formerly used to do, so that Clara said, "Ah!now I have you again. We have driven away that ugly Coppelius, you see." Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had got the poem in hispocket which he wished to read to her. He at once took out themanuscript and began to read. Clara, anticipating something tedious asusual, prepared to submit to the infliction, and calmly resumed herknitting. But as the sombre clouds rose up darker and darker she lether knitting fall on her lap and sat with her eyes fixed in a setstare upon Nathanael's face.�He was quite carried away by his own work, the fire of enthusiasmcoloured his cheeks a deep red, and tears started from his eyes. Atlength he concluded, groaning and showing great lassitude; graspingClara's hand, he sighed as if he were being utterly melted in inconsolable grief, "Oh! Clara! Clara!" She drew him softly to herheart and said in a low but very grave and impressive tone,"Nathanael, my darling Nathanael, throw that foolish, senseless,stupid thing into the fire." Then Nathanael leapt indignantly to hisfeet, crying, as he pushed Clara from him, "You damned lifeless automaton!" and rushed away. Clara was cut to the heart, and weptbitterly. "Oh! he has never loved me, for he does not understand me,"she sobbed.�Lothair entered the arbour. Clara was obliged to tell him all thathad taken place. He was passionately fond of his sister; and everyword of her complaint fell like a spark upon his heart, so that thedispleasure which he had long entertained against his dreamy friendNathanael was kindled into furious anger. He hastened to findNathanael, and upbraided him in harsh words for his irrationalbehaviour towards his beloved sister. The fiery Nathanael answered himin the same style. "A fantastic, crackbrained fool," was retaliatedwith, "A miserable, common, everyday sort of fellow." A meeting wasthe inevitable consequence. They agreed to meet on the following morning behind the garden-wall, and fight, according to the custom ofthe students of the place, with sharp rapiers. They went about silentand gloomy; Clara had both heard and seen the violent quarrel, andalso observed the fencing master bring the rapiers in the dusk of theevening. She had a presentiment of what was to happen. They bothappeared at the appointed place wrapped up in the same gloomy silence,and threw off their coats. Their eyes flaming with the bloodthirstylight of pugnacity, they were about to begin their contest when Claraburst through the garden door. Sobbing, she screamed, "You savage,terrible men! Cut me down before you attack each other; for how can Ilive when my lover has slain my brother, or my brother slain mylover?" Lothair let his weapon fall and gazed silently upon theground, whilst Nathanael's heart was rent with sorrow, and all theaffection which he had felt for his lovely Clara in the happiest daysof her golden youth was awakened within him. His murderous weapon,too, fell from his hand; he threw himself at Clara's feet. "Oh! canyou ever forgive me, my only, my dearly loved Clara? Can you, my dearbrother Lothair, also forgive me?" Lothair was touched by his friend's great distress; the three young people embraced each other amidstendless tears, and swore never again to break their bond of love andfidelity.�Nathanael felt as if a heavy burden that had been weighing him downto the earth was now rolled from off him, nay, as if by offeringresistance to the dark power which had possessed him, he had rescuedhis own self from the ruin which had threatened him. Three happy dayshe now spent amidst the loved ones, and then returned to G��, where he had still a year to stay before settling down in his native town forlife. �Everything having reference to Coppelius had been concealed from themother, for they knew she could not think of him without horror, sinceshe as well as Nathanael believed him to be guilty of causing herhusband's death.. �. �. �. �. �.�When Nathanael came to the house where he lived he was greatlyastonished to find it burnt down to the ground, so that nothing butthe bare outer walls were left standing amidst a heap of ruins.Although the fire had broken out in the laboratory of the chemist wholived on the ground-floor, and had therefore spread upwards, some ofNathanael's bold, active friends had succeeded in time in forcing away into his room in the upper storey and saving his books andmanuscripts and instruments. They had carried them all uninjured intoanother house, where they engaged a room

for him; this he now at oncetook possession of. That he lived opposite Professor Spalanzani didnot strike him particularly, nor did it occur to him as anything moresingular that he could, as he observed, by looking out of his window,see straight into the room where Olimpia often sat alone. Her figurehe could plainly distinguish, although her features were uncertain andconfused. It did at length occur to him, however, that she remainedfor hours together in the same position in which he had firstdiscovered her through the glass door, sitting at a little table without any occupation whatever, and it was evident that she wasconstantly gazing across in his direction. He could not but confess tohimself that he had never seen a finer figure. However, with Claramistress of his heart, he remained perfectly unaffected by Olimpia'sstiffness and apathy; and it was only occasionally that he sent afugitive glance over his compendium across to her � that was all.�He was writing to Clara; a light tap came at the door. At hissummons to "Come in," Coppola's repulsive face appeared peeping in.Nathanael felt his heart beat with trepidation; but, recollecting whatSpalanzani had told him about his fellowcountryman Coppola, and whathe had himself so faithfully promised his beloved in respect to theSand-man Coppelius, he was ashamed at himself for this childish fear of spectres. Accordingly, he controlled himself with an effort, andsaid, as quietly and as calmly as he possibly could, "I don't want tobuy any weatherglasses, my good friend; you had better go elsewhere."Then Coppola came right into the room, and said in a hoarse voice,screwing up his wide mouth into a hideous smile, whilst his littleeyes flashed keenly from beneath his long grey eyelashes, "What! Neeweather-gless? Nee weather-gless? 've got foine oyes as well � foine oyes!" Affrighted, Nathanael cried, "You stupid man, how can you haveeyes? � eyes � eyes?" But Coppola, laying aside his weather-glasses,thrust his hands into his big coat-pockets and brought out severalspy-glasses and spectacles, and put them on the table. "Theer! Theer!Spect'cles! Spect'cles to put 'n nose! Them's my oyes � foine oyes."And he continued to produce more and more spectacles from his pocketsuntil the table began to gleam and flash all over. Thousands of eyeswere looking and blinking convulsively, and staring up at Nathanael;he could not avert his gaze from the table. Coppola went on heaping uphis spectacles, whilst wilder and ever wilder burning flashes crossedthrough and through each other and darted their blood-red rays intoNathanael's breast. Quite overcome, and frantic with terror, heshouted, "Stop! stop! you terrible man!" and he seized Coppola by the arm, which he had again thrust into his pocket in order to bring outstill more spectacles, although the whole table was covered all overwith them. With a harsh disagreeable laugh Coppola gently freedhimself; and with the words "So! went none! Well, here foine gless!"he swept all his spectacles together, and put them back into hiscoat-pockets, whilst from a breastpocket he produced a great number of larger and smaller perspectives. As soon as the spectacles were goneNathanael recovered his equanimity again; and, bending his thoughtsupon Clara, he clearly discerned that the gruesome incubus hadproceeded only from himself, as also that Coppola was a right honestmechanician and optician, and far from being Coppelius's dreadeddouble and ghost. And then, besides, none of the glasses which Coppolanow placed on the table had anything at all singular about them, atleast nothing so weird as the spectacles; so, in order to squareaccounts with himself, Nathanael now really determined to buysomething of the man. He took up a small, very beautifully cut pocketperspective, and by way of proving it looked through the window. Neverbefore in his life had he had a glass in his hands that brought out things so clearly and sharply and distinctly. Involuntarily hedirected the glass upon Spalanzani's room; Olimpia sat at the littletable as usual, her arms laid upon it and her hands folded. Now he sawfor the first time the regular and exquisite beauty of her features.The eyes, however, seemed to him to have a singular look of fixity andlifelessness. But as he continued to look closer and more carefullythrough the glass he fancied a light like humid moonbeams came into them. It seemed as if their power of vision was now being enkindled;their glances shone with ever-increasing vivacity. Nathanael remainedstanding at the window as if glued to the spot by a wizard's spell,his gaze rivetted unchangeably upon the

divinely beautiful Olimpia Acoughing and shuffling of the feet awakened him out of his enchainingdream, as it were. Coppola stood behind him, "Tre zechini" (three ducats). Nathanael had completely forgotten the optician; he hastilypaid the sum demanded. "Ain't 't? Foine gless? foine gless?" askedCoppola in his harsh unpleasant voice, smiling sardonically. "Yes,yes, yes," rejoined Nathanael impatiently; "adieu, my good friend."But Coppola did not leave the room without casting many peculiarside-glances upon Nathanael; and the young student heard him laughingloudly on the stairs. "Ah well!" thought he, "he's laughing at mebecause I've paid him too much for this little perspective � becauseI've given him too much money � that's it." As he softly murmuredthese words he fancied he detected a gasping sigh as of a dying manstealing awfully through the room; his heart stopped beating withfear. But to be sure he had heaved a deep sigh himself; it was quite plain. "Clara is quite right," said he to himself, "in holding me tobe an incurable ghost-seer; and yet it's very ridiculous � ay, more than ridiculous, that the stupid thought of having paid Coppola toomuch for his glass should cause me this strange anxiety; I can't seeany reason for it."�Now he sat down to finish his letter to Clara; but a glance throughthe window showed him Olimpia still in her former posture. Urged by anirresistible impulse he jumped up and seized Coppola's perspective;nor could he tear himself away from the fascinating Olimpia until hisfriend and brother Siegmund called for him to go to ProfessorSpalanzani's lecture. The curtains before the door of theall-important room were closely drawn, so that he could not seeOlimpia Nor could he even see her from his own room during the twofollowing days, notwithstanding that he scarcely ever left his window,and maintained a scarce interrupted watch through Coppola's perspective upon her room. On the third day curtains even were drawnacross the window. Plunged into the depths of despair, � goaded bylonging and ardent desire, he hurried outside the walls of the town.Olimpia's image hovered about his path in the air and stepped forthout of the bushes, and peeped up at him with large and lustrous eyesfrom the bright surface of the brook. Clara's image was completely faded from his mind; he had no thoughts except for Olimpia He utteredhis loveplaints aloud and in a lachrymose tone, "Oh! my glorious,noble star of love, have you only risen to vanish again, and leave mein the darkness and hopelessness of night?"�Returning home, he became aware that there was a good deal of noisybustle going on in Spalanzani's house. All the doors stood wide open;men were taking in all kinds of gear and furniture; the windows of thefirst floor were all lifted off their hinges; busy maid-servants withimmense hair-brooms were driving backwards and forwards dusting andsweeping, whilst within could be heard the knocking and hammering ofcarpenters and upholsterers. Utterly astonished, Nathanael stood still in the street; then Siegmund joined him, laughing, and said, "Well,what do you say to our old Spalanzani?" Nathanael assured him that hecould not say anything, since he knew not what it all meant; to hisgreat astonishment, he could hear, however, that they were turning thequiet gloomy house almost inside out with their dusting and cleaningand making of alterations. Then he learned from Siegmund that Spalanzani intended giving a great concert and ball on the followingday, and that half the university was invited. It was generallyreported that Spalanzani was going to let his daughter Olimpia, whomhe had so long so jealously guarded from every eye, make her firstappearance.�Nathanael received an invitation. At the appointed hour, when thecarriages were rolling up and the lights were gleaming brightly in thedecorated halls, he went across to the Professor's, his heart beatinghigh with expectation. The company was both numerous and brilliant.Olimpia was richly and tastefully dressed. One could not but admireher figure and the regular beauty of her features. The striking inwardcurve of her back, as well as the wasp-like smallness of her waist,appeared to be the result of too-tight lacing. There was somethingstiff and measured in her gait and bearing that made an unfavourableimpression upon many; it was ascribed to the constraint imposed upon her by the company. The concert began. Olimpia played on the pianowith great skill; and sang as skilfully an aria di bravura, in a voicewhich was, if anything, almost too sharp, but clear as glass bells.Nathanael was transported with delight;

he stood in the backgroundfarthest from her, and owing to the blinding lights could not quitedistinguish her features. So, without being observed, he took Coppola's glass out of his pocket, and directed it upon the beautifulOlimpia. Oh! then he perceived how her yearning eyes sought him, howevery note only reached its full purity in the loving glance whichpenetrated to and inflamed his heart. Her artificial roulades seemedto him to be the exultant cry towards heaven of the soul refined bylove; and when at last, after the cadenza, the long trill rang shrilly and loudly through the hall, he felt as if he were suddenly grasped byburning arms and could no longer control himself, � he could not helpshouting aloud in his mingled pain and delight, "Olimpia!" All eyeswere turned upon him; many people laughed. The face of the cathedralorganist wore a still more gloomy look than it had done before, butall he said was, "Very well!"�The concert came to an end, and the ball began. Oh! to dance withher � with her � that was now the aim of all Nathanael's wishes, ofall his desires. But how should he have courage to request her, thequeen of the ball, to grant him the honour of a dance? And yet hecouldn't tell how it came about, just as the dance began, he foundhimself standing close beside her, nobody having as yet asked her tobe his partner; so, with some difficulty stammering out a few words,he grasped her hand. It was cold as ice; he shook with an awful,frosty shiver. But, fixing his eyes upon her face, he saw that herglance was beaming upon him with love and longing, and at the samemoment he thought that the pulse began to beat in her cold hand, andthe warm life-blood to course through her veins. And passion burnedmore intensely in his own heart also, he threw his arm round herbeautiful waist and whirled her round the hall. He had always thoughtthat he kept good and accurate time in dancing, but from the perfectlyrhythmical evenness with which Olimpia danced, and which frequentlyput him quite out, he perceived how very faulty his own time reallywas. Notwithstanding, he would not dance with any other lady; andeverybody else who approached Olimpia to call upon her for a dance, hewould have liked to kill on the spot. This, however, only happenedtwice; to his astonishment Olimpia remained after this without apartner, and he failed not on each occasion to take her out again. IfNathanael had been able to see anything else except the beautifulOlimpia, there would inevitably have been a good deal of unpleasantquarrelling and strife; for it was evident that Olimpia was the objectof the smothered laughter only with difficulty suppressed, which washeard in various corners amongst the young people; and they followedher with very curious looks, but nobody knew for what reason. Nathanael, excited by dancing and the plentiful supply of wine he hadconsumed, had laid aside the shyness which at other timescharacterised him. He sat beside Olimpia, her hand in his own, anddeclared his love enthusiastically and passionately in words whichneither of them understood, neither he nor Olimpia. And yet sheperhaps did, for she sat with her eyes fixed unchangeably upon his,sighing repeatedly, "Ach! Ach! Ach!" Upon this Nathanael would answer,"Oh, you glorious heavenly lady! You ray from the promised paradise oflove! Oh! what a profound soul you have! my whole being is mirrored init!" and a good deal more in the same strain. But Olimpia onlycontinued to sigh "Ach! Ach!" again and again.�Professor Spalanzani passed by the two happy lovers once or twice,and smiled with a look of peculiar satisfaction. All at once it seemedto Nathanael, albeit he was far away in a different world, as if itwere growing perceptibly darker down below at Professor Spalanzani's.He looked about him, and to his very great alarm became aware thatthere were only two lights left burning in the hall, and they were onthe point of going out. The music and dancing had long ago ceased. "Wemust part � part!" he cried, wildly and despairingly; he kissedOlimpia's hand; he bent down to her mouth, but ice-cold lips met hisburning ones. As he touched her cold hand, he felt his heart thrilledwith awe; the legend of "The Dead Bride"(9) shot suddenly through hismind. But Olimpia had drawn him closer to her, and the kiss appearedto warm her lips into vitality. Professor Spalanzani strode slowlythrough the empty apartment, his footsteps giving a hollow echo; andhis figure had, as the flickering shadows played about him, a ghostly,awful appearance. "Do you love me? Do you love me, Olimpia? Only onelittle word � Do you love me?" whispered

Nathanael, but she onlysighed, "Ach! Ach!" as she rose to her feet. "Yes, you are my lovely,glorious star of love," said Nathanael, "and will shine for ever, purifying and ennobling my heart." "Ach! Ach!" replied Olimpia, as shemoved along. Nathanael followed her; they stood before the Professor."You have had an extraordinarily animated conversation with mydaughter," said he, smiling; "well, well, my dear Mr. Nathanael, ifyou find pleasure in talking to the stupid girl, I am sure I shall beglad for you to come and do so." Nathanael took his leave, his heartsinging and leaping in a perfect delirium of happiness.�(9) Phlegon, the freedman of Hadrian, relates that a young maiden,Philemium, the daughter of Philostratus and Charitas, became deeplyenamoured of a young man, named Machates, a guest in the house of herfather. This did not meet with the approbation of her parents, andthey turned Machates away. The young maiden took this so much to heart that she pined away and died. Some time afterwards Machates returnedto his old lodgings, when he was visited at night by his beloved, whocame from the grave to see him again. The story may be read inHeywood's (Thos.) "Hierarchie of Blessed Angels," Book vii, p. 479(London, 1637). Goethe has made this story the foundation of hisbeautiful poem Die Braut von Korinth, with which form of it Hoffmannwas most likely familiar.�During the next few days Spalanzani's ball was the general topic ofconversation. Although the Professor had done everything to make thething a splendid success, yet certain gay spirits related more thanone thing that had occurred which was quite irregular and out oforder. They were especially keen in pulling Olimpia to pieces for hertaciturnity and rigid stiffness; in spite of her beautiful form theyalleged that she was hopelessly stupid, and in this fact theydiscerned the reason why Spalanzani had so long kept her concealedfrom publicity. Nathanael heard all this with inward wrath, but nevertheless he held his tongue; for, thought he, would it indeed beworth while to prove to these fellows that it is their own stupiditywhich prevents them from appreciating Olimpia's profound and brilliantparts? One day Siegmund said to him, "Pray, brother, have the kindnessto tell me how you, a sensible fellow, came to lose your head overthat Miss Wax-face � that wooden doll across there?" Nathanael wasabout to fly into a rage, but he recollected himself and replied,"Tell me, Siegmund, how came it that Olimpia's divine charms couldescape your eye, so keenly alive as it always is to beauty, and youracute perception as well? But Heaven be thanked for it, otherwise Ishould have had you for a rival, and then the blood of one of us wouldhave had to be spilled." Siegmund, perceiving how matters stood withhis friend, skilfully interposed and said, after remarking that allargument with one in love about the object of his affections was outof place, "Yet it's very strange that several of us have formed prettymuch the same opinion about Olimpia We think she is � you won't takeit ill, brother? � that she is singularly statuesque and soulless. Herfigure is regular, and so are her features, that can't be gainsaid;and if her eyes were not so utterly devoid of life, I may say, of the power of vision, she might pass for a beauty. She is strangelymeasured in her movements, they all seem as if they were dependentupon some wound-up clock-work. Her playing and singing has thedisagreeably perfect, but insensitive time of a singing machine. andher dancing is the same. We felt quite afraid of this Olimpia, and didnot like to have anything to do with her; she seemed to us to be onlyacting like a living creature, and as if there was some secret at thebottom of it all." Nathanael did not give way to the bitter feelingswhich threatened to master him at these words of Siegmund's; he foughtdown and got the better of his displeasure, and merely said, veryearnestly, "You cold prosaic fellows may very well be afraid of her.It is only to its like that the poetically organised spirit unfoldsitself. Upon me alone did her loving glances fall, and through my mindand thoughts alone did they radiate; and only in her love can I findmy own self again. Perhaps, however, she doesn't do quite right not tojabber a lot of nonsense and stupid talk like other shallow people. Itis true, she speaks but few words; but the few words she does speakare genuine hieroglyphs of the inner world of Love and of the higher cognition of the intellectual life revealed in the intuition of theEternal beyond the grave. But you have no understanding for all thesethings, and I am only

wasting words." "God be with you, brother," saidSiegmund very gently, almost sadly, "but it seems to me that you arein a very bad way. You may rely upon me, if all � No, I can't say anymore." It all at once dawned upon Nathanael that his cold prosaicfriend Siegmund really and sincerely wished him well, and so he warmlyshook his proffered hand.�Nathanael had completely forgotten that there was a Clara in theworld, whom he had once loved � and his mother and Lothair. They hadall vanished from his mind; he lived for Olimpia alone. He sat besideher every day for hours together, rhapsodising about his love andsympathy enkindled into life, and about psychic elective affinity(10)� all of which Olimpia listened to with great reverence. He fished upfrom the very bottom of his desk all the things that he had everwritten � poems, fancy sketches, visions, romances, tales, and theheap was increased daily with all kinds of aimless sonnets, stanzas,canzonets. All these he read to Olimpia hour after hour withoutgrowing tired; but then he had never had such an exemplary listener.She neither embroidered, nor knitted; she did not look out of thewindow, or feed a bird, or play with a little pet dog or a favouritecat, neither did she twist a piece of paper or anything of that kindround her finger; she did not forcibly convert a yawn into a lowaffected cough � in short, she sat hour after hour with her eyes bentunchangeably upon her lover's face, without moving or altering herposition, and her gaze grew more ardent and more ardent still. And itwas only when at last Nathanael rose and kissed her lips or her hand that she said, "Ach! Ach!" and then "Good-night, dear." Arrived in hisown room, Nathanael would break out with, "Oh! what a brilliant � whata profound mind! Only you � you alone understand me." And his hearttrembled with rapture when he reflected upon the wondrous harmonywhich daily revealed itself between his own and his Olimpia'scharacter; for he fancied that she had expressed in respect to his works and his poetic genius the identical sentiments which he himselfcherished deep down in his own heart in respect to the same, and evenas if it was his own heart's voice speaking to him. And it must indeedhave been so; for Olimpia never uttered any other words than thosealready mentioned. And when Nathanael himself in his clear and sobermoments, as, for instance, directly after waking in a morning, thoughtabout her utter passivity and taciturnity, he only said, "What arewords � but words? The glance of her heavenly eyes says more than anytongue of earth And how can, anyway, a child of heaven accustomherself to the narrow circle which the exigencies of a wretchedmundane life demand?"�(10) This phrase (Die Wahlverwandschaft in German) has been madecelebrated as the title of one of Goethe's works.�Professor Spalanzani appeared to be greatly pleased at the intimacythat had sprung up between his daughter Olimpia and Nathanael, andshowed the young man many unmistakable proofs of his good feelingtowards him; and when Nathanael ventured at length to hint verydelicately at an alliance with Olimpia, the Professor smiled all overhis face at once, and said he should allow his daughter to make aperfectly free choice. Encouraged by these words, and with the fire ofdesire burning in his heart, Nathanael resolved the very next day toimplore Olimpia to tell him frankly, in plain words, what he had longread in her sweet loving glances, � that she would be his for ever. Helooked for the ring which his mother had given him at parting; hewould present it to Olimpia as a symbol of his devotion, and of thehappy life he was to lead with her from that time onwards. Whilstlooking for it he came across his letters from Clara and Lothair; hethrew them carelessly aside, found the ring, put it in his pocket, andran across to Olimpia Whilst still on the stairs, in theentrance-passage, he heard an extraordinary hubbub; the noise seemedto proceed from Spalanzani's study. There was a stamping � a rattling� pushing � knocking against the door, with curses and oathsintermingled. "Leave hold � leave hold � you monster � you rascal �slaked your life and honour upon it.? � Ha! ha! ha! ha! � That was notour wager � I, I made the eyes � I the clock-work. � Go to the devilwith your clock-work � you damned dog of a watch-maker � be off �Satan � stop � you paltry turner � you infernal beast! � stop � begone� let me go." The voices which were thus making all this racket andrumpus were those of Spalanzani and the fearsome Coppelius. Nathanaelrushed in, impelled by some nameless dread. The Professor was graspinga

female figure by the shoulders, the Italian Coppola held her by thefeet; and they were pulling and dragging each other backwards andforwards, fighting furiously to get possession of her. Nathanaelrecoiled with horror on recognising that the figure was OlimpiaBoiling with rage, he was about to tear his beloved from the grasp ofthe madmen, when Coppola by an extraordinary exertion of strengthtwisted the figure out of the Professor's hands and gave him such aterrible blow with her, that he reeled backwards and fell over thetable all amongst the phials and retorts, the bottles and glasscylinders, which covered it: all these things were smashed into athousand pieces. But Coppola threw the figure across his shoulder, and, laughing shrilly and horribly, ran hastily down the stairs, thefigure's ugly feet hanging down and banging and rattling like woodagainst the steps. Nathanael was stupefied, � he had seen only toodistinctly that in Olimpia's pallid waxed face there were no eyes,merely black holes in their stead; she was an inanimate puppet.Spalanzani was rolling on the floor; the pieces of glass had cut hishead and breast and arm; the blood was escaping from him in streams.But he gathered his strength together by an effort.�"After him � after him! What do you stand staring there for?Coppelius � Coppelius � he's stolen my best automaton � at which I've worked for twenty years � staked my life upon it � the clock-work �speech � movement � mine � your eyes � stolen your eyes � damn him �curse him � after him � fetch me back Olimpia � there are the eyes."And now Nathanael saw a pair of bloody eyes lying on the floor staringat him; Spalanzani seized them with his uninjured hand and threw themat him, so that they hit his breast. Then madness dug her burningtalons into him and swept down into his heart, rending his mind andthoughts to shreds.�"Aha! aha! aha! Fire-wheel � fire-wheel! Spin round, fire-wheel! merrily, merrily! Aha! wooden doll! spin round, pretty wooden doll!"and he threw himself upon the Professor, clutching him fast by thethroat. He would certainly have strangled him had not several people,attracted by the noise, rushed in and torn away the madman; and sothey saved the Professor, whose wounds were immediately dressed.Siegmund, with all his strength, was not able to subdue the franticlunatic, who continued to scream in a dreadful way, "Spin round, wooden doll!" and to strike out right and left with his doubled fists.At length the united strength of several succeeded in overpowering himby throwing him on the floor and binding him. His cries passed into abrutish bellow that was awful to hear; and thus raging with theharrowing violence of madness, he was taken away to the madhouse.�Before continuing my narration of what happened further to the unfortunate Nathanael, I will tell you, indulgent reader, in case youtake any interest in that skilful mechanician and fabricator ofautomata, Spalanzani, that he recovered completely from his wounds. Hehad, however, to leave the university, for Nathanael's fate hadcreated a great sensation; and the opinion vas pretty generallyexpressed that it was an imposture altogether unpardonable to have smuggled a wooden puppet instead of a living person into intelligenttea-circles, � for Olimpia had been present at several with successLawyers called it a cunning piece of knavery, and all the harder topunish since it was directed against the public; and it had been socraftily contrived that it had escaped unobserved by all except a fewpreternaturally acute students, although everybody was very wise how and remembered to have thought of several facts which occurred to themas suspicious. But these latter could not succeed in making out anysort of a consistent tale. For was it, for instance, a thing likely tooccur to any one as suspicious that, according to the declaration ofan elegant beau of these teaparties, Olimpia had, contrary to allgood manners, sneezed oftener than she had yawned? The former musthave been, in the opinion of this elegant gentleman, the winding up ofthe concealed clock-work; it had always been accompanied by an observable creaking, and so on. The Professor of Poetry and Eloquencetook a pinch of snuff, and, slapping the lid to and clearing histhroat, said solemnly, "My most honourable ladies and gentlemen, don'tyou see then where the rub is? The whole thing is an allegory, acontinuous metaphor. You understand me? Sapienti sat." But severalmost honourable gentlemen did not rest satisfied with thisexplanation; the history of this automaton had sunk deeply into theirsouls, and an absurd mistrust

of human figures began to prevail.Several lovers, in order to be fully convinced that they were notpaying court to a wooden puppet, required that their mistress shouldsing and dance a little out of time, should embroider or knit or playwith her little pug, &c., when being read to, but above all thingselse that she should do something more than merely listen � that sheshould frequently speak in such a way as to really show that her wordspresupposed as a condition some thinking and feeling. The bonds oflove were in many cases drawn closer in consequence, and so of coursebecame more engaging; in other instances they gradually relaxed andfell away. "I cannot really be made responsible for it," was theremark of more than one young gallant. At the tea-gatheringseverybody, in order to ward off suspicion, yawned to an incredibleextent and never sneezed. Spalanzani was obliged, as has been said, toleave the place in order to escape a criminal charge of having fraudulently imposed an automaton upon human society. Coppola, too,had also disappeared.�When Nathanael awoke he felt as if he had been oppressed by aterrible nightmare; he opened his eyes and experienced anindescribable sensation of mental comfort, whilst a soft and mostbeautiful sensation of warmth pervaded his body. He lay on his own bedin his own room at home; Clara was bending over him, and at a littledistance stood his mother and Lothair. "At last, at last, O my darling Nathanael; now we have you again; now you are cured of your grievousillness, now you are mine again." And Clara's words came from thedepths of her heart; and she clasped him in her arms. The brightscalding tears streamed from his eyes, he was so overcome with mingledfeelings of sorrow and delight; and he gasped forth, "My Clara, myClara!" Siegmund, who had staunchly stood by his friend in his hour of need, now came into the room. Nathanael gave him his hand � "Myfaithful brother, you have not deserted me." Every trace of insanityhad left him, and in the tender hands of his mother and his beloved,and his friends, he quickly recovered his strength again. Good fortunehad in the meantime visited the house; a niggardly old uncle, fromwhom they had never expected to get anything, had died, and left Nathanael's mother not only a considerable fortune, but also a smallestate, pleasantly situated not far from the town. There they resolvedto go and live, Nathanael and his mother, and Clara, to whom he wasnow to be married, and Lothair. Nathanael was become gentler and morechildlike than he had ever been before, and now began really tounderstand Clara's supremely pure and noble character.�None of them ever reminded him, even in the remotest degree, of thepast. But when Siegmund took leave of him, he said, "By heaven,brother! I was in a bad way, but an angel came just at the rightmoment and led me back upon the path of light. Yes, it was Clara."Siegmund would not let him speak further, fearing lest the painful recollections of the past might arise too vividly and too intensely inhis mind. �The time came for the four happy people to move to their littleproperty. At noon they were going through the streets. After makingseveral purchases they found that the lofty tower of the town-housewas throwing its giant shadows across the marketplace. "Come," saidClara, "let us go up to the top once more and have a look at thedistant hills." No sooner said than done. Both of them, Nathanael andClara, went up the tower; their mother, however, went on with theservant-girl to her new home, and Lothair, not feeling inclined toclimb up all the many steps, waited below. There the two lovers stoodarm-in-arm on the topmost gallery of the tower, and gazed out into thesweet scented wooded landscape, beyond which the blue hills rose uplike a giant's city.�"Oh! do look at that strange little grey bush, it looks as if itwere actually walking towards us," said Clara. Mechanically he put hishand into his sidepocket; he found Coppola's perspective and lookedfor the bush; Clara stood in front of the glass. Then a convulsivethrill shot through his pulse and veins; pale as a corpse, he fixedhis staring eyes upon her; but soon they began to roll, and a fierycurrent flashed and sparkled in them, and he yelled fearfully, like ahunted animal. Leaping up high in the air and laughing horribly at thesame time, he began to shout, in a piercing voice, "Spin round, woodendoll! Spin round, wooden doll!" With the strength of a giant he laidhold upon Clara and tried to hurl her over, but in an agony of despairshe clutched fast hold of the railing that went round the gallery.Lothair heard the madman raging and Clara's

scream of terror: afearful presentiment flashed across his mind. He ran up the steps; thedoor of the second flight was locked Clara's scream for help rang out more loudly. Mad with rage and fear, he threw himself against thedoor, which at length gave way. Clara's cries were growing fainter andfainter, � "Help! save me! save me!" and her voice died away in theair. "She is killed � murdered by that madman," shouted Lothair. Thedoor to the gallery was also locked. Despair gave him the strength ofa giant; he burst the door off its hinges. Good God! there was Clarain the grasp of the madman Nathanael, hanging over the gallery in theair; she only held to the iron bar with one hand. Quick as lightning,Lothair seized his sister and pulled her back, at the same timedealing the madman a blow in the face with his doubled fist, whichsent him reeling backwards, forcing him to let go his victim.�Lothair ran down with his insensible sister in his arms. She wassaved. But Nathanael ran round and round the gallery, leaping up inthe air and shouting, "Spin round, fire-wheel! Spin round,fire-wheel!" The people heard the wild shouting, and a crowd began togather. In the midst of them towered the advocate Coppelius, like agiant; he had only just arrived in the town, and had gone straight tothe market-place. Some were going up to overpower and take charge ofthe madman, but Coppelius laughed and said, "Ha! ha! wait a bit; he'llcome down of his own accord;" and he stood gazing upwards along withthe rest. All at once Nathanael stopped as if spell-bound; he bentdown over the railing, and perceived Coppelius. With a piercingscream, "Ha! foine oyes! foine oyes!" he leapt over.�When Nathanael lay on the stone pavement with a broken head,Coppelius had disappeared in the crush and confusion.�Several years afterwards it was reported that, outside the door of apretty country house in a remote district, Clara had been seen sitting hand in hand with a pleasant gentleman, whilst two bright boys wereplaying at her feet. From this it may be concluded that she eventuallyfound that quiet domestic happiness which her cheerful, blithesomecharacter required, and which Nathanael, with his tempest-tossed soul,could never have been able to give her.The �Uncanny� by Sigmund Freudpart oneIIt is only rarely that a psycho-analyst feels impelled to investigatethe subject of aesthetics, even when aesthetics is understood to mean not merely the theory of beauty but the theory of the qualities offeeling. He works in other strata of mental life and has little to dowith the subdued emotional impulses which, inhibited in their aims anddependent on a host of concurrent factors, usually furnish thematerial for the study of aesthetics. But it does occasionally happen that he has to interest himself in some particular province of thatsubject; and this province usually proves to be a rather remote one,and one which has been neglected in the specialist literature ofaesthetics.The subject of the �uncanny� is a province of this kind. It isundoubtedly related to what is frightening � to what arouses dread andhorror; equally certainly, too, the word is not always used in aclearly definable sense, so that it tends to coincide with whatexcites fear in general. Yet we may expect that a special core offeeling is present which justifies the use of a special conceptualterm. One is curious to know what this common core is which allows usto distinguish as �uncanny�; certain things which lie within the fieldof what is frightening. �In his study of the �uncanny,� Jentsch quite rightly lays stress onthe obstacle presented by the fact that people vary so very greatly intheir sensitivity to this quality of feeling. The writer of thepresent contribution, indeed, must himself plead guilty to a specialobtuseness in the matter, where extreme delicacy of perception wouldbe more in place. It is long since he has experienced or heard ofanything which has given him an uncanny impression, and he must startby translating himself into that state of feeling, by awakening inhimself the possibility of experiencing it. Still, such difficulties make themselves powerfully felt in many other branches of aesthetics;we need not on that account despair of finding instances in which thequality in question will be unhesitatingly recognized by most people.Two courses are open to us at the outset. Either we can find out whatmeaning has come to be attached to the word �uncanny� in the course ofits history; or we can collect all those properties of persons,things, sense-impressions, experiences and situations which arouse inus

the feeling of uncanniness, and then infer the unknown nature ofthe uncanny from what all these examples have in common. I will say atonce that both courses lead to the same result: the uncanny is thatclass of the frightening which leads back to what is known of old andlong familiar. How this is possible, in what circumstances thefamiliar can become uncanny and frightening, I shall show in what follows. Let me also add that my investigation was actually begun bycollecting a number of individual cases, and was only later confirmedby an examination of linguistic usage. In this discussion, however, Ishall follow the reverse course. The German word �unheimlich� is obviously the opposite of �heimlich�[�homely�], � the opposite of what is familiar; and we are tempted toconclude that what is �uncanny� is frightening precisely because it isnot known and familiar. Naturally not everything that is new andunfamiliar is frightening, however; the relation is not capable ofinversion. � Something has to be added to what is novel and unfamiliarin order to make it uncanny.On the whole, Jentsch � ascribes the essential factor in theproduction of the feeling of uncanniness to intellectual uncertainty;so that the uncanny would always, as it were, be something one doesnot know one�s way about in. The better orientated in his environmenta person is, the less readily will he get the impression of somethinguncanny in regard to the objects and events in it.It is not difficult to see that this definition is incomplete, and wewill therefore try to proceed beyond the equation �uncanny� as �unfamiliar.� We will first turn to other languages. But thedictionaries that we consult tell us nothing new, perhaps only becausewe ourselves speak a language that is foreign. Indeed, we get animpression that many languages are without a word for this particularshade of what is frightening. �Latin: � An uncanny place: locus suspectus; at an uncanny time of night. �Greek: � Eeros (i.e., strange, foreign).English: � Uncomfortable, uneasy, gloomy, dismal, uncanny, ghastly;(of a house) haunted; (of a man) a repulsive fellow.French: � Inqui�tant, sinistre, lugubre, mal � son aise.Spanish: � Sospechoso, de mal ag�ero, l�gubre, siniestro. �In Arabic and Hebrew �uncanny� means the same as �daemonic,� �gruesome.�Let us therefore return to the German language. In Daniel Sanders�sW�rterbuch der Deutschen Sprache (1860, 1, 729), the[re] is followingentry� under the word �heimlich.��Heimlich, adj., � I. [B]elonging to the house, not strange, familiar, tame, intimate, friendly, etc. � (b) Of animals: tame, companionableto man. � (c) Intimate, friendly comfortable; the enjoyment of quietcontent, etc., arousing a sense of agreeable restfulness and securityas in one within the four walls of his house. Is it still heimlich toyou in your country where strangers are felling your woods?� �She didnot feel too heimlich with him.� � II. Concealed, kept from sight, sothat others do not get to know of or about it, withheld from others.To do something heimlich, i.e., behind someone�s back; to steal awayheimlich; heimlich meetings and appointments. � The heimlich art�(magic). �Where public ventilation has to stop, there heimlichconspirators and the loud battle-cry of professed revolutionaries.� �Aholy, heimlich effect.� � �learned in strange Heimlichkeiten� (magicarts).� Note especially the negative �un-�: eerie, weird, arousing gruesome fear: �Seeming quite unheimlich and ghostly to him.� �The unheimlich,fearful hours of night.� �I had already long since felt an unheimich,�even gruesome feeling.� �Now I am beginning to have an unheimlichfeeling.� � �Feels an unheimlich horror.� �Unheimlich and motionlesslike a stone image.� �The unheimlich mist called hillfog.� �Thesepale youths are unheinrlich and are brewing heaven knows what mischief.� �Unheimlich is the name for everything that ought to haveremained ... secret and hidden but has come to light� (Schelling).��To veil the divine, to surround it with a certain Unheimlichkeit.� ��What interests us most in this long extract is to find that among itsdifferent shades of meaning the word �heimlich�� exhibits one which isidentical with its opposite, �unheirnlich.� What is heimlich thuscomes to be unheimlich. (Cf. the quotation from Gutzkow: �We call it �unheimlich�; you call it �heimlich.��) In general we are remindedthat the word �heimlich� is not unambiguous, but belongs to two setsof ideas, which, without being contradictory, are yet very different:on the one hand it means what is familiar and agreeable, and on theother. what is concealed and kept out of sight.

�Unheimlich� iscustomarily used, we are told, as the contrary only of the first signification of� heimlich,� and not of the second. Sanders tells usnothing concerning a possible genetic connection between these twomeanings of heimlich. On the other hand, we notice that Schelling sayssomething which throws quite a new light on the concept of theUnheimlich, for which we were certainly not prepared. According tohim, everything is unheimlich that ought to have remained secret and hidden but has come to light. �Thus heimlich is a word the meaning of which develops in the directionof ambivalence, until it finally coincides with its opposite,unheimlich. Unheimlich is in some way or other a sub-species ofheimlich. Let us bear this discovery in mind, though we cannot yetrightly understand it, alongside of Schelling�s definition of theUnheimlich. If we go on to examine individual instances ofuncanniness, these hints will become intelligible to us.II When we proceed to review things, persons, impressions, events andsituations which are able to arouse in us a feeling of the uncanny ina particularly forcible and definite form, the first requirement isobviously to select a suitable example to start on. Jentsch has takenas a very good instance �doubts whether an apparently animate being isreally alive; or conversely, whether a lifeless object might not be infact animate�; and he refers in this connection to the impression madeby waxwork figures, ingeniously constructed dolls and automata. Tothese he adds the uncanny effect of epileptic fits, and ofmanifestations of insanity, because these excite in the spectator theimpression of automatic, mechanical processes at work behind the�ordinary appearance of mental activity. Without entirely acceptingthis author�s view, we will take it as a starting point for our owninvestigation because in what follows he reminds us of a writer whohas succeeded in producing uncanny effects better than anyone else.Jentsch writes: �In telling a story one of the most successful devicesfor easily creating uncanny effects is to leave the reader inuncertainty whether a particular figure in the story is a human beingor an automaton and to do it in such a way that his attention is notfocused directly upon his uncertainty, so that he may not be led to gointo the matter and clear it up immediately. That, as we have said,would quickly dissipate the peculiar emotional effect of the thing. E.T. A. Hoffmann has repeatedly employed this psychological artificewith success in his fantastic narratives.�This observation, undoubtedly a correct one, refers primarily to thestory of The Sand-Man� in Hoffmann�s Nachtst�cken, which contains theoriginal of Olympia, the doll that appears in the first act ofOffenbach�s opera, Tales of Hoffmann, but I cannot think � and I hopemost readers of the story will agree with me � that the theme of thedoll Olympia, who is to all appearances a living being, is by anymeans the only, or indeed the most important, element that must beheld responsible for the quite unparalleled atmosphere of uncanninessevoked by the story. Nor is this atmosphere heightened by the factthat the author himself treats the episode of Olympia with a fainttouch of satire and uses it to poke fun at the young man�s idealization of his mistress. The main theme of the story is, on thecontrary, something different, something which gives it its name, andwhich is always reintroduced at critical moments: it is the theme ofthe �Sand-Man� who tears out children�s eyes.This fantastic tale opens with the childhood recollections of the student Nathaniel. In spite of his present happiness, he cannot banishthe memories associated with the mysterious and terrifying death ofhis beloved father. On certain evenings his mother used to send thechildren to bed early, warning them that �the Sand-Man was coming�;and, sure enough, Nathaniel would not fail to hear the heavy tread ofa visitor, with whom his father would then be occupied for the evening. When questioned about the Sand-Man, his mother, it is true,denied that such a person existed except as a figure of speech; buthis nurse could give him more definite information: �He�s a wicked manwho comes when children won�t go to bed, and throws handfuls of sandin their eyes so that they jump out of their heads all bleeding. Thenhe puts the eyes in a sack and carries them off to the half-moon tofeed his children. They sit up there in their nest, and their beaksare hooked like owls� beaks, and they use them to peck up naughtyboys� and girls� eyes with.� Although little Nathaniel was sensible and old enough not to creditthe figure of

the Sand-Man with such gruesome attributes, yet thedread of him became fixed in his heart. He determined to find out whatthe Sand-Man looked like; and one evening, when the Sand-Man wasexpected again, he hid in his father�s study. He recognized thevisitor as the lawyer Coppelius, a repulsive person whom the childrenwere frightened of when he occasionally came to a meal; and he now identified this Coppelius with the dreaded Sand-Man. As regards therest of the scene, Hoffmann already leaves us in doubt whether what weare witnessing is tee first delirium of the panic-stricken boy, or asuccession of events which are to be regarded in the story as beingreal. His father and the guest are at work at a brazier with glowingflames. The little eavesdropper hears Coppelius call out: �Eyes here!Eyes here!� and betrays himself by screaming aloud. Coppelius seizeshim and is on the point of dropping bits of red-hot coal from the fireinto his eyes, and then of throwing them into the brazier, but hisfather begs him off and saves his eyes. After this the boy falls intoa deep swoon; and a long illness brings his experience to an end.Those who decide in favour of the rationalistic interpretation of theSand-Man will not fail to recognize in the child�s phantasy thepersisting influence of his nurse�s story. The bits of sand that areto be thrown into the child�s eyes turn into bits of red-hot coal fromthe flames; and in both cases they are intended to make his eyes jumpout. In the course of another visit of the Sand-Man�s, a year later,his father is killed in his study by an explosion. The lawyerCoppelius disappears from the place without leaving a trace behind.Nathaniel, now a student, believes that he has recognized this phantomof horror from his childhood in an itinerant optician, an Italiancalled Giuseppe Coppola, who at his university town, offers himweather-glasses for sale. When Nathaniel refuses, the man goes on:�Not weather-glasses? not weather-glasses? also got fine eyes, fineeyes!� The student�s terror is allayed when he finds that the proffered eyes are only harmless spectacles, and he buys a pocketspy-glass from Coppola. With its aid he looks across into ProfessorSpalanzani�s house opposite and there spies Spalanzani�s beautiful,but strangely silent and motionless daughter, Olympia. He soon fallsin love with her so violently that, because of her, he quite forgetsthe clever and sensible girl to whom he is betrothed. But Olympia isan automaton whose clock-work has been made by Spalanzani, and whoseeyes have been put in by Coppola, the Sand-Man. The student surprisesthe two Masters quarrelling over their handiwork. The optician carriesoff the wooden eyeless doll; and the mechanician, Spalanzani, picks upOlympia�s bleeding eyes from the ground and throws them at Nathaniel�sbreast, saying that Coppola had stolen them from the student.Nathaniel succumbs to a fresh attack of madness, and in his deliriumhis recollection of his father�s death is mingled with this newexperience. �Hurry up! hurry up! ring of fire!� he cries. �Spin about,ring of fire � Hurrah! Hurry up, wooden doll! lovely wooden doll, spinabout � .� He then falls upon the professor, Olympia�s �father,� andtries to strangle him.Rallying from a long and serious illness, Nathaniel seems at last tohave recovered. He intends to marry his betrothed, with whom he hasbecome reconciled. One day he and she are walking through the citymarket-place, over which the high tower of the Town Hall throws itshuge shadow. On the girl�s suggestion, they climb the tower, leavingher brother, who is walking with them, down below. From the top,Clara�s attention is drawn to a curious object moving along thestreet. Nathaniel looks at this thing through Coppola�s spy-glass,which he finds in his pocket, and falls into a new attack of madness.Shouting �Spin about, wooden doll!� he tries to throw the girl intothe gulf below. Her brother, brought to her side by her cries, rescuesher and hastens down with her to safety. On the tower above, themadman rushes round, shrieking �Ring of fire, spin about!� � and weknow the origin of the words. Among the people who begin to gatherbelow there comes forward the figure of the lawyer Coppelius, who hassuddenly returned. We may suppose that it was his approach, seen through the spy-glass, which threw Nathaniel into his fit of madness.As the onlookers prepare to go up and overpower the madman, Coppeliuslaughs and says: �Wait a bit; he�ll come down of himself.� Nathanielsuddenly stands still, catches sight of Coppelius, and with a wildshriek �Yes! �fine eyes � fine eyes�!� flings

himself over theparapet. While he lies on the paving-stones with a shattered skull theSand-Man vanishes in the throng.This short summary leaves no doubt, I think, that the feeling ofsomething uncanny is directly attached to the figure of the Sand-Man,that is, to the idea of being robbed of one�s eyes, and that Jentsch�s point of an intellectual uncertainty has nothing to do with theeffect. Uncertainty whether an object is living or inanimate, whichadmittedly applied to the doll Olympia, is quite irrelevant inconnection with this other, more striking instance of uncanniness. Itis true that the writer creates a kind of uncertainty in us in thebeginning by not letting us know, no doubt purposely, whether he istaking us into the real world or into a purely fantastic one of hisown creation. He has, of course, a right to do either; and if hechooses to stage his action in a world peopled with spirits, demonsand ghosts, as Shakespeare does in Hamlet, in Macbeth and, in adifferent sense, in The Tempest and A Midsummer-Night�s Dream, we mustbow to his decision and treat his setting as though it were real foras long as we put ourselves into this hands. But this uncertaintydisappears in the course of Hoffmann�s story, and we perceive that heintends to make us, too, look through the demon optician�s spectaclesor spy-glass � perhaps, indeed, that the author in his very own persononce peered through such an instrument. For the conclusion of the story makes it quite clear that Coppola the optician really is thelawyer Coppelius and also, therefore, the Sand-Man.There is no question therefore, of any intellectual uncertainty here:we know now that we are not supposed to be looking on at the productsof a madman�s imagination, behind which we, with the superiority ofrational minds, are able to detect the sober truth; and yet thisknowledge does not lessen the impression of uncanniness in the leastdegree. The theory of intellectual uncertainty is thus incapable ofexplaining that impression.We know from psycho-analytic experience, however, that the fear ofdamaging or losing one�s eyes is a terrible one in children. Manyadults retain their apprehensiveness in this respect, and no physicalinjury is so much dreaded by them as an injury to the eye. We areaccustomed to say, too, that we will treasure a thing as the apple of our eye. A study of dreams, phantasies and myths has taught us thatanxiety about one�s eyes, the fear of going blind, is often enough asubstitute for the dread of being castrated. The self-blinding of themythical criminal, Oedipus, was simply a mitigated form of thepunishment of castration � the only punishment that was adequate forhim by the lex talionis. We may try on rationalistic grounds to deny that fears about the eye are derived from the fear of castration, andmay argue that it is very natural that so precious an organ as the eyeshould be guarded by a proportionate dread. Indeed, we might gofurther and say that the fear of castration itself contains no othersignificance and no deeper secret than a justifiable dread of thisrational kind. But this view does not account adequately for thesubstitutive relation between the eye and the male organ which is seento exist in dreams and myths and phantasies; nor can it dispel theimpression that the threat of being castrated in especial excites apeculiarly violent and obscure emotion, and that this emotion is whatfirst gives the idea of losing other organs its intense colouring. Allfurther doubts are removed when we learn the details of their�castration complex� from the analysis of neurotic patients, andrealize its immense importance in their mental life.Moreover, I would not recommend any opponent of the psycho-analyticview to select this particular story of the SandMan with which tosupport his argument that anxiety about the eyes has nothing to dowith the castration complex. For why does Hoffmann bring the anxietyabout eyes into such intimate connection with the father�s death? Andwhy does the Sand-Man always appear as a disturber of love? ** Heseparates the unfortunate Nathaniel from his betrothed and from herbrother, his best friend; he destroys the second object of his love,Olympia, the lovely doll; and he drives him into suicide at the momentwhen he has won back his Clara and is about to be happily united toher. Elements in the story like these, and many others, seem arbitraryand meaningless so long as we deny all connection between fears aboutthe eye and castration; but they become intelligible as soon as wereplace the Sand-Man by the dreaded father at whose hands castrationis expected. **We shall venture, therefore, to refer the

uncanny effect of theSand-Man to the anxiety belonging to the castration complex ofchildhood. But having reached the idea that we can make an infantilefactor such as this responsible for feelings of uncanniness, we areencouraged to see whether we can apply it to other instances of theuncanny. We find in the story of the Sand-Man the other theme on whichJentsch lays stress, of a doll which appears to be alive. Jentschbelieves that a particularly favourable condition for awakening uncanny feelings is created when there is intellectual uncertaintywhether an object is alive or not, and when an inanimate objectbecomes too much like an animate one. Now, dolls are of course ratherclosely connected with childhood life. We remember that in their earlygames children do not distinguish at all sharply between living andinanimate objects, and that they are especially fond of treating theirdolls like live people. In fact, I have occasionally heard a womanpatient declare that even at the age of eight she had still beenconvinced that her dolls would be certain to come to life if she wereto look at them in a particular, extremely concentrated, way. So thathere, too, it is not difficult to discover a factor from childhood.But, curiously enough, while the Sand-Man story deals with thearousing of an early childhood fear, the idea of a �living doll�excites no fear at all; children have no fear of their dolls coming tolife, they may even desire it. The source of uncanny feelings wouldnot, therefore, be an infantile fear in this case, but rather aninfantile wish or even merely an infantile belief. There seems to be acontradiction here; but perhaps it is only a complication, which may be helpful to us later on.** For a contrary view put forth by Freud himself, compare �The Tabooon Virginity,� in which Freud writes: �Whenever primitive man institutes a taboo, there he fears a danger; and it cannot be disputedthat the general principle underlying all of these regulations andavoidances is a dread of women. Perhaps the fear is founded on thedifference of woman from man, on her eternally inexplicable,mysterious, strange nature which thus seems hostile. Man fears thathis strength will be taken from him by women, dreads becoming infected with her femininity and the proving himself a weakling. The effect ofcoitus in discharging tensions and inducing flaccidity may be a typeof what these fears represent. � In any event, the taboos describedare evidence of the existence of a force which, by regarding women asstrange and hostile, sets itself against love.� ** [Freud�s footnote] In fact, Hoffmann�s imaginative treatment of hismaterial has not made such wild confusion of its elements that wecannot reconstruct their original arrangement. In the story ofNathaniel�s childhood, the figures of his father and Coppeliusrepresent the two opposites into which the father-imago is split byhis ambivalence; whereas the one threatens to blind him � that is, to castrate him � , the other, the �good� father, intercedes for hissight. The part of the complex which is most strongly repressed, thedeath-wish against the �bad� father, finds expression in the death ofthe �good� father, and Coppelius is made answerable for it. This pairof fathers is represented later, in his student days, by ProfessorSpalanzani and Coppola the optician. The Professor is even called the father of Olympia. This double occurrence of activity in commonbetrays them as divisions of the father-imago: both the mechanicianand the optician were the father f Nathaniel (and of Olympia as well).In the frightening scene in childhood, Coppelius, after sparingNathaniel�s eyes, has screwed off his arms and legs as an experiment;that is, he had worked on him as a mechanician would on a doll. This singular feature, which seems quite outside the picture of theSand-Man, introduces a new castration equivalent; but it also pointsto the inner identity of Coppelius with his later counterpart,Spalanzani the mechanician, and prepares us for the interpretation ofOlympia. This automatic doll can be nothing else than a materialization of Nathaniel�s feminine attitude towards his father inhis infancy. Her fathers, Spalanzani and Coppola, are, after all,nothing but new editions, reincarnations of Nathaniel�s pair offathers. Spalanzani�s otherwise incomprehensible statement that theoptician has stolen Nathaniel�s eyes � , so as to set them in thedoll, now becomes significant as supplying evidence of the identity ofOlympia and Nathaniel. Olympia is, as it were, a dissociated complexof Nathaniel�s which confronts him as a person, and Nathaniel�senslavement to this

complex is expressed in his senseless obsessivelove for Olympia. We may with justice call love of this kindnarcissistic, and we can understand why someone who has fallen victimto it should relinquish the real external object of his love. The psychological truth of the situation in which the young man, fixatedupon his father by his castration complex, becomes incapable of lovinga woman, is amply proved by numerous analyses of patients whose story,though less fantastic, is hardly less tragic than that of the studentNathaniel. ��The �Uncanny�by Sigmund Freudpart twoHoffmann is the unrivalled master of the uncanny in literature. His novel, Die Elixire des Teufels [The Devil�s Elixir], contains a wholemass of themes to which one is tempted to ascribe the uncanny effectof the narrative; but it is too obscure and intricate a story for usto venture upon a summary of it. Towards the end of the book thereader is told the facts, hitherto concealed from him, from which theaction springs; with the result, not that he is at last enlightened,but that he falls into a state of complete bewilderment. The authorhas piled up too much material of the same kind. In consequence one�sgrasp of the story as a whole suffers, though not the impression itmakes. We must content ourselves with selecting those themes ofuncanniness which are most prominent, and with seeing whether they toocan fairly be traced back to infantile sources. These themes are allconcerned with the phenomenon of the �double,� which appears in everyshape and in every degree of development. Thus we have characters whoare to be considered identical because they look alike. This relationis accentuated by mental processes leaping from one of thesecharacters to another � by what we should call telepathy �, so thatthe one possesses knowledge, feelings and experience in common withthe other. Or it is marked by the fact that the subject identifieshimself with someone else, so that he is in doubt as to which his self is, or substitutes the extraneous self for his own. In other words,there is a doubling, dividing and interchanging of the self. Andfinally there is the constant recurrence of the same thing � therepetition of the same features or charactertraits or vicissitudes,of the same crimes, or even the same names through several consecutivegenerations.The theme of the �double� has been very thoroughly treated by OttoRank (1914). He has gone into the connections which the �double� haswith reflections in mirrors, with shadows, with guardian spirits, withthe belief in the soul and with the fear of death; but he also lets ina flood of light on the surprising evolution of the idea. For the�double� was originally an insurance against the destruction of theego, an �energetic denial of the power of death,� as Rank says; andprobably the �immortal� soul was the first �double� of the body. Thisinvention of doubling as a preservation against extinction has itscounterpart in the language of dreams, which is found of representingcastration by a doubling or multiplication of a genital symbol. Thesame desire led the Ancient Egyptians to develop the art of makingimages of the dead in lasting materials. Such ideas, however, havesprung from the soil of unbounded self-love, from the primary narcissism which dominates the mind of the child and of primitive man.But when this stage has been surmounted, the �double� reverses itsaspect. From having been an assurance of immortality, it becomes theuncanny harbinger of death.The idea of the �double� does not necessarily disappear with thepassing of primary narcissism, for it can receive fresh meaning fromthe later stages of the ego�s development. A special agency is slowlyformed there, which is able to stand over against the rest of the ego,which has the function of observing and criticizing the self and of exercising a censorship within the mind, and which we become aware ofas our �conscience.� In the pathological case of delusions of beingwatched, this mental agency becomes isolated, dissociated from theego, and discernible to the physician�s eye. The fact that an agencyof this kind exists, which is able to treat the rest of the ego likean object � the fact, that is, that man is capable of self-observation� renders it possible to invest the old idea of a �double� with a newmeaning and to ascribe a number of things to it � above all, thosethings which seem to self-criticism to belong to the old surmountednarcissism of earliest times.But it is not only this latter material, offensive as it is to thecriticism of the ego, which may be incorporated in the idea of adouble. There are also all

the unfulfilled but possible futures towhich we still like to cling in phantasy, all the strivings of the egowhich adverse external circumstances have crushed, and all oursuppressed acts of volition which nourish in us the illusion of FreeWill. [Cf. Freud, 1901b, Chapter XII (B).]But after having thus considered the manifest motivation of the figureof a �double,� we have to admit that none of this helps us tounderstand the extraordinarily strong feeling of something uncannythat pervades the conception; and our knowledge of pathological mentalprocesses enables us to add that nothing in this more superficialmaterial could account for the urge towards defence which has causedthe ego to project that material outward as something foreign toitself. When all is said and done, the quality of uncanniness can onlycome from the fact of the �double� being a creation dating back to avery early mental stage, long since surmounted � a stage,incidentally, at which it wore a more friendly aspect. The �double�has become a thing of terror, just as, after the collapse of theirreligion, the gods turned into demons.The other forms of egodisturbance exploited by Hoffmann can easily beestimated along the same lines as the theme of the �double.� They area harking-back to particular phases in the evolution of theself-regarding feeling, a regression to a time when the ego had notyet marked itself off sharply from the external world and from otherpeople. I believe that these factors are partly responsible for theimpression of uncanniness, although it is not easy to isolate anddetermine exactly their share of it.The factor of the repetition of the same thing will perhaps not appealto everyone as a source of uncanny feeling. From what I have observed,this phenomenon does undoubtedly, subject to certain conditions andcombined with certain circumstances, arouse an uncanny feeling, which,furthermore, recalls the sense of helplessness experienced in somedream-states. As I was walking, one hot summer afternoon, through thedeserted streets of a provincial town in Italy which was unknown tome, I found myself in a quarter of whose character I could not long remain in doubt. Nothing but painted women were to be seen at thewindows of the small houses, and I hastened to leave the narrow streetat the next turning. But after having wandered about for a timewithout enquiring my way, I suddenly found myself back in the samestreet, where my presence was now beginning to excite attention. Ihurried away once more, only to arrive by another detour at the same place yet a third time. Now, however, a feeling overcame me which Ican only describe as uncanny, and I was glad enough to find myselfback at the piazza I had left a short while before, without anyfurther voyages of discovery. Other situations which have in commonwith my adventure an unintended recurrence of the same situation, butwhich differ radically from it in other respects, also result in thesame feeling of helplessness and of uncanniness. So, for instance,when, caught in a mist perhaps, one has lost one�s way in a mountainforest, every attempt to find the marked or familiar path may bringone back again and again to one and the same spot, which one canidentify by some particular landmark. Or one may wander about in adark, strange room, looking for the door or the electric switch, andcollide time after time with the same piece of furniture -- though itis true that Mark Twain succeeded by wild exaggeration in turning thislatter situation into something irresistibly comic.If we take another class of things, it is easy to see that there, too,it is only this factor of involuntary repetition which surrounds whatwould otherwise by innocent enough with an uncanny atmosphere, andforces upon us the idea of something fateful and inescapable whenotherwise we should have spoken only of �chance.� For instance, wenaturally attach no importance to the event when we hand in anovercoat and get a cloakroom ticket with the number, let us say, 62;or when we find that our cabin on a ship bears that number. But theimpression is altered if two such events, each in itself indifferent,happen close together � if we come across the number 62 several times in a single day, or if we begin to notice that everything which has anumber � addresses, hotel rooms, compartments in railway trains �invariably has the same one, or at all events one which contains thesame figures. We do feel this to be uncanny. And unless a man isutterly hardened and proof against the lure of superstition, he willbe tempted to ascribe a secret meaning to this obstinate

recurrence ofa number; he will take it, perhaps, as an indication of the span of life allotted to him. �[I]t is possible to recognize the dominance in the unconscious mind ofa �compulsion to repeat� proceeding from the instinctual impulses andprobably inherent in the very nature of the instincts � a compulsion powerful enough to overrule the pleasure principle, lending to certainaspects of the mind their daemonic character, and still very clearlyexpressed in the impulses of small children; a compulsion, too, whichis responsible for a part of the course taken by the analyses ofneurotic patients. All these considerations prepare us for thediscovery that whatever reminds us of this inner �compulsion torepeat� is perceived as uncanny.Now, however, it is time to turn from these aspects of the matter,which are in any case difficult to judge, and look for some undeniable instances of the uncanny, in the hope that an analysis of them willdecide whether our hypothesis is a valid one.In the story of �The Ring of Polycrates,� The king of Egypt turns awayin horror from his host, Polycrates, because he sees that his friend�severy wish is at once fulfilled, his every care promptly removed bykindly fate. His host has become �uncanny� to him. His ownexplanation, that the too fortunate man has to fear the envy of thegods, seems obscure to us; its meaning is veiled in mythologicallanguage. We will therefore turn to another example in a lessgrandiose setting. In the case history of an obsessional neurotic, Ihave described how the patient once stayed in a hydropathicestablishment and benefited greatly by it. He had the good sense,however, to attribute his improvement not to the therapeuticproperties of the water, but to the situation of his room, which immediately adjoined that of a very accommodating nurse. So on hissecond visit to the establishment he asked for the same room, but wastold that it was already occupied by an old gentleman, whereupon hegave vent to his annoyance in the words: �I wish he may be struck deadfor it.� A fortnight later the old gentleman really did have a stroke.My patient thought this an �uncanny� experience. The impression ofuncanniness would have been stronger still if less time had elapsedbetween his words and the untoward event, or if he had been able toreport innumerable similar coincidences. As a matter of fact, he hadno difficulty in producing coincidences of this sort; but then notonly he but every obsessional neurotic I have observed has been ableto relate analogous experiences. They are never surprised at their invariably running up against someone they have just been thinking of,perhaps for the first time for a long while. If they say one day �Ihaven�t had any news of soand-so for a long time,� they will be sureto get a letter from him the next morning, and an accident or a deathwill rarely take place without having passed through their mind alittle while before. They are in the habit of referring to this stateof affairs in the most modest manner, saying that they have �presentiments� which �usually� come true.One of the most uncanny and wide-spread forms of superstition is thedread of the evil eye, which has been exhaustively studied by theHamburg oculist Seligmann (1910-11). There never seems to have been any doubt about the source of this dread. Whoever possesses somethingthat is at once valuable and fragile is afraid of other people�s envy,in so far as he projects on to them the envy he would have felt intheir place. A feeling like this betrays itself by a look even thoughit is not put into words; and when a man is prominent owing tonoticeable, and particularly owing to unattractive, attributes, otherpeople are ready to believe that his envy is rising to a more thanusual degree of intensity and that this intensity will convert it intoeffective action. What is feared is thus a secret intention of doingharm, and certain signs are taken to mean that that intention has thenecessary power at its commend.These last examples of the uncanny are to be referred to the principlewhich I have called �omnipotence of thoughts,� taking, the name froman expression used by one of my patients. And now we find ourselves onfamiliar ground. Our analysis of instances of the uncanny has led usback to the old, animistic conception of the universe. This wascharacterized by the idea that the world was peopled with the spiritsof human beings; by the subject�s narcissistic overvaluation of hisown mental processes; by the belief in the omnipotence of thoughts andthe technique of magic based on

that belief; by the attribution tovarious outside persons and things of carefully graded magical powers,or �mama�; as well as by all the other creations with the help ofwhich man, in the unrestricted narcissism of that stage ofdevelopment, strove to fend off the manifest prohibitions of reality.It seems as if each one of us has been through a phase of individualdevelopment corresponding to this animistic stage in primitive men,that none of us has passed through it without preserving certainresidues and traces of it which are still capable of manifesting themselves, and that everything which now strikes us as �uncanny�fulfils the condition of touching those residues of animistic mentalactivity within us and bringing them to expression.At this point I will put forward two considerations which, I think,contain the gist of this short study. In the first place, ifpsychoanalytic theory is correct in maintaining that every affectbelonging to an emotional impulse, whatever its kind, is transformed,if it is repressed, into anxiety, then among instances of frighteningthings there must be one class in which the frightening element can beshown to be something repressed which recurs. This class offrightening things would then constitute the uncanny; and it must be amatter of indifference whether what is uncanny was itself originallyfrightening or whether it carried some other affect. In the secondplace, if this is indeed the secret nature of the uncanny, we canunderstand why linguistic usage has extended das Heimliche [�homely�]into its opposite, das Unheimliche (p. 226); for this uncanny is inreality nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar andoldestablished in the mind and which has become alienated from itonly through the process of repression. This reference to the factorof repression enables us, furthermore, to understand Schelling�sdefinition [p. 224] of the uncanny as something which ought to haveremained hidden but has come to light.It only remains for us to test our new hypothesis on one or two moreexamples of the uncanny.Many people experience the feeling in the highest degree in relationto death and dead bodies, to the return of the dead, and to spiritsand ghosts. As we have seen [p. 221] some languages in use to-day canonly render the German expression �an unheimlich house� by �a hauntedhouse.� We might indeed have begun our investigation with thisexample, perhaps the most striking of all, of something uncanny, butwe refrained from doing so because the uncanny in it is too much intermixed with what is purely gruesome and is in part overlaid by it.There is scarcely any other matter, however, upon which our thoughtsand feelings have changed so little since the very earliest times, andin which discarded forms have been so completely preserved under athin disguise, as our relation to death. Two things account for ourconservatism: the strength of our original emotional reaction to deathand the insufficiency of our scientific knowledge about it. Biologyhas not yet been able to decide whether death is the inevitable fateof every living being or whether it is only a regular but yet perhapsavoidable event in life. It is true that the statement �All men aremortal� is paraded in textbooks of logic as an example of a generalproposition; but no human being really grasps it, and our unconscioushas as little use now as it ever had for the idea of its ownmortality. Religions continue to dispute the importance of theundeniable fact of individual death and to postulate a life afterdeath; civil governments still believe that they cannot maintain moralorder among the living if they do not uphold the prospect of a betterlife hereafter as a recompense for mundane existence. In our greatcities, placards announce lectures that undertake to tell us how toget into touch with the souls of the departed; and it cannot be denied that not a few of the most able and penetrating minds among our men ofscience have come to the conclusion, especially towards the close oftheir own lives, that a contact of this kind is not impossible. Sincealmost all of us still think as savages do on this topic, it is nomatter for surprise that the primitive fear of the dead is still sostrong within us and always ready to come to the surface on anyprovocation. Most likely our fear still implies the old belief thatthe dead man becomes the enemy of his survivor and seeks to carry himoff to share his new life with him. Considering our unchanged attitudetowards death, we might rather enquire what has become of therepression, which is the necessary condition of a primitive

feelingrecurring in the shape of something uncanny. But repression is there,too. All supposedly educated people have ceased to believe officiallythat the dead can become visible as spirits, and have made any suchappearances dependent on improbable and remote conditions; theiremotional attitude towards their dead, moreover, once a highlyambiguous and ambivalent one, has been toned down in the higher strataof the mind into an unambiguous feeling of piety.We have now only a few remarks to add � for animism, magic andsorcery, the omnipotence of thoughts, man�s attitude to death,involuntary repetition and the castration complex comprise practicallyall the factors which turn something frightening into somethinguncanny. We can also speak of a living person as uncanny, and we do so when weascribe evil intentions to him. But that is not all; in addition tothis we must feel that his intentions to harm us are going to becarried out with the help of special powers. A good instance of thisis the �Gettatore,� that uncanny figure of Romanic superstition whichSchaeffer, with intuitive poetic feeling and profound psychoanalyticunderstanding, has transformed into a sympathetic character in hisJosef Montfort. But the question of these secret powers brings us backagain to the realm of animism. It was the pious Gretchen�s intuitionthat Mephistopheles possessed secret powers of this kind that made himso uncanny to her.Sie f�hlt, da� ich ganz sicher ein Genie, � [�She feels that surelyI�m a genius now, ��Vielleicht wohl gar der Teufel bin � � � � � � � � � �Perhaps thevery devil indeed!� �Goethe, Faust] The uncanny effect of epilepsy and of madness has the same origin. Thelayman sees in them the working of forces hitherto unsuspected in hisfellow-men, but at the same time he is dimly aware of them in remotecorners of his own being. The Middle Ages quite consistently ascribedall such maladies to the influence of demons, and in this theirpsychology was almost correct. Indeed, I should not be surprised to hear that psycho-analysis, which is concerned with laying bare thesehidden forces, has itself become uncanny to many people for that veryreason. In one case, after I had succeeded � though none too rapidly �in effecting a cure in a girl who had been an invalid for many years,I myself heard this view expressed by the patient�s mother long afterher recovery.Dismembered limbs, a severed head, a hand cut off at the wrist, as ina fairy tale of Hauff�s, feet which dance by themselves, as in the book by Schaeffer which I mentioned above � all these have somethingpeculiarly uncanny about them, especially when, as in the lastinstance, they prove capable of independent activity in addition. Aswe already know, this kind of uncanniness springs from its proximityto the castration complex. To some people the idea of being buriedalive by mistake is the most uncanny thing of all. And yetpsychoanalysis has taught us that this terrifying phantasy is only atransformation of another phantasy which had originally nothingterrifying about it at all, but was qualified by a certainlasciviousness � the phantasy, I mean, of intra-uterine existence.There is one more point of general application which I should like to add, though, strictly speaking, it has been included in what hasalready been said about animism and modes of working of the mentalapparatus that have been surmounted; for I think it deserves specialemphasis. This is that an uncanny effect is often and easily producedwhen the distinction between imagination and reality is effaced, aswhen something that we have hitherto regarded as imaginary appearsbefore us in reality, or when a symbol takes over the full functionsof the thing it symbolizes, and so on. It is this factor whichcontributes not a little to the uncanny effect attaching to magicalpractices. �To conclude this collection of examples, which is certainly notcomplete, I will relate an instance taken from psycho-analyticexperience; if it does not rest upon mere coincidence, it furnishes abeautiful confirmation of our theory of the uncanny. It often happensthat neurotic men declare that they feel there is something uncannyabout the female genital organs. This unheimlich place, however, isthe entrance to the former Heim [home] of all human beings, to theplace where each one of us lived once upon a time and in thebeginning. there is a joking saying that �Love is home-sickness�; andwhenever a man dreams of a place or a country and says to himself,while he is still dreaming: �this place is familiar to me, I�ve beenhere before,� we may interpret the place as being his mother�sgenitals or her body. In this case too,

then, the unheimlich is whatwas once heimisch, familiar; the prefix �un� [�un-�] is the token ofrepression.The �Uncanny�by Sigmund Freudpart threeIIIIn the course of this discussion the reader will have felt certaindoubts arising in his mind; and he must now have an opportunity ofcollecting them and bringing them forward.It may be true that the uncanny [unheimlich] is something which issecretly familiar [heimlich-heimisch], which has undergone repressionand then returned from it, and that everything that is uncanny fulfilsthis condition. But the selection of material on this basis does notenable us to solve the problem of the uncanny. For our proposition isclearly not convertible. Not everything that fulfils this condition �not everything that recalls repressed desires and surmounted modes ofthinking belonging to the prehistory of the individual and of the race� is on that account uncanny.Nor shall we conceal the fact that for almost every example adduced insupport of our hypothesis one may be found which rebuts it. The storyof the severed hand in Hauff�s fairy tale [p. 244] certainly has an uncanny effect, and we have traced that effect back to the castrationcomplex; but most readers will probably agree with me in judging thatno trace of uncanniness is provoked by Herodotus�s story of thetreasure of Phampsinitus, in which the masterthief, whom the princesstries to hold fast by the hand, leaves his brother�s severed handbehind with her instead. Again, the prompt fulfillment of the wishesof Polycrates [p. 239] undoubtedly affects us in the same uncanny wayas it did the king of Egypt; yet our own fairy stories are crammedwith instantaneous wishfulfillments which produce no uncanny effectwhatever. In the story of �The Three Wishes,� the woman is tempted bythe savoury smell of a sausage to wish that she might have one too,and in an instant it lies on a plate before her. In his annoyance ather hastiness her husband wishes it may hang on her nose. And there it is, dangling from her nose. All this is very striking but not in theleast uncanny. Fairy tales quite frankly adopt the animisticstandpoint of the omnipotence of thoughts and wishes, and yet I cannotthink of any genuine fairy story which has anything uncanny about it.We have heard that it is in the highest degree uncanny when aninanimate object � a picture or a doll � comes to life; neverthelessin Hans Andersen�s stories the household utensils, furniture and tinsoldiers are alive, yet nothing could well be more remote from theuncanny. And we should hardly call it uncanny when Pygmalion�sbeautiful statue comes to life.Apparent death and the re-animation of the dead have been representedas most uncanny themes. But things of this sort too are very common infairy stories. Who would be so bold as to call it uncanny, forinstance, when Snow-White opens her eyes once more? And the resuscitation of the dead in accounts of miracles, as in the NewTestament, elicits feelings quite unrelated to the uncanny. Then, too,the theme that achieves such an indubitably uncanny effect, theunintended recurrence of the same thing, serves other and quitedifferent purposes in another class of cases. We have already come across one example [p 237] in which it is employed to call up afeeling of the comic; and we could multiply instances of this kind. Oragain, it works as a means of emphasis, and so on. And once more: whatis the origin of the uncanny effect of silence, darkness and solitude?Do not these factors point to the part played by danger in the genesisof what is uncanny, notwithstanding that in children these samefactors are the most frequent determinants of the expression of fear[rather than of the uncanny]? And are we after all justified inentirely ignoring intellectual uncertainty as a factor, seeing that wehave admitted its importance in relation to death [p. 242]?It is evident therefore, that we must be prepared to admit that thereare other elements besides those which we have so far laid down as determining the production of uncanny feelings. We might say thatthese preliminary results have satisfied psycho-analytic interest inthe problem of the uncanny, and that what remains probably calls foran aesthetic enquiry. But that would be to open the door to doubtsabout what exactly is the value of our general contention that theuncanny proceeds from something familiar which has been repressed.We have noticed one point which may help us to resolve theseuncertainties: nearly all the instances that contradict our hypothesisare taken from the realm of fiction, of imaginative writing. Thissuggests that we should differentiate between the uncanny

that weactually experience and the uncanny that we merely picture or readabout. What is experienced as uncanny is much more simply conditioned butcomprises far fewer instances. We shall find, I think, that it fits inperfectly with our attempt at a solution, and can be traced backwithout exception to something familiar that has been repressed. Buthere, too, we must make a certain important and psychologicallysignificant differentiation in our material, which is best illustratedby turning to suitable examples.Let us take the uncanny associated with the omnipotence of thoughts,with the prompt fulfillment of wishes, with secret injurious powersand with the return of the dead. The condition under which the feelingof uncanniness arises here is unmistakable. We � or our primitive forefathers � once believed that these possibilities were realities,and were convinced that they actually happened. Nowadays we no longerbelieve in them, we have surmounted these modes of thought; but we donot feel quite sure of our new beliefs, and the old ones still existwithin us ready to seize upon any confirmation. As soon as somethingactually happens in our lives which seems to confirm the old,discarded beliefs we get a feeling of the uncanny; it is as though wewere making a judgment something like this: �So, after all, it is truethat one can kill a person by the mere wish!� or, �So the dead do liveon and appear on the scene of their former activities!� and so on.Conversely, anyone who has completely and finally rid himself ofanimistic beliefs will be insensible to this type of the uncanny. Themost remarkable coincidences of wish and fulfillment, the most mysterious repetition of similar experiences in a particular place oron a particular date, the most deceptive sights and suspicious noises� none of these things will disconcert him or raise the kind of fearwhich can be described as �a fear of something uncanny.� The wholething is purely an affair of �realitytesting,� a question of thematerial reality of the phenomena.**The state of affairs is different when the uncanny proceeds fromrepressed infantile complexes, from the castration complex,womb-phantasies, etc.� but experiences which arouse this kind ofuncanny feeling are not of very frequent occurrence in real life. The uncanny which proceeds from actual experience belongs for the mostpart to the first group [the group dealt with in the previousparagraph]. Nevertheless the distinction between the two istheoretically very important. Where the uncanny comes from infantilecomplexes the question of material reality does not arise; its placeis taken by psychical reality. What is involved is an actualrepression of some content of thought and a return of this repressedcontent, not a cessation of belief in the reality of such a content.We might say that in the one case what had been repressed is aparticular ideational content, and in the other the belief in its(material) reality. But this last phrase no doubt extends the term�repression� beyond its legitimate meaning. It would be more correctto take into account a psychological distinction which can be detectedhere, and to say that the animistic beliefs of civilized people are ina state of having been (to a greater or lesser extent) surmounted[rather than repressed]. Our conclusion could then be stated thus: anuncanny experience occurs either when infantile complexes which havebeen repressed are once more revived by some impression, or whenprimitive beliefs which have been surmounted seem once more to beconfirmed. Finally, we must not let our predilection for smoothsolutions and lucid exposition blind us to the fact that these twoclasses of uncanny experience are not always sharply distinguishable.When we consider that primitive beliefs are most intimately connectedwith infantile complexes, and are, in fact, based on them, we shallnot be greatly astonished to find that the distinction is often a hazyone.The uncanny as it is depicted in literature, in stories andimaginative productions, merits in truth a separate discussion. Aboveall, it is a much more fertile province than the uncanny in real life,for it contains the whole of the latter and something more besides,something that cannot be found in real life. The contrast between whathas been repressed and what has been surmounted cannot be transposedon to the uncanny in fiction without profound modification; for therealm of phantasy depends for its effect on the fact that its contentis not submitted to reality-testing. The somewhat paradoxical resultis that in the first place a great deal that is not uncanny in fictionwould

be so if it happened in real life; and in the second place thatthere are many more means of creating uncanny effects in fiction thanthere are in real life.The imaginative writer has this license among many others, that he canselect his world of representation so that it either coincides withthe realities we are familiar with or departs from them in whatparticulars he pleases. We accept his ruling in every case. In fairytales, for instance, the world of reality is left behind from the verystart, and the animistic system of beliefs is frankly adopted.Wishfulfillments, secret powers, omnipotence of thoughts, animationof inanimate objects, all the elements so common in fairy stories, canexert no uncanny influence here; for, as we have learnt, that feelingcannot arise unless there is a conflict of judgment as to whetherthings which have been �surmounted� and are regarded as incredible maynot, after all, be possible; and this problem is eliminated from theoutset by the postulates of the world of fairy tales. Thus we see thatfairy stories, which have furnished us with most of the contradictionsto our hypothesis of the uncanny, confirm the first part of our proposition � that in the realm of fiction many things are not uncannywhich would be so if they happened in real life. In the case of thesestories there are other contributory factors, which we shall brieflytouch upon later.The creative writer can also choose a setting which though lessimaginary than the world of fairy tales, does yet differ from the realworld by admitting superior spiritual beings such as daemonic spiritsor ghosts of the dead. So long as they remain within their setting ofpoetic reality, such figures lose any uncanniness which they might possess. The souls in Dante�s Inferno, or the supernatural apparitionsin Shakespeare�s Hamlet, Macbeth or Julius Caesar, may be gloomy andterrible enough, but they are no more really uncanny than Homer�sjovial world of gods. We adapt our judgment to the imaginary realityimposed on us by the writer, and regard souls, spirits and ghosts asthough their existence had the same validity as our own has inmaterial reality. In this case too we avoid all trace of the uncanny.The situation is altered as soon as the writer pretends to move in theworld of common reality. In this case he accepts as well all theconditions operating to produce uncanny feelings in real life; andeverything that would have an uncanny effect in reality has it in hisstory. But in this case he can even increase his effect and multiplyit far beyond what could happen in reality, by bringing about eventswhich never or very rarely happen in fact. In doing this he is in asense betraying us to the superstitiousness which we have ostensiblysurmounted; he deceives us by promising to give us the sober truth,and then after all overstepping it. We react to his inventions as wewould have reacted to real experiences; by the time we have seenthrough his trick it is already too late and the author has achievedhis object. But it must be added that his success is not unalloyed. Weretain a feeling of dissatisfaction, a kind of grudge against theattempted deceit. I have noticed this particularly after readingSchnitzler�s Die Weissagung [The Prophecy] and similar stories whichflirt with the supernatural. However, the writer has one more meanswhich he can use in order to avoid our recalcitrance and at the sametime to improve his chances of success. He can keep us in the dark fora long time about the precise nature of the presuppositions on whichthe world he writes about is based, or he can cunningly andingeniously avoid any definite information on the point to the last.Speaking generally, however, we find a confirmation of the second partof our proposition � that fiction presents more opportunities for creating uncanny feelings than are possible in real life.Strictly speaking, all these complications relate only to that classof the uncanny which proceeds from forms of thought that have beensurmounted. The class which proceeds from repressed complexes is moreresistant and remains as powerful in fiction as in real experience,subject to one exception [see p. 252]. The uncanny belonging to the first class � that proceeding from forms of thought that have beensurmounted � retains its character not only in experience but infiction as well, so long as the setting is one of material reality;but where it is given an arbitrary and artificial setting in fiction,it is apt to lose that character.We have clearly not exhausted the possibilities of poetic license andthe privileges enjoyed by story-

writers in evoking or in excluding anuncanny feeling. In the main we adopt an unvarying passive attitudetowards real experience and are subject to the influence of ourphysical environment. But the story-teller has a peculiarly directivepower over us; by means of the moods he can put us into, he is able toguide the current of our emotions, to dam it up in one direction andmake it flow in another, and he often obtains a great variety ofeffects from the same material. All this is nothing new, and hasdoubtless long since been fully taken into account by students ofaesthetics. We have drifted into this field of research halfinvoluntarily, through the temptation to explain certain instanceswhich contradicted our theory of the causes of the uncanny.Accordingly we will now return to the examination of a few of thoseinstances.We have already asked [p. 246] why it is that the severed hand in thestory of the treasure of Rhampsinitus has no uncanny effect in the way that the severed hand has in Hauff�s story. The question seems to havegained in importance now that we have recognized that the class of theuncanny which proceeds from repressed complexes is the more resistantof the two. The answer is easy. In the Herodotus story our thoughtsare concentrated much more on the superior cunning of the master-thiefthan on the feelings of the princess. The princess may very well havehad an uncanny feeling, indeed she very probably fell into a swoon;but we have no such sensations, for we put ourselves in the thief�splace, not in hers. In Nestroy�s farce, Der Zerrissene [The Torn Man],another means is used to avoid any impression of the uncanny in thescene in which the fleeing man, convinced that he is a murderer, liftsup one trap-door after another and each time sees what he takes to bethe ghost of his victim rising up out of it. He calls out in despair, �But I�ve only killed one man. Why this ghastly multiplication?� Weknow what went before this scene and do not share his error, so whatmust be uncanny to him has an irresistibly comic effect on us. Even a�real� ghost, as in Oscar Wilde�s Canterville Ghost, loses all powerof at least arousing gruesome feelings in us as soon as the authorbegins to amuse himself by being ironical about it and allows liberties to be taken with it. Thus we see how independent emotionaleffects can be of the actual subject-matter in the world of fiction.In fairy stories feelings of fear � including therefore uncannyfeelings � are ruled out altogether. We understand this, and that iswhy we ignore any opportunities we find in them for developing suchfeelings.Concerning the factors of silence, solitude and darkness [pp. 246-7],we can only say that they are actually elements in the production of the infantile anxiety from which the majority of human beings havenever become quite free. This problem has been discussed from apsycho-analytic point of view elsewhere.** Since the uncanny effect of the �double also belongs to this same group it is interesting to observe what the effect is of meeting one�sown image unbidden and unexpected. Ernest Mach has related two suchobservations in his Analyse der Empfindungen (1900, 3). On the firstoccasion he was not a little startled when he realized that the facebefore him was his own. The second time he formed a very unfavourableopinion about the supposed stranger who entered the omnibus, andthought �What a shabby-looking school-master that man is who isgetting in!� � I can report a similar adventure. I was sitting alonein my wagon-lit compartment when a more than usually violent jolt ofthe train swung back the door of the adjoining washing-cabinet, and anelderly gentleman in a dressing-gown and a travelling cap came in. Iassumed that in leaving the washing-cabinet, which lay between the twocompartments, he had taken the wrong direction and come into my compartment by mistake. Jumping up with the intention of putting himright, I at once realized to my dismay that the intruder was nothingbut my own reflection in the looking-glass on the open door. I canstill recollect that I thoroughly disliked his appearance. Instead,therefore, of being frightened by our �doubles�, both Mach and Isimply failed to recognize them as such. Is it not possible, though,that our dislike of them was a vestigial trace of the archaic reactionwhich feels the �double� to something uncanny?Virginia WoolfThe Mark on the WallPerhaps it was the middle of January in the present that I firstlooked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it isnecessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; thesteady film of yellow light upon the page of my book;

the threechrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, itmust have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, forI remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw themark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke ofmy cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals,and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle towercame into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knightsriding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight ofthe mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automaticfancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, blackupon the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a littleway, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it.. . If that mark was made by a nail, it can�t have been for a picture,it must have been for a miniature�the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder�dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. Afraud of course, for the people who had this house before us wouldhave chosen pictures in that way�an old picture for an old room. Thatis the sort of people they were�very interesting people, and I thinkof them so often, in such queer places, because one will never seethem again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave thishouse because they wanted to change their style of furniture, so hesaid, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art shouldhave ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn fromthe old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit thetennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushespast in the train.But as for that mark, I�m not sure about it; I don�t believe it wasmade by a nail after all; it�s too big, too round, for that. I mightget up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn�t beable to say for certain; because once a thing�s done, no one everknows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; Theinaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how verylittle control of our possessions we have�what an accidental affairthis living is after all our civilization�let me just count over a fewof the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems alwaysthe most mysterious of losses�what cat would gnaw, what rat wouldnibble�three pale blue canisters of book�binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Annecoal�scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ�all gone, andjewels, too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips.What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is thatI�ve any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furnitureat this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles anhour�landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one�s hair!Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heelsin the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shootin the post office! With one�s hair flying back like the tail of arace�horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . .But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so thatthe cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple andred light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is bornhere, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one�s eyesight, groping atthe roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying whichare trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won�t be in a condition to do for fifty years or so.There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected bythick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, rose�shaped blots of anindistinct colour�dim pinks and blues�which will, as time goes on,become more definite, become�I don�t know what. . .And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even becaused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, leftover from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilanthousekeeper�look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dustwhich, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments ofpots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane. . . I wantto think quietly,

calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, neverto have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing toanother, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sinkdeeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separatefacts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea thatpasses. . . Shakespeare. . . Well, he will do as well as another. Aman who sat himself solidly in an arm�chair, and looked into the fire,so�A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven downthrough his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people,looking in through the open door,�for this scene is supposed to takeplace on a summer�s evening�But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn�t interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon apleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit uponmyself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent evenin the minds of modest mouse�coloured people, who believe genuinelythat they dislike to hear their own praises. They are not thoughtsdirectly praising oneself; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:�And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I saidhow I�d seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an oldhouse in Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reignof Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles theFirst?� I asked�(but, I don�t remember the answer). Tall flowers withpurple tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I�mdressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily,not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out,and stretch my hand at once for a book in self�protection. Indeed, itis curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself fromidolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or toounlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so verycurious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppose thelooking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figurewith the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, butonly that shell of a person which is seen by other people�what anairless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to belived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railwayswe are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, thegleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future willrealize more and more the importance of these reflections, for ofcourse there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number;those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they willpursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of theirstories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did andShakespeare perhaps�but these generalizations are very worthless. Themilitary sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles,cabinet ministers�a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, fromwhich one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation.Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoonwalks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead,clothes, and habits�like the habit of sitting all together in one roomuntil a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period wasthat they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartmentsmarked upon them, such as you may see in photographs of the carpets inthe corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kindwere not real tablecloths. How shocking, and yet how wonderful it wasto discover that these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks,country houses, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeedhalf phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in themwas only a sense of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place ofthose things I wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, shouldyou be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives,which sets the standard, which establishes Whitaker�s Table ofPrecedency, which has become, I suppose, since the war half a phantomto many men and women, which soon�one may hope, will be laughed intothe dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and theLandseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us allwith an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom�if freedom exists.. .In certain lights that mark on the wall seems

actually to project fromthe wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seemsto cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descenda small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the SouthDowns which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I shouldprefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people,and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bonesstretched beneath the turf. . . There must be some book about it. Someantiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name. . . Whatsort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the mostpart, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here,examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondencewith the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time,gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison of arrow�headsnecessitates cross�country journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to makeplum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keepingthat great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension,while the Colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in accumulatingevidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he doesfinally incline to believe in the camp; and, being opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of thelocal society when a stroke lays him low, and his last consciousthoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowheadthere, which is now in the case at the local museum, together with thefoot of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a greatmany Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine�glass that Nelson drank out of�proving I really don�t know what.No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get upat this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall isreally�what shall we say?�the head of a gigantic old nail, driven intwo hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attritionof many generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of awhite�walled fire�lit room, what should I gain?�Knowledge? Matter forfurther speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up.And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendantsof witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewingherbs, interrogating shrew�mice and writing down the language of thestars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle andour respect for beauty and health of mind increases. . . Yes, onecould imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with theflowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professorsor specialists or house�keepers with the profiles of policemen, aworld which one could slice with one�s thought as a fish slices thewater with his fin, grazing the stems of the water�lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs. . . How peaceful it is drownhere, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the greywaters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections�if itwere not for Whitaker�s Almanack�if it were not for the Table ofPrecedency!I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall reallyis�a nail, a rose�leaf, a crack in the wood?Here is nature once more at her old game of self�preservation. Thistrain of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy,even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift afinger against Whitaker�s Table of Precedency? The Archbishop ofCanterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody followssomebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing isto know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Naturecounsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can�t becomforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the markon the wall.I understand Nature�s game�her prompting to take action as a way ofending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, Isuppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action�men, we assume,who don�t think. Still, there�s no harm in putting a full stop toone�s disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I

havegrasped a plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality whichat once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to theshadows of shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus,waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the lightand lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshippingsolidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world whichis a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wantsto be sure of. . . Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comesfrom a tree; and trees grow, and we don�t know how they grow. Foryears and years they grow, without paying any attention to us, inmeadows, in forests, and by the side of rivers�all things one likes tothink about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives oneexpects to see its feathers all green when it comes up again. I liketo think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out;and of water�beetles slowly raiding domes of mud upon the bed of theriver. I like to think of the tree itself:�first the close drysensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then theslow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter�snights standing in the empty field with all leaves close�furled,nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mastupon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The songof birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold thefeet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progressesup the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin greenawning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them withdiamond�cut red eyes. . . One by one the fibres snap beneath theimmense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and,falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Evenso, life isn�t done with; there are a million patient, watchful livesstill for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on thepavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smokingcigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, thistree. I should like to take each one separately�but something is getting in the way. . . Where was I? What has it all been about? Atree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker�s Almanack? The fields of asphodel?I can�t remember a thing. Everything�s moving, falling, slipping,vanishing. . . There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is standingover me and saying��I�m going out to buy a newspaper.� �Yes?��Though it�s no good buying newspapers. . . Nothing ever happens.Curse this war; God damn this war! . . . All the same, I don�t see whywe should have a snail on our wall.�Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.The New DressMabel had her first serious suspicion that something was wrong as shetook her cloak off and Mrs. Barnet, while handing her the mirror andtouching the brushes and thus drawing her attention, perhaps rathermarkedly, to all the appliances for tidying and improving hair,complexion, clothes, which existed on the dressing table, confirmedthe suspicion�that it was not right, not quite right, which growingstronger as she went upstairs and springing at her, with conviction asshe greeted Clarissa Dalloway, she went straight to the far end of theroom, to a shaded corner where a looking�glass hung and looked. No! Itwas not RIGHT. And at once the misery which she always tried to hide,the profound dissatisfaction�the sense she had had, ever since she wasa child, of being inferior to other people�set upon her, relentlessly,remorselessly, with an intensity which she could not beat off, as she would when she woke at night at home, by reading Borrow or Scott; foroh these men, oh these women, all were thinking��What�s Mabel wearing?What a fright she looks! What a hideous new dress!��their eyelidsflickering as they came up and then their lids shutting rather tight.It was her own appalling inadequacy; her cowardice; her mean,water�sprinkled blood that depressed her. And at once the whole of theroom where, for ever so many hours, she had planned with the littledressmaker how it was to go, seemed sordid, repulsive; and her owndrawing�room so shabby, and herself, going out, puffed up with vanityas she touched the letters on the hall table and said: �How dull!� toshow off�all this now seemed unutterably silly, paltry, andprovincial. All this had been absolutely destroyed, shown up,exploded, the moment she came into Mrs. Dalloway�s drawing�room.What she had thought that evening when, sitting over the teacups, Mrs.Dalloway�s invitation came, was that,

of course, she could not befashionable. It was absurd to pretend it even�fashion meant cut, meantstyle, meant thirty guineas at least�but why not be original? Why notbe herself, anyhow? And, getting up, she had taken that old fashionbook of her mother�s, a Paris fashion book of the time of the Empire,and had thought how much prettier, more dignified, and more womanlythey were then, and so set herself�oh, it was foolish�trying to belike them, pluming herself in fact, upon being modest andold�fashioned, and very charming, giving herself up, no doubt aboutit, to an orgy of self�love, which deserved to be chastised, and sorigged herself out like this.But she dared not look in the glass. She could not face the wholehorror�the pale yellow, idiotically old�fashioned silk dress with itslong skirt and its high sleeves and its waist and all the things thatlooked so charming in the fashion book, but not on her, not among allthese ordinary people. She felt like a dressmaker�s dummy standingthere, for young people to stick pins into.�But, my dear, it�s perfectly charming!� Rose Shaw said, looking herup and down with that little satirical pucker of the lips which sheexpected�Rose herself being dressed in the height of the fashion,precisely like everybody else, always.We are all like flies trying to crawl over the edge of the saucer,Mabel thought, and repeated the phrase as if she were crossingherself, as if she were trying to find some spell to annul this pain,to make this agony endurable. Tags of Shakespeare, lines from booksshe had read ages ago, suddenly came to her when she was in agony, andshe repeated them over and over again. �Flies trying to crawl,� sherepeated. If she could say that over often enough and make herself seethe flies, she would become numb, chill, frozen, dumb. Now she couldsee flies crawling slowly out of a saucer of milk with their wingsstuck together; and she strained and strained (standing in front ofthe looking�glass, listening to Rose Shaw) to make herself see RoseShaw and all the other people there as flies, trying to hoistthemselves out of something, or into something, meagre, insignificant,toiling flies. But she could not see them like that, not other people.She saw herself like that�she was a fly, but the others weredragonflies, butterflies, beautiful insects, dancing, fluttering,skimming, while she alone dragged herself up out of the saucer. (Envyand spite, the most detestable of the vices, were her chief faults.) �I feel like some dowdy, decrepit, horribly dingy old fly,� she said,making Robert Haydon stop just to hear her say that, just to reassureherself by furbishing up a poor weak�kneed phrase and so showing howdetached she was, how witty, that she did not feel in the least out ofanything. And, of course, Robert Haydon answered something, quitepolite, quite insincere, which she saw through instantly, and said toherself, directly he went (again from some book), �Lies, lies, lies!�For a party makes things either much more real, or much less real, shethought; she saw in a flash to the bottom of Robert Haydon�s heart;she saw through everything. She saw the truth. THIS was true, thisdrawing�room, this self, and the other false. Miss Milan�s littleworkroom was really terribly hot, stuffy, sordid. It smelt of clothesand cabbage cooking; and yet, when Miss Milan put the glass in herhand, and she looked at herself with the dress on, finished, anextraordinary bliss shot through her heart. Suffused with light, shesprang into existence. Rid of cares and wrinkles, what she had dreamedof herself was there�a beautiful woman. just for a second (she had notdared look longer, Miss Milan wanted to know about the length of theskirt), there looked at her, framed in the scrolloping mahogany, a grey�white, mysteriously smiling, charming girl, the core of herself,the soul of herself; and it was not vanity only, not only self�lovethat made her think it good, tender, and true. Miss Milan said thatthe skirt could not well be longer; if anything the skirt, said MissMilan, puckering her forehead, considering with all her wits abouther, must be shorter; and she felt, suddenly, honestly, full of love for Miss Milan, much, much fonder of Miss Milan than of any one in thewhole world, and could have cried for pity that she should be crawlingon the floor with her mouth full of pins, and her face red and hereyes bulging�that one human being should be doing this for another,and she saw them all as human beings merely, and herself going off toher party, and Miss Milan pulling the cover over the canary�s cage, orletting him pick a hemp�seed from between her lips, and the thought ofit,

of this side of human nature and its patience and its enduranceand its being content with such miserable, scanty, sordid, littlepleasures filled her eyes with tears.And now the whole thing had vanished. The dress, the room, the love,the pity, the scrolloping looking�glass, and the canary�s cage�all hadvanished, and here she was in a corner of Mrs. Dalloway�sdrawing�room, suffering tortures, woken wide awake to reality.But it was all so paltry, weak�blooded, and petty�minded to care somuch at her age with two children, to be still so utterly dependent on people�s opinions and not have principles or convictions, not to beable to say as other people did, �There�s Shakespeare! There�s death!We�re all weevils in a captain�s biscuit��or whatever it was thatpeople did say.She faced herself straight in the glass; she pecked at her leftshoulder; she issued out into the room, as if spears were thrown ather yellow dress from all sides. But instead of looking fierce ortragic, as Rose Shaw would have done�Rose would have looked like Boadicea�she looked foolish and self�conscious, and simpered like aschoolgirl and slouched across the room, positively slinking, as ifshe were a beaten mongrel, and looked at a picture, an engraving. Asif one went to a party to look at a picture! Everybody knew why shedid it�it was from shame, from humiliation.�Now the fly�s in the saucer,� she said to herself, �right in themiddle, and can�t get out, and the milk,� she thought, rigidly staringat the picture, �is sticking its wings together.��It�s so old�fashioned,� she said to Charles Burt, making him stop(which by itself he hated) on his way to talk to some one else.She meant, or she tried to make herself think that she meant, that itwas the picture and not her dress, that was old�fashioned. And oneword of praise, one word of affection from Charles would have made allthe difference to her at the moment. If he had only said, �Mabel, you�re looking charming to�night!� it would have changed her life. Butthen she ought to have been truthful and direct. Charles said nothingof the kind, of course. He was malice itself. He always saw throughone, especially if one were feeling particularly mean, paltry, orfeeble�minded.�Mabel�s got a new dress!� he said, and the poor fly was absolutelyshoved into the middle of the saucer. Really, he would like her todrown, she believed. He had no heart, no fundamental kindness, only aveneer of friendliness. Miss Milan was much more real, much kinder. Ifonly one could feel that and stick to it, always. �Why,� she askedherself�replying to Charles much too pertly, letting him see that shewas out of temper, or �ruffled� as he called it (�Rather ruffled?� hesaid and went on to laugh at her with some woman over there)��Why,�she asked herself, �can�t I feel one thing always, feel quite surethat Miss Milan is right, and Charles wrong and stick to it, feel sure about the canary and pity and love and not be whipped all round in asecond by coming into a room full of people?� It was her odious, weak,vacillating character again, always giving at the critical moment andnot being seriously interested in conchology, etymology, botany,archeology, cutting up potatoes and watching them fructify like MaryDennis, like Violet Searle.Then Mrs. Holman, seeing her standing there, bore down upon her. Ofcourse a thing like a dress was beneath Mrs. Holman�s notice, with herfamily always tumbling downstairs or having the scarlet fever. CouldMabel tell her if Elmthorpe was ever let for August and September? Oh,it was a conversation that bored her unutterably!�it made her furiousto be treated like a house agent or a messenger boy, to be made useof. Not to have value, that was it, she thought, trying to graspsomething hard, something real, while she tried to answer sensiblyabout the bathroom and the south aspect and the hot water to the topof the house; and all the time she could see little bits of her yellowdress in the round looking�glass which made them all the size ofboot�buttons or tadpoles; and it was amazing to think how muchhumiliation and agony and self�loathing and effort and passionate upsand downs of feeling were contained in a thing the size of athreepenny bit. And what was still odder, this thing, this MabelWaring, was separate, quite disconnected; and though Mrs. Holman (theblack button) was leaning forward and telling her how her eldest boyhad strained his heart running, she could see her, too, quite detachedin the looking�glass, and it was impossible that the black dot,leaning forward, gesticulating, should make the yellow dot, sitting solitary, self�centred, feel what the black dot was feeling, yet theypretended.�So

impossible to keep boys quiet��that was the kind of thing one said.And Mrs. Holman, who could never get enough sympathy and snatched whatlittle there was greedily, as if it were her right (but she deservedmuch more for there was her little girl who had come down this morningwith a swollen knee�joint), took this miserable offering and looked atit suspiciously, grudgingly, as if it were a halfpenny when it oughtto have been a pound and put it away in her purse, must put up withit, mean and miserly though it was, times being hard, so very hard;and on she went, creaking, injured Mrs. Holman, about the girl withthe swollen joints. Ah, it was tragic, this greed, this clamour ofhuman beings, like a row of cormorants, barking and flapping theirwings for sympathy�it was tragic, could one have felt it and notmerely pretended to feel it!But in her yellow dress to�night she could not wring out one dropmore; she wanted it all, all for herself. She knew (she kept onlooking into the glass, dipping into that dreadfully showing�up blue pool) that she was condemned, despised, left like this in a backwater,because of her being like this a feeble, vacillating creature; and itseemed to her that the yellow dress was a penance which she haddeserved, and if she had been dressed like Rose Shaw, in lovely,clinging green with a ruffle of swansdown, she would have deservedthat; and she thought that there was no escape for her�none whatever.But it was not her fault altogether, after all. It was being one of afamily of ten; never having money enough, always skimping and paring;and her mother carrying great cans, and the linoleum worn on the stairedges, and one sordid little domestic tragedy after another�nothingcatastrophic, the sheep farm failing, but not utterly; her eldestbrother marrying beneath him but not very much�there was no romance,nothing extreme about them all. They petered out respectably inseaside resorts; every watering�place had one of her aunts even nowasleep in some lodging with the front windows not quite facing thesea. That was so like them�they had to squint at things always. Andshe had done the same�she was just like her aunts. For all her dreamsof living in India, married to some hero like Sir Henry Lawrence, someempire builder (still the sight of a native in a turban filled herwith romance), she had failed utterly. She had married Hubert, withhis safe, permanent underling�s job in the Law Courts, and theymanaged tolerably in a smallish house, without proper maids, and hashwhen she was alone or just bread and butter, but now and then�Mrs.Holman was off, thinking her the most dried�up, unsympathetic twig shehad ever met, absurdly dressed, too, and would tell every one aboutMabel�s fantastic appearance�now and then, thought Mabel Waring, leftalone on the blue sofa, punching the cushion in order to lookoccupied, for she would not join Charles Burt and Rose Shaw,chattering like magpies and perhaps laughing at her by the fireplace�now and then, there did come to her delicious moments,reading the other night in bed, for instance, or down by the sea onthe sand in the sun, at Easter�let her recall it�a great tuft of palesand�grass standing all twisted like a shock of spears against thesky, which was blue like a smooth china egg, so firm, so hard, andthen the melody of the waves��Hush, hush,� they said, and the children�s shouts paddling�yes, it was a divine moment, and there shelay, she felt, in the hand of the Goddess who was the world; rather ahard�hearted, but very beautiful Goddess, a little lamb laid on thealtar (one did think these silly things, and it didn�t matter so longas one never said them). And also with Hubert sometimes she had quiteunexpectedly�carving the mutton for Sunday lunch, for no reason,opening a letter, coming into a room�divine moments, when she said to herself (for she would never say this to anybody else), �This is it.This has happened. This is it!� And the other way about it was equallysurprising�that is, when everything was arranged�music, weather,holidays, every reason for happiness was there�then nothing happenedat all. One wasn�t happy. It was flat, just flat, that was all.Her wretched self again, no doubt! She had always been a fretful, weak, unsatisfactory mother, a wobbly wife, lolling about in a kind oftwilight existence with nothing very clear or very bold, or more onething than another, like all her brothers and sisters, except perhapsHerbert�they were all the same poor water�veined creatures who didnothing. Then in the midst of this creeping,

crawling life, suddenlyshe was on the crest of a wave. That wretched fly�where had she readthe story that kept coming into her mind about the fly and thesaucer? �struggled out. Yes, she had those moments. But now that shewas forty, they might come more and more seldom. By degrees she wouldcease to struggle any more. But that was deplorable! That was not tobe endured! That made her feel ashamed of herself!She would go to the London Library to�morrow. She would find some wonderful, helpful, astonishing book, quite by chance, a book by aclergyman, by an American no one had ever heard of; or she would walkdown the Strand and drop, accidentally, into a hall where a miner wastelling about the life in the pit, and suddenly she would become a newperson. She would be absolutely transformed. She would wear a uniform;she would be called Sister Somebody; she would never give a thought toclothes again. And for ever after she would be perfectly clear about Charles Burt and Miss Milan and this room and that room; and it wouldbe always, day after day, as if she were lying in the sun or carvingthe mutton. It would be it!So she got up from the blue sofa, and the yellow button in thelooking�glass got up too, and she waved her hand to Charles and Roseto show them she did not depend on them one scrap, and the yellowbutton moved out of the looking�glass, and all the spears weregathered into her breast as she walked towards Mrs. Dalloway and said�Good night.��But it�s top early to go,� said Mrs. Dalloway, who was always so charming.�I�m afraid I must,� said Mabel Waring. �But,� she added in her weak, wobbly voice which only sounded ridiculous when she tried tostrengthen it, �I have enjoyed myself enormously.��I have enjoyed myself,� she said to Mr. Dalloway, whom she met on the stairs.�Lies, lies, lies!� she said to herself, going downstairs, and �Rightin the saucer!� she said to herself as she thanked Mrs. Barnet for helping her and wrapped herself, round and round and round, in theChinese cloak she had worn these twenty years.A Clean, Well-Lighted PlaceBY ERNEST HEMINGWAYIt was very late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man whosat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electriclight. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dewsettled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deafand now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The twowaiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, andwhile he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk hewould leave without paying, so they kept watch on him."Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said."Why?""He was in despair.""What about?""Nothing.""How do you know it was nothing?""He has plenty of money."They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near thedoor of the cafe and looked at the terrace where the tableswere allempty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of thetree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar.The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him."The guard will pick him up," one waiter said."What does it matter if he gets what he's after?""He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. Theywent by five minutes ago."The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass.The younger waiter went over to him."What do you want?"The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said."You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. Thewaiter went away."He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now.Inever get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himselflast week."The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from thecounterinside the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. Heput down thesaucer and poured the glass full of brandy."You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deafman.The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," hesaid. Thewaiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over andran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile."Thank you," the oldman said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat downat the table with his colleague again."He's drunk now," he said."He's drunk every night.""What did he want to kill himself for?""How should I know.""How did he do it?""He hung himself with a rope.""Who cut him down?""His niece.""Why did they do it?""Fear for his soul.""How much money has he got?" "He's got plenty.""He must be eighty years old.""Anyway I should say he was

eighty.""I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock.Whatkind of hour is that to go to bed?""He stays up because he likes it.""He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me.""He had a wife once too.""A wife would be no good to him now.""You can't tell. He might be better with a wife.""His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down.""I know." "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing.""Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling.Evennow, drunk. Look at him.""I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has noregard for those who must work."The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters."Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who wasin a hurry came over. "Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupidpeople employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "Nomoretonight. Close now." "Another," said the old man."No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a toweland shook his head.The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leathercoinpurse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a pesetatip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very oldman walking unsteadily but with dignity."Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked.They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two.""I want to go home to bed.""What is an hour?""More to me than to him.""An hour is the same.""You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drinkat home." "It's not the same.""No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to beunjust. He was only in a hurry."And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?""Are you trying to insult me?""No, hombre, only to make a joke.""No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down themetal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence.""You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said."Youhave everything.""And what do you lack?" "Everything but work.""You have everything I have.""No. I have never had confidence and I am not young.""Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up.""I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waitersaid."With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who needa light for the night.""I want to go home and into bed.""We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was nowdressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidencealthough those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe.""Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long.""You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is welllighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows ofthe leaves.""Good night," said the younger waiter."Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light hecontinued the conversation with himself, It was the light of coursebut it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do notwant music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand beforea bar with dignity although that is all that isprovided for thesehours. What did he fear? It was not a fear ordread, It was a nothingthat he knew too well. It was all anothing and a man was a nothingtoo. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certaincleanness and order. Some lived init and never felt it but he knew itall was nada y pues nada y naday pues nada. Our nada who art in nada,nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is innada. Give usthis nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nadaour nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; puesnada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiledand stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine."What's yours?" asked the barman. "Nada.""Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away."A little cup," said the waiter.The barman poured it for him."The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished,"thewaiter said.The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at nightfor conversation."You want another copita?" the barman asked. "No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars andbodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now,without thinking further, he would go home to his room. Hewould lie inthe bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all,he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many

must have it.The 1st DADA Manifesto:By Monsieur Antipyrine.DADA is our intensity: it erects inconsequential bayonets and theSumatral head of German babies; Dada is life with neither bedroomslippers nor parallels; it is against and for unity and definatelyagainst the future; we are wise enough to know that our brains aregoing to become flabby cushions, that our anti-dogmatism is asexclusive as a civil servant, and that we cry liberty but are notfree; a severe necessity with entire discipline nor morals and that wespit on humanity.DADA remains within the framework of European weaknesses, it's stillshit, but from now on we want to shit in different colours so as toadorn the zoo of art with all the flags of all the consulates.We are circus ringmasters and we can be found whistling amongst the winds of fairgrounds, in convents, prostitutions, theatres, realities,feelings, restaurants, ohoho, bang bang.We declare that the motor car is a feeling that has cosseted us quiteenough in the dilatoriness of its abstractions, as have transatlanticliners, noises and ideas. And while we put on a show of being facile, we are actually searching for the central essence of things, and arepleased if we can hide it; we have no wish to count the windows of themarvellous elite, for DADA doesn't exist for anyone, and we wanteveryone to understand this. This is Dada's balcony, I assure you.From there you can hear all the military marches, and come downcleaving the air like a seraph landing in a public baths to piss andunderstand the parable.DADA is neither madness, nor wisdom, nor irony, look at me, dear bourgeois.Art used to be a game of nuts in May, children would go gatheringwords that had a final ring, then they would exude, shout out theverse, and dress it up in dolls' bootees, and the verse became a queenin order to die a little, and the queen became a sardine, and thechildren ran hither and yon, unseen... Then came the great ambassadorsof feeling, who yelled historically in chorus:Psychology Psychology hee heeScience Science ScienceLong live FranceWe are not naiveWe are successiveWe are exclusiveWe are not simpletonsand we are perfectly capable of an intelligent discussion.Be we, DADA, don't agree with them, for art isn't serious, I assureyou, and if we reveal the crime so as to show that we are learned denunciators, it's to please you, dear audience, I assure you, and Iadore you.The 2nd DADA Manifesto:By Tristan Tzara, 1918."The magic of a word - DADA - which for journalists has opened thedoor to an unforeseen world, has for us not the slightest importance."To launch a manifesto you have to want: A.B. & C., and fulminateagainst 1, 2, & 3, work yourself up and sharpen your wings to conquerand circulate lower and upper case As, Bs & Cs, sign, shout, swear,organise prose into a form that is absolutely and irrefutably obvious,prove its ne plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life inthe same way as the latest apparition of a harlot proves the essenceof God. His existence had already been proved by the accordion, thelandscape and soft words. * To impose one's A.B.C. is only natural and therefore regrettable. Everyone does it in the form of acrystalbluff-madonna, or a monetary system, or pharmaceuticalpreparations, a naked leg being the invitation to an ardent andsterile Spring. The love of novelty is a pleasant sort of cross, it'sevidence of a naive don't-give-a-damn attitude, a passing, positive, sign without rhyme or reason. But this need is out of date, too. Bygiving art the impetus of supreme simplicity - novelty - we are beinghuman and true in relation to innocent pleasures; impulsive andvibrant in order to crucify boredom. At the lighted crossroads, alert,attentive, lying in wait for years, in the forest. * I am writing amanifesto and there's nothing I want, and yet I'm saying certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am againstprinciples (quantifying measures of the moral value of every phrase -too easy; approximation was invested by the impressionists). *I'm writing this manifesto to show that you can perform contraryactions at the same time, in one single, fresh breath; I am againstaction; as for continual contradiction, and affirmation too, I amneither for nor against them, and I won't explain myself because Ihate common sense.DADA this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shotdown; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents differentsubjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on thelevel of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries tofind causes or objects (according to whichever

psychoanalytic methodhe practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and selfdefiningstory. *Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!)From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows hisinstincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHINGIf we consider it futile, and if we don't waste our time over a wordthat doesn't mean anything... The first thought that comes to theseminds is of a bacteriological order: at least to discover itsetymological, historical or psychological meaning. We read in thepapers that the negroes of the Kroo race call the tail of a sacred cow: DADA. A cube, and a mother, in a certain region of Italy, arecalled: DADA. The word for a hobby horse, a children's nurse, a doubleaffirmative in Russian and Romanian, is also: DADA. Some learnedjournalists see it as an art for babies, otherJesuscallingthelittlechildrenuntohim saints see it as a return to an unemotional and noisy primitivism - noise and monotonous. Asensitivity cannot be built on the basis of a word; every sort ofconstruction converges into a boring sort of perfection, a stagnantidea of a golden swamp, a relative human product. A work of artshouldn't be beauty per se, because it is dead; neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark; it is to rejoice or maltreat individualitiesto serve them up the cakes of sainted haloes or the sweat of ameandering chase through the atmosphere. A work of art is neverbeautiful, by decree, objectively, for everyone. Criticism is,therefore, useless; it only exists subjectively, for every individual,and without the slightest general characteristic. Do people imaginethey have found the psychic basis common to all humanity? The attemptof Jesus, and the Bible, conceal, under their ample, benevolent wings:shit, animals and days. How can anyone hope to order the chaos thatconstitutes that infinite, formless variation: man? The principle:"Love thy neighbour" is hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian, but moreacceptable because it includes malice. No pity. After the carnage weare left with the hope of a purified humanity. I always speak aboutmyself because I don't want to convince, and I have no right to dragothers in my wake, I'm not compelling anyone to follow me, becauseeveryone makes his art in his own way, if he knows anything about thejoy that rises like an arrow up to the astral strata, or that whichdescends into the mines stewn with the flowers of corpses and fertilespasms. Stalactites: look everywhere for them, in creches magnified bypain, eyes as white as angels' hares. Thus DADA was born1 , out of aneed for independence, out of mistrust for the community. People whojoin us keep their freedom. We don't accept any theories. We've hadenough of the cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formalideas. Do we make art in order to earn money and keep the dearbourgeoisie happy? Rhymes have the smack of money, and inflexion slides along the line of the stomach in profile. Every group ofartists has ended up at this bank, straddling various comets. Leavingthe door open to the possibility of wallowing in comfort and food.MANIFESTOOFSURREALISMBYANDR� BRETON (1924)So strong is the belief in life, in what is most fragile in life �real life, I mean � that in the end this belief is lost. Man, thatinveterate dreamer, daily more discontent with his destiny, hastrouble assessing the objects he has been led to use, objects that hisnonchalance has brought his way, or that he has earned through his ownefforts, almost always through his own efforts, for he has agreed towork, at least he has not refused to try his luck (or what he callshis luck!). At this point he feels extremely modest: he knows whatwomen he has had, what silly affairs he has been involved in; he isunimpressed by his wealth or his poverty, in this respect he is stilla newborn babe and, as for the approval of his conscience, I confessthat he does very nicely without it. If he still retains a certainlucidity, all he can do is turn back toward his childhood which,however his guides and mentors may have botched it, still strikes himas somehow charming. There, the absence of any known restrictionsallows him the perspective of several lives lived at once; thisillusion becomes firmly rooted within him; now he is only interestedin the fleeting, the extreme facility of everything. Children set off each day without a worry in the world. Everything is near at hand, theworst material conditions are fine. The woods are white or black, onewill never sleep.

But it is true that we would not dare venture so far, it is not merelya question of distance. Threat is piled upon threat, one yields,abandons a portion of the terrain to be conquered. This imaginationwhich knows no bounds is henceforth allowed to be exercised only instrict accordance with the laws of an arbitrary utility; it isincapable of assuming this inferior role for very long and, in the vicinity of the twentieth year, generally prefers to abandon man tohis lusterless fate.Though he may later try to pull himself together on occasion, havingfelt that he is losing by slow degrees all reason for living,incapable as he has become of being able to rise to some exceptionalsituation such as love, he will hardly succeed. This is because hehenceforth belongs body and soul to an imperative practical necessitywhich demands his constant attention. None of his gestures will beexpansive, none of his ideas generous or far-reaching. In his mind�seye, events real or imagined will be seen only as they relate to awelter of similar events, events in which he has not participated,abortive events. What am I saying: he will judge them in relationshipto one of these events whose consequences are more reassuring than theothers. On no account will he view them as his salvation. Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality.There remains madness, "the madness that one locks up," as it hasaptly been described. That madness or another�. We all know, in fact,that the insane owe their incarceration to a tiny number of legallyreprehensible acts and that, were it not for these acts their freedom(or what we see as their freedom) would not be threatened. I amwilling to admit that they are, to some degree, victims of their imagination, in that it induces them not to pay attention to certainrules � outside of which the species feels threatened � which we areall supposed to know and respect. But their profound indifference tothe way in which we judge them, and even to the various punishmentsmeted out to them, allows us to suppose that they derive a great dealof comfort and consolation from their imagination, that they enjoytheir madness sufficiently to endure the thought that its validitydoes not extend beyond themselves. And, indeed, hallucinations,illusions, etc., are not a source of trifling pleasure. The bestcontrolled sensuality partakes of it, and I know that there are manyevenings when I would gladly that pretty hand which, during the lastpages of Taine�s L�Intelligence, indulges in some curious misdeeds. Icould spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane.These people are honest to a fault, and their naivet� has no peer butmy own. Christopher Columbus should have set out to discover Americawith a boatload of madmen. And note how this madness has taken shape,and endured.It is not the fear of madness which will oblige us to leave the flagof imagination furled.The case against the realistic attitude demands to be examined,following the case against the materialistic attitude. The latter,more poetic in fact than the former, admittedly implies on the part ofman a kind of monstrous pride which, admittedly, is monstrous, but nota new and more complete decay. It should above all be viewed as awelcome reaction against certain ridiculous tendencies ofspiritualism. Finally, it is not incompatible with a certain nobilityof thought.By contrast, the realistic attitude, inspired by positivism, fromSaint Thomas Aquinas to Anatole France, clearly seems to me to behostile to any intellectual or moral advancement. I loathe it, for itis made up of mediocrity, hate, and dull conceit. It is this attitudewhich today gives birth to these ridiculous books, these insultingplays. It constantly feeds on and derives strength from the newspapersand stultifies both science and art by assiduously flattering thelowest of tastes; clarity bordering on stupidity, a dog�s life. Theactivity of the best minds feels the effects of it; the law of thelowest common denominator finally prevails upon them as it does upon the others. An amusing result of this state of affairs, in literaturefor example, is the generous supply of novels. Each person adds hispersonal little "observation" to the whole. As a cleansing antidote toall this, M. Paul Val�ry recently suggested that an anthology becompiled in which the largest possible number of opening passages fromnovels be offered; the resulting insanity, he predicted, would be asource of considerable edification. The most famous authors would beincluded. Such a though reflects great credit on Paul Val�ry who, sometime

ago, speaking of novels, assured me that, so far as he wasconcerned, he would continue to refrain from writing: "The Marquisewent out at five." But has he kept his word?If the purely informative style, of which the sentence just quoted isa prime example, is virtually the rule rather than the exception inthe novel form, it is because, in all fairness, the author�s ambitionis severely circumscribed. The circumstantial, needlessly specificnature of each of their notations leads me to believe that they areperpetrating a joke at my expense. I am spared not even one of thecharacter�s slightest vacillations: will he be fairhaired? what willhis name be? will we first meet him during the summer? So manyquestions resolved once and for all, as chance directs; the onlydiscretionary power left me is to close the book, which I am carefulto do somewhere in the vicinity of the first page. And thedescriptions! There is nothing to which their vacuity can be compared;they are nothing but so many superimposed images taken from some stockcatalogue, which the author utilizes more and more whenever hechooses; he seizes the opportunity to slip me his postcards, he triesto make me agree with him about the clich�s:The small room into which the young man was shown was covered withyellow wallpaper: there were geraniums in the windows, which werecovered with muslin curtains; the setting sun cast a harsh light overthe entire setting�. There was nothing special about the room. Thefurniture, of yellow wood, was all very old. A sofa with a tall backturned down, an oval table opposite the sofa, a dressing table and amirror set against the pierglass, some chairs along the walls, two orthree etchings of no value portraying some German girls with birds intheir hands � such were the furnishings. (Dostoevski, Crime andPunishment)I am in no mood to admit that the mind is interested in occupyingitself with such matters, even fleetingly. It may be argued that thisschool-boy description has its place, and that at this juncture of thebook the author has his reasons for burdening me. Nevertheless he iswasting his time, for I refuse to go into his room. Others� lazinessor fatigue does not interest me. I have too unstable a notion of thecontinuity of life to equate or compare my moments of depression orweakness with my best moments. When one ceases to feel, I am of theopinion one should keep quiet. And I would like it understood that Iam not accusing or condemning lack of originality as such. I am onlysaying that I do not take particular note of the empty moments of mylife, that it may be unworthy for any man to crystallize those whichseem to him to be so. I shall, with your permission, ignore thedescription of that room, and many more like it.Not so fast, there; I�m getting into the area of psychology, a subjectabout which I shall be careful not to joke.The author attacks a character and, this being settled upon, paradeshis hero to and fro across the world. No matter what happens, this hero, whose actions and reactions are admirably predictable, iscompelled not to thwart or upset -- even though he looks as though heis -- the calculations of which he is the object. The currents of lifecan appear to lift him up, roll him over, cast him down, he will stillbelong to this readymade human type. A simple game of chess whichdoesn't interest me in the least -- man, whoever he may be, being forme a mediocre opponent. What I cannot bear are those wretcheddiscussions relative to such and such a move, since winning or losingis not in question. And if the game is not worth the candle, ifobjective reason does a frightful job -- as indeed it does -- ofserving him who calls upon it, is it not fitting and proper to avoidall contact with these categories? "Diversity is so vast that everydifferent tone of voice, every step, cough, every wipe of the nose,every sneeze...."* (Pascal.) If in a cluster of grapes there are notwo alike, why do you want me to describe this grape by the other, byall the others, why do you want me to make a palatable grape? Ourbrains are dulled by the incurable mania of wanting to make theunknown known, classifiable. The desire for analysis wins out over thesentiments.** (Barr�s, Proust.) The result is statements of unduelength whose persuasive power is attributable solely to theirstrangeness and which impress the reader only by the abstract qualityof their vocabulary, which moreover is ill-defined. If the generalideas that philosophy has thus far come up with as topics ofdiscussion revealed by their very nature their definitive incursioninto a broader or more general area. I would be

the first to greet thenews with joy. But up till now it has been nothing but idle repartee;the flashes of wit and other niceties vie in concealing from us thetrue thought in search of itself, instead of concentrating onobtaining successes. It seems to me that every act is its ownjustification, at least for the person who has been capable ofcommitting it, that it is endowed with a radiant power which theslightest gloss is certain to diminish. Because of this gloss, it evenin a sense ceases to happen. It gains nothing to be thusdistinguished. Stendhal's heroes are subject to the comments andappraisals -- appraisals which are more or less successful -- made bythat author, which add not one whit to their glory. Where we reallyfind them again is at the point at which Stendahl has lost them.We are still living under the reign of logic: this, of course, is whatI have been driving at. But in this day and age logical methods areapplicable only to solving problems of secondary interest. Theabsolute rationalism that is still in vogue allows us to consider onlyfacts relating directly to our experience. Logical ends, on thecontrary, escape us. It is pointless to add that experience itself hasfound itself increasingly circumscribed. It paces back and forth in acage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge. Ittoo leans for support on what is most immediately expedient, and it isprotected by the sentinels of common sense. Under the pretense ofcivilization and progress, we have managed to banish from the mindeverything that may rightly or wrongly be termed superstition, orfancy; forbidden is any kind of search for truth which is not inconformance with accepted practices. It was, apparently, by purechance that a part of our mental world which we pretended not to beconcerned with any longer -- and, in my opinion by far the mostimportant part -- has been brought back to light. For this we mustgive thanks to the discoveries of Sigmund Freud. On the basis of thesediscoveries a current of opinion is finally forming by means of whichthe human explorer will be able to carry his investigation muchfurther, authorized as he will henceforth be not to confine himselfsolely to the most summary realities. The imagination is perhaps on the point of reasserting itself, of reclaiming its rights. If thedepths of our mind contain within it strange forces capable ofaugmenting those on the surface, or of waging a victorious battleagainst them, there is every reason to seize them -- first to seizethem, then, if need be, to submit them to the control of our reason.The analysts themselves have everything to gain by it. But it is worth noting that no means has been designated a priori for carrying outthis undertaking, that until further notice it can be construed to bethe province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success is notdependent upon the more or less capricious paths that will befollowed.Freud very rightly brought his critical faculties to bear upon thedream. It is, in fact, inadmissible that this considerable portion ofpsychic activity (since, at least from man's birth until his death,thought offers no solution of continuity, the sum of the moments ofthe dream, from the point of view of time, and taking intoconsideration only the time of pure dreaming, that is the dreams ofsleep, is not inferior to the sum of the moments of reality, or, to bemore precisely limiting, the moments of waking) has still today beenso grossly neglected. I have always been amazed at the way an ordinaryobserver lends so much more credence and attaches so much moreimportance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams. It isbecause man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all the plaything ofhis memory, and in its normal state memory takes pleasure in weaklyretracing for him the circumstances of the dream, in stripping it ofany real importance, and in dismissing the only determinant from thepoint where he thinks he has left it a few hours before: this firmhope, this concern. He is under the impression of continuing somethingthat is worthwhile. Thus the dream finds itself reduced to a mereparenthesis, as is the night. And, like the night, dreams generallycontribute little to furthering our understanding. This curious stateof affairs seems to me to call for certain reflections:1) Within the limits where they operate (or are thought to operate)dreams give every evidence of being continuous and show signs oforganization. Memory alone arrogates to itself the right to excerptfrom dreams, to ignore the transitions, and to depict for us rather aseries of dreams than the dream itself. By the same token,

at anygiven moment we have only a distinct notion of realities, thecoordination of which is a question of will.* (Account must be takenof the depth of the dream. For the most part I retain only what I canglean from its most superficial layers. What I most enjoycontemplating about a dream is everything that sinks back below the surface in a waking state, everything I have forgotten about myactivities in the course of the preceding day, dark foliage, stupidbranches. In "reality," likewise, I prefer to fall.) What is worthnoting is that nothing allows us to presuppose a greater dissipationof the elements of which the dream is constituted. I am sorry to haveto speak about it according to a formula which in principle excludesthe dream. When will we have sleeping logicians, sleepingphilosophers? I would like to sleep, in order to surrender myself tothe dreamers, the way I surrender myself to those who read me witheyes wide open; in order to stop imposing, in this realm, theconscious rhythm of my thought. Perhaps my dream last night followsthat of the night before, and will be continued the next night, withan exemplary strictness. It's quite possible, as the saying goes. Andsince it has not been proved in the slightest that, in doing so, the"reality" with which I am kept busy continues to exist in the state ofdream, that it does not sink back down into the immemorial, why shouldI not grant to dreams what I occasionally refuse reality, that is,this value of certainty in itself which, in its own time, is not opento my repudiation? Why should I not expect from the sign of the dreammore than I expect from a degree of consciousness which is daily moreacute? Can't the dream also be used in solving the fundamentalquestions of life? Are these questions the same in one case as in theother and, in the dream, do these questions already exist? Is thedream any less restrictive or punitive than the rest? I am growing oldand, more than that reality to which I believe I subject myself, it isperhaps the dream, the difference with which I treat the dream, whichmakes me grow old.2) Let me come back again to the waking state. I have no choice but toconsider it a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the minddisplay, in this state, a strange tendency to lose its bearings (asevidenced by the slips and mistakes the secrets of which are justbeginning to be revealed to us), but, what is more, it does not appearthat, when the mind is functioning normally, it really responds toanything but the suggestions which come to it from the depths of thatdark night to which I commend it. However conditioned it may be, itsbalance is relative. It scarcely dares express itself and, if it does,it confines itself to verifying that such and such an idea, or suchand such a woman, has made an impression on it. What impression itwould be hard pressed to say, by which it reveals the degree of itssubjectivity, and nothing more. This idea, this woman, disturb it,they tend to make it less severe. What they do is isolate the mind fora second from its solvent and spirit it to heaven, as the beautifulprecipitate it can be, that it is. When all else fails, it then callsupon chance, a divinity even more obscure than the others to whom itascribes all its aberrations. Who can say to me that the angle bywhich that idea which affects it is offered, that what it likes in theeye of that woman is not precisely what links it to its dream, bindsit to those fundamental facts which, through its own fault, it haslost? And if things were different, what might it be capable of? Iwould like to provide it with the key to this corridor.3) The mind of the man who dreams is fully satisfied by what happensto him. The agonizing question of possibility is no longer pertinent.Kill, fly faster, love to your heart's content. And if you should die,are you not certain of reawaking among the dead? Let yourself becarried along, events will not tolerate your interference. You arenameless. The ease of everything is priceless.What reason, I ask, a reason so much vaster than the other, makesdreams seem so natural and allows me to welcome unreservedly a welter of episodes so strange that they could confound me now as I write? Andyet I can believe my eyes, my ears; this great day has arrived, thisbeast has spoken.If man's awaking is harder, if it breaks the spell too abruptly, it isbecause he has been led to make for himself too impoverished a notionof atonement.4) From the moment when it is subjected to a methodical examination,when, by means yet to be determined, we succeed in recording thecontents of dreams in their entirety (and that presupposes adiscipline of memory spanning generations; but let

us nonethelessbegin by noting the most salient facts), when its graph will expand with unparalleled volume and regularity, we may hope that themysteries which really are not will give way to the great Mystery. Ibelieve in the future resolution of these two states, dream andreality, which are seemingly so contradictory, into a kind of absolutereality, a surreality, if one may so speak. It is in quest of thissurreality that I am going, certain not to find it but too unmindfulof my death not to calculate to some slight degree the joys of its possession.A story is told according to which Saint-Pol-Roux, in times gone by, used to have a notice posted on the door of his manor house inCamaret, every evening before he went to sleep, which read: THE POETIS WORKING.A great deal more could be said, but in passing I merely wanted totouch upon a subject which in itself would require a very long andmuch more detailed discussion; I shall come back to it. At thisjuncture, my intention was merely to mark a point by noting the hateof the marvelous which rages in certain men, this absurdity beneathwhich they try to bury it. Let us not mince words: the marvelous isalways beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only themarvelous is beautiful.In the realm of literature, only the marvelous is capable offecundating works which belong to an inferior category such as thenovel, and generally speaking, anything that involves storytelling.Lewis' The Monk is an admirable proof of this. It is infused throughout with the presence of the marvelous. Long before the authorhas freed his main characters from all temporal constraints, one feelsthem ready to act with an unprecedented pride. This passion foreternity with which they are constantly stirred lends an unforgettableintensity to their torments, and to mine. I mean that this book, frombeginning to end, and in the purest way imaginable, exercises anexalting effect only upon that part of the mind which aspires to leavethe earth and that, stripped of an insignificant part of its plot,which belongs to the period in which it was written, it constitutes aparagon of precision and innocent grandeur.* (What is admirable aboutthe fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there isonly the real.) It seems to me none better has been done, and that thecharacter of Mathilda in particular is the most moving creation thatone can credit to this figurative fashion in literature. She is less a character than a continual temptation. And if a character is not atemptation, what is he? An extreme temptation, she. In The Monk the"nothing is impossible for him who dares try" gives it its full,convincing measure. Ghosts play a logical role in the book, since thecritical mind does not seize them in order to dispute them. Ambrosio'spunishment is likewise treated in a legitimate manner, since it is finally accepted by the critical faculty as a natural denouement.It may seem arbitrary on my part, when discussing the marvelous, tochoose this model, from which both the Nordic literatures and Orientalliteratures have borrowed time and time again, not to mention thereligious literatures of every country. This is because most of theexamples which these literatures could have furnished me with aretainted by puerility, for the simple reason that they are addressed tochildren. At an early age children are weaned on the marvelous, andlater on they fail to retain a sufficient virginity of mind tothoroughly enjoy fairy tales. No matter how charming they may be, agrown man would think he were reverting to childhood by nourishinghimself on fairy tales, and I am the first to admit that all suchtales are not suitable for him. The fabric of adorable improbabilitiesmust be made a trifle more subtle the older we grow, and we are stillat the age of waiting for this kind of spider.... But the faculties donot change radically. Fear, the attraction of the unusual, chance, thetaste for things extravagant are all devices which we can always callupon without fear of deception. There are fairy tales to be writtenfor adults, fairy tales still almost blue.The marvelous is not the same in every period of history: it partakesin some obscure way of a sort of general revelation only the fragmentsof which come down to us: they are the romantic ruins, the modernmannequin, or any other symbol capable of affecting the human sensibility for a period of time. In these areas which make us smile,there is still portrayed the incurable human restlessness, and this iswhy I take them into consideration and why I judge them inseparablefrom certain productions of genius

which are, more than the others,painfully afflicted by them. They are Villon's gibbets, Racine'sGreeks, Baudelaire's couches. They coincide with an eclipse of thetaste I am made to endure, I whose notion of taste is the image of abig spot. Amid the bad taste of my time I strive to go further thananyone else. It would have been I, had I lived in 1820, I "thebleeding nun," I who would not have spared this cunning and banal "letus conceal" whereof the parodical Cuisin speaks, it would have been I,I who would have reveled in the enormous metaphors, as he says, allphases of the "silver disk." For today I think of a castle, half ofwhich is not necessarily in ruins; this castle belongs to me, Ipicture it in a rustic setting, not far from Paris. The outbuildingsare too numerous to mention, and, as for the interior, it has beenfrightfully restored, in such manner as to leave nothing to be desiredfrom the viewpoint of comfort. Automobiles are parked before the door, concealed by the shade of trees. A few of my friends are living hereas permanent guests: there is Louis Aragon leaving; he only has timeenough to say hello; Philippe Soupault gets up with the stars, andPaul Eluard, our great Eluard, has not yet come home. There are RobertDesnos and Roger Vitrac out on the grounds poring over an ancientedict on duelling; Georges Auric, Jean Paulhan; Max Morise, who rowsso well, and Benjamin P�ret, busy with his equations with birds; andJoseph Delteil; and Jean Carrive; and Georges Limbour, and GeorgesLimbours (there is a whole hedge of Georges Limbours); and MarcelNoll; there is T. Fraenkel waving to us from his captive balloon,Georges Malkine, Antonin Artaud, Francis G�rard, Pierre Naville, J.-A.Boiffard, and after them Jacques Baron and his brother, handsome andcordial, and so many others besides, and gorgeous women, I might add. Nothing is too good for these young men, their wishes are, as towealth, so many commands. Francis Picabia comes to pay us a call, andlast week, in the hall of mirrors, we received a certain MarcelDuchamp whom we had not hitherto known. Picasso goes hunting in theneighborhood. The spirit of demoralization has elected domicile in thecastle, and it is with it we have to deal every time it is a questionof contact with our fellowmen, but the doors are always open, and onedoes not begin by "thanking" everyone, you know. Moreover, thesolitude is vast, we don't often run into one another. And anyway,isn't what matters that we be the masters of ourselves, the masters ofwomen, and of love too?I shall be proved guilty of poetic dishonesty: everyone will goparading about saying that I live on the rue Fontaine and that he willhave none of the water that flows therefrom. To be sure! But is hecertain that this castle into which I cordially invite him is an image? What if this castle really existed! My guests are there toprove it does; their whim is the luminous road that leads to it. Wereally live by our fantasies when we give free reign to them. And howcould what one might do bother the other, there, safely sheltered fromthe sentimental pursuit and at the trysting place of opportunities?Man proposes and disposes. He and he alone can determine whether he iscompletely master of himself, that is, whether he maintains the bodyof his desires, daily more formidable, in a state of anarchy. Poetryteaches him to. It bears within itself the perfect compensation forthe miseries we endure. It can also be an organizer, if ever, as theresult of a less intimate disappointment, we contemplate taking itseriously. The time is coming when it decrees the end of money and byitself will break the bread of heaven for the earth! There will still be gatherings on the public squares, and movements you never daredhope participate in. Farewell to absurd choices, the dreams of darkabyss, rivalries, the prolonged patience, the flight of the seasons,the artificial order of ideas, the ramp of danger, time foreverything! May you only take the trouble to practice poetry. Is itnot incumbent upon us, who are already living off it, to try andimpose what we hold to be our case for further inquiry?It matters not whether there is a certain disproportion between thisdefense and the illustration that will follow it. It was a question ofgoing back to the sources of poetic imagination and, what is more, of remaining there. Not that I pretend to have done so. It requires agreat deal of fortitude to try to set up one's abode in these distantregions where everything seems at first to be so awkward anddifficult, all the more so if one wants to try to take someone there.Besides, one is never sure of really being there. If one is

going toall that trouble, one might as well stop off somewhere else. Be thatas it may, the fact is that the way to these regions is clearlymarked, and that to attain the true goal is now merely a matter of thetravelers' ability to endure.We are all more or less aware of the road traveled. I was careful torelate, in the course of a study of the case of Robert Desnos entitled ENTR�E DES M�DIUMS,* (See Les Pas perdus, published by N.R.F.) that Ihad been led to" concentrate my attention on the more or less partialsentences which, when one is quite alone and on the verge of fallingasleep, become perceptible for the mind without its being possible todiscover what provoked them." I had then just attempted the poeticadventure with the minimum of risks, that is, my aspirations were thesame as they are today but I trusted in the slowness of formulation tokeep me from useless contacts, contacts of which I completelydisapproved. This attitude involved a modesty of thought certainvestiges of which I still retain. At the end of my life, I shalldoubtless manage to speak with great effort the way people speak, toapologize for my voice and my few remaining gestures. The virtue ofthe spoken word (and the written word all the more so) seemed to me toderive from the faculty of foreshortening in a striking manner theexposition (since there was exposition) of a small number of facts,poetic or other, of which I made myself the substance. I had come tothe conclusion that Rimbaud had not proceeded any differently. I wascomposing, with a concern for variety that deserved better, the finalpoems of Mont de pi�t�, that is, I managed to extract from the blanklines of this book an incredible advantage. These lines were theclosed eye to the operations of thought that I believed I was obligedto keep hidden from the reader. It was not deceit on my part, but mylove of shocking the reader. I had the illusion of a possiblecomplicity, which I had more and more difficulty giving up. I hadbegun to cherish words excessively for the space they allow aroundthem, for their tangencies with countless other words which I did notutter. The poem BLACK FOREST derives precisely from this state ofmind. It took me six months to write it, and you may take my word forit that I did not rest a single day. But this stemmed from the opinionI had of myself in those days, which was high, please don't judge metoo harshly. I enjoy these stupid confessions. At that point cubist pseudo-poetry was trying to get a foothold, but it had emergeddefenseless from Picasso's brain, and I was thought to be as dull asdishwater (and still am). I had a sneaking suspicion, moreover, thatfrom the viewpoint of poetry I was off on the wrong road, but I hedgedmy bet as best I could, defying lyricism with salvos of definitionsand formulas (the Dada phenomena were waiting in the wings, ready to come on stage) and pretending to search for an application of poetryto advertising (I went so far as to claim that the world would end,not with a good book but with a beautiful advertisement for heaven orfor hell).In those days, a man at least as boring as I, Pierre Reverdy, was writing:The image is a pure creation of the mind. It cannot be born from a comparison but from a juxtaposition of twomore or less distant realities.The more the relationship between the two juxtaposed realities isdistant and true, the stronger the image will be -- the greater itsemotional power and poetic reality...* (Nord-Sud, March 1918)These words, however sibylline for the uninitiated, were extremelyrevealing, and I pondered them for a long time. But the image eludedme. Reverdy's aesthetic, a completely a posteriori aesthetic, led meto mistake the effects for the causes. It was in the midst of all thisthat I renounced irrevocably my point of view.One evening, therefore, before I fell asleep, I perceived, so clearlyarticulated that it was impossible to change a word, but nonethelessremoved from the sound of any voice, a rather strange phrase whichcame to me without any apparent relationship to the events in which,my consciousness agrees, I was then involved, a phrase which seemed tome insistent, a phrase, if I may be so bold, which was knocking at thewindow. I took cursory note of it and prepared to move on when itsorganic character caught my attention. Actually, this phraseastonished me: unfortunately I cannot remember it exactly, but it wassomething like: "There is a man cut in two by the window," but there could be no question of ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the faintvisual image* (Were I a painter, this visual depiction would doubtlesshave become more important

for me than the other. It was mostcertainly my previous predispositions which decided the matter. Sincethat day, I have had occasion to concentrate my attention voluntarilyon similar apparitions, and I know they are fully as clear as auditory phenomena. With a pencil and white sheet of paper to hand, I couldeasily trace their outlines. Here again it is not a matter of drawing,but simply of tracing. I could thus depict a tree, a wave, a musicalinstrument, all manner of things of which I am presently incapable ofproviding even the roughest sketch. I would plunge into it, convincedthat I would find my way again, in a maze of lines which at firstglance would seem to be going nowhere. And, upon opening my eyes, Iwould get the very strong impression of something "never seen." Theproof of what I am saying has been provided many times by RobertDesnos: to be convinced, one has only to leaf through the pages ofissue number 36 of Feuilles libres which contains several of hisdrawings (Romeo and Juliet, A Man Died This Morning, etc.) which weretaken by this magazine as the drawings of a madman and published assuch.) of a man walking cut half way up by a window perpendicular tothe axis of his body. Beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, what Isaw was the simple reconstruction in space of a man leaning out awindow. But this window having shifted with the man, I realized that Iwas dealing with an image of a fairly rare sort, and all I could thinkof was to incorporate it into my material for poetic construction. Nosooner had I granted it this capacity than it was in fact succeeded bya whole series of phrases, with only brief pauses between them, whichsurprised me only slightly less and left me with the impression oftheir being so gratuitous that the control I had then exercised uponmyself seemed to me illusory and all I could think of was putting anend to the interminable quarrel raging within me.* (Knut Hamsumascribes this sort of revelation to which I had been subjected asderiving from hunger, and he may not be wrong. (The fact is I did noteat every day during that period of my life). Most certainly themanifestations that he describes in these terms are clearly the same:"The following day I awoke at an early hour. It was still dark. Myeyes had been open for a long time when I heard the clock in theapartment above strike five. I wanted to go back to sleep, but Icouldn't; I was wide awake and a thousand thoughts were crowdingthrough my mind."Suddenly a few good fragments came to mind, quite suitable to be usedin a rough draft, or serialized; all of a sudden I found, quite bychance, beautiful phrases, phrases such as I had never written. I repeated them to myself slowly, word by word; they were excellent. Andthere were still more coming. I got up and picked up a pencil and somepaper that were on a table behind my bed. It was as though some veinhad burst within me, one word followed another, found its properplace, adapted itself to the situation, scene piled upon scene, theaction unfolded, one retort after another welled up in my mind, I wasenjoying myself immensely. Thoughts came to me so rapidly andcontinued to flow so abundantly that I lost a whole host of delicatedetails, because my pencil could not keep up with them, and yet I wentas fast as I could, my hand in constant motion, I did not lose aminute. The sentences continued to well up within me, I was pregnantwith my subject."Apollinaire asserted that Chirico's first paintings were done underthe influence of cenesthesic disorders (migraines, colics, etc.).)Completely occupied as I still was with Freud at that time, and familiar as I was with his methods of examination which I had someslight occasion to use on some patients during the war, I resolved toobtain from myself what we were trying to obtain from them, namely, amonologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention onthe part of the critical faculties, a monologue consequentlyunencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought. It had seemed to me, and still does-- the way in which the phrase about the man cut in two had come to meis an indication of it -that the speed of thought is no greater thanthe speed of speech, and that thought does not necessarily defylanguage, nor even the fast-moving pen. It was in this frame of mindthat Philippe Soupault -- to whom I had confided these initial conclusions � and I decided to blacken some paper, with a praiseworthydisdain for what might result from a literary point of view. The easeof execution did the rest. By the end of the first day we were able toread to ourselves some fifty or

so pages obtained in this manner, andbegin to compare our results. All in all, Soupault's pages and mineproved to be remarkably similar: the same overconstruction,shortcomings of a similar nature, but also, on both our parts, theillusion of an extraordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, aconsiderable choice of images of a quality such that we would not havebeen capable of preparing a single one in longhand, a very specialpicturesque quality and, here and there, a strong comical effect. Theonly difference between our two texts seemed to me to deriveessentially from our respective tempers. Soupault's being less staticthan mine, and, if he does not mind my offering this one slightcriticism, from the fact that he had made the error of putting a fewwords by way of titles at the top of certain pages, I suppose in aspirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give credit where credit is due and say that he constantly and vigorously opposed anyeffort to retouch or correct, however slightly, any passage of thiskind which seemed to me unfortunate. In this he was, to be sure,absolutely right.* (I believe more and more in the infallibility of mythought with respect to myself, and this is too fair. Nonetheless,with this thought-writing, where one is at the mercy of the firstoutside distraction, "ebullutions" can occur. It would be inexcusablefor us to pretend otherwise. By definition, thought is strong, andincapable of catching itself in error. The blame for these obviousweaknesses must be placed on suggestions that come to it fromwithout.) It is, in fact, difficult to appreciate fairly the variouselements present: one may even go so far as to say that it is impossible to appreciate them at a first reading. To you who write,these elements are, on the surface, as strange to you as they are toanyone else, and naturally you are wary of them. Poetically speaking,what strikes you about them above all is their extreme degree ofimmediate absurdity, the quality of this absurdity, upon closerscrutiny, being to give way to everything admissible, everythinglegitimate in the world: the disclosure of a certain number ofproperties and of facts no less objective, in the final analysis, thanthe others.In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire, who had just died and who, onseveral occasions, seemed to us to have followed a discipline of thiskind, without however having sacrificed to it any mediocre literarymeans, Soupault and I baptized the new mode of pure expression whichwe had at our disposal and which we wished to pass on to our friends,by the name of SURREALISM. I believe that there is no point today indwelling any further on this word and that the meaning we gave itinitially has generally prevailed over its Apollinarian sense. To beeven fairer, we could probably have taken over the wordSUPERNATURALISM employed by G�rard de Nerval in his dedication to theFilles de feu.* (And also by Thomas Carlyle in Sartor Resartus ([BookIII] Chapter VIII, "Natural Supernaturalism"), 1833-34.) It appears,in fact, that Nerval possessed to a tee the spirit with which we claima kinship, Apollinaire having possessed, on the contrary, naught butthe letter, still imperfect, of Surrealism, having shown himselfpowerless to give a valid theoretical idea of it. Here are twopassages by Nerval which seem to me to be extremely significant inthis respect:I am going to explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of whichyou have spoken a short while ago. There are, as you know, certainstorytellers who cannot invent without identifying with the characterstheir imagination has dreamt up. You may recall how convincingly ourold friend Nodier used to tell how it had been his misfortune duringthe Revolution to be guillotined; one became so completely convincedof what he was saying that one began to wonder how he had managed tohave his head glued back on....And since you have been indiscreet enough to quote one of thesonnets composed in this SUPERNATURALISTIC dream-state, as the Germanswould call it, you will have to hear them all. You will find them atthe end of the volume. They are hardly any more obscure than Hegel'smetaphysics or Swedenborg's MEMORABILIA, and would lose their charm ifthey were explained, if such were possible; at least admit the worthof the expression....** (See also L'Id�or�alisme by Saint-PolRoux.)Those who might dispute our right to employ the term SURREALISM in thevery special sense that we understand it are being extremelydishonest, for there can be no doubt that this word had no currencybefore we came along. Therefore, I am

defining it once and for all:SURREALISM, n. Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which oneproposes to express -- verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner -- the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by thethought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exemptfrom any aesthetic or moral concern.ENCYCLOPEDIA. Philosophy. Surrealism is based on the belief in thesuperior reality of certain forms of previously neglectedassociations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested playof thought. It tends to ruin once and for all all other psychicmechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solving all the principal problems of life. The following have performed acts ofABSOLUTE SURREALISM: Messrs. Aragon, Baron, Boiffard, Breton, Carrive,Crevel, Delteil, Desnos, Eluard, G�rard, Limbour, Malkine, Morise,Naville, Noll, P�ret, Picon, Soupault, Vitrac.They seem to be, up to the present time, the only ones, and there would be no ambiguity about it were it not for the case of IsidoreDucasse, about whom I lack information. And, of course, if one is tojudge them only superficially by their results, a good number of poetscould pass for Surrealists, beginning with Dante and, in his finermoments, Shakespeare. In the course of the various attempts I havemade to reduce what is, by breach of trust, called genius, I havefound nothing which in the final analysis can be attributed to anyother method than that.Young's Nights are Surrealist from one end to the other; unfortunatelyit is a priest who is speaking, a bad priest no doubt, but a priestnonetheless.Swift is Surrealist in malice,Sade is Surrealist in sadism.Chateaubriand is Surrealist in exoticism.Constant is Surrealist in politics.Hugo is Surrealist when he isn't stupid.Desbordes-Valmore is Surrealist in love.Bertrand is Surrealist in the past. Rabbe is Surrealist in death.Poe is Surrealist in adventure.Baudelaire is Surrealist in morality.Rimbaud is Surrealist in the way he lived, and elsewhere. Mallarm� is Surrealist when he is confiding.Jarry is Surrealist in absinthe. Nouveau is Surrealist in the kiss.Saint-Pol-Roux is Surrealist in his use of symbols.Fargue is Surrealist in the atmosphere.Vach� is Surrealist in me.Reverdy is Surrealist at home.Saint-Jean-Perse is Surrealist at a distance.Roussel is Surrealist as a storyteller.Etc.I would like to stress the point: they are not always Surrealists, inthat I discern in each of them a certain number of preconceived ideasto which -- very naively! -- they hold. They hold to them because theyhad not heard the Surrealist voice, the one that continues to preachon the eve of death and above the storms, because they did not want toserve simply to orchestrate the marvelous score. They were instrumentstoo full of pride, and this is why they have not always produced aharmonious sound.* (I could say the same of a number of philosophersand painters, including, among the latter, Uccello, from painters ofthe past, and, in the modern era, Seurat, Gustave Moreau, Matisse (in "La Musique," for example), Derain, Picasso, (by far the most pure),Braque, Duchamp, Picabia, Chirico (so admirable for so long), Klee,Man Ray, Max Ernst, and, one so close to us, Andr� Masson.)But we, who have made no effort whatsoever to filter, who in our workshave made ourselves into simple receptacles of so many echoes, modestrecording instruments who are not mesmerized by the drawings we are making, perhaps we serve an even nobler cause. Thus do we render withintegrity the "talent" which has been lent to us. You might as wellspeak of the talent of this platinum ruler, this mirror, this door,and of the sky, if you like.We do not have any talent; ask Philippe Soupault:"Anatomical products of manufacture and lowincome dwellings willdestroy the tallest cities."Ask Roger Vitrac:"No sooner had I called forth the marble-admiral than he turned on hisheel like a horse which rears at the sight of the North star andshowed me, in the plane of his two-pointed cocked hat, a region whereI was to spend my life."Ask Paul Eluard:"This is an ofttold tale that I tell, a famous poem that I reread: Iam leaning against a wall, with my verdant ears and my lips burned toa crisp."Ask Max Morise:"The bear of the caves and his friend the bittern, the vol-au-vent andhis valet the wind, the Lord Chancellor with his Lady, the scarecrowfor sparrows and his accomplice the sparrow, the test tube and hisdaughter the needle, this carnivore and his brother the carnival, thesweeper and his monocle, the Mississippi and its little dog, the coraland its jug of milk, the Miracle and its Good Lord, might just as wellgo and

disappear from the surface of the sea."Ask Joseph Delteil:"Alas! I believe in the virtue of birds. And a feather is all it takesto make me die laughing."Ask Louis Aragon:"During a short break in the party, as the players were gatheringaround a bowl of flaming punch, I asked a tree if it still had its redribbon."And ask me, who was unable to keep myself from writing the serpentine,distracting lines of this preface.Ask Robert Desnos, he who, more than any of us, has perhaps got closest to the Surrealist truth, he who, in his still unpublishedworks* (NOUVELLES H�BRIDES, D�SORDRE FORMEL, DEUIL POUR DEUIL.) and inthe course of the numerous experiments he has been a party to, hasfully justified the hope I placed in Surrealism and leads me tobelieve that a great deal more will still come of it. Desnos speaksSurrealist at will. His extraordinary agility in orally following his thought is worth as much to us as any number of splendid speecheswhich are lost, Desnos having better things to do than record them. Hereads himself like an open book, and does nothing to retain the pages,which fly away in the windy wake of his life.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �SECRETS OF THE MAGICALSURREALIST ARTWritten Surrealist compositionorfirst and last draftAfter you have settled yourself in a place as favorable as possible tothe concentration of your mind upon itself, have writing materialsbrought to you. Put yourself in as passive, or receptive, a state ofmind as you can. Forget about your genius, your talents, and thetalents of everyone else. Keep reminding yourself that literature isone of the saddest roads that leads to everything. Write quickly,without any preconceived subject, fast enough so that you will not remember what you're writing and be tempted to reread what you havewritten. The first sentence will come spontaneously, so compelling isthe truth that with every passing second there is a sentence unknownto our consciousness which is only crying out to be heard. It issomewhat of a problem to form an opinion about the next sentence; itdoubtless partakes both of our conscious activity and of the other, ifone agrees that the fact of having written the first entails a minimumof perception. This should be of no importance to you, however; to alarge extent, this is what is most interesting and intriguing aboutthe Surrealist game. The fact still remains that punctuation no doubtresists the absolute continuity of the flow with which we areconcerned, although it may seem as necessary as the arrangement ofknots in a vibrating cord. Go on as long as you like. Put your trustin the inexhaustible nature of the murmur. If silence threatens tosettle in if you should ever happen to make a mistake -- a mistake,perhaps due to carelessness -- break off without hesitation with anoverly clear line. Following a word the origin of which seemssuspicious to you, place any letter whatsoever, the letter "l" for example, always the letter "l," and bring the arbitrary back by makingthis letter the first of the following word.How not to be bored any longer when with others This is very difficult. Don't be at home for anyone, and occasionally,when no one has forced his way in, interrupting you in the midst ofyour Surrealist activity, and you, crossing your arms, say: "Itdoesn't matter, there are doubtless better things to do or not do.Interest in life is indefensible Simplicity, what is going on insideme, is still tiresome to me!" or an other revolting banality.To make speechesJust prior to the elections, in the first country which deems itworthwhile to proceed in this kind of public expression of opinion,have yourself put on the ballot. Each of us has within himself thepotential of an orator: multicolored loin cloths, glass trinkets ofwords. Through Surrealism he will take despair unawares in itspoverty. One night, on a stage, he will, by himself, carve up theeternal heaven, that Peau de l'ours. He will promise so much that anypromises he keeps will be a source of wonder and dismay. In answer tothe claims of an entire people he will give a partial and ludicrousvote. He will make the bitterest enemies partake of a secret desirewhich will blow up the countries. And in this he will succeed simplyby allowing himself to be moved by the immense word which dissolves into pity and revolves in hate. Incapable of failure, he will play onthe velvet of all failures. He will be truly elected, and women willlove him with an allconsuming passion.To write false novelsWhoever you may be, if the spirit moves you burn a few laurel leavesand, without wishing to tend this meager fire, you will

begin to writea novel. Surrealism will allow you to: all you have to do is set the needle marked "fair" at "action," and the rest will follow naturally.Here are some characters rather different in appearance; their namesin your handwriting are a question of capital letters, and they willconduct themselves with the same ease with respect to active verbs asdoes the impersonal pronoun "it" with respect to words such as "israining," "is," "must," etc. They will command them, so to speak, andwherever observation, reflection, and the faculty of generalizationprove to be of no help to you, you may rest assured that they willcredit you with a thousand intentions you never had. Thus endowed witha tiny number of physical and moral characteristics, these beings whoin truth owe you so little will thereafter deviate not one iota from acertain line of conduct about which you need not concern yourself anyfurther. Out of this will result a plot more or less clever in appearance, justifying point by point this moving or comfortingdenouement about which you couldn't care less. Your false novel willsimulate to a marvelous degree a real novel; you will be rich, andeveryone will agree that "you've really got a lot of guts," since it'salso in this region that this something is located.Of course, by an analogous method, and provided you ignore what youare reviewing, you can successfully devote yourself to false literarycriticism.How to catch the eye of a womanyou pass in the street .................................................................................. .................................................................................. .................................................................................. .................................................................................. .................................................................................. ......................................................................Against deathSurrealism will usher you into death, which is a secret society. Itwill glove your hand, burying therein the profound M with which theword Memory begins. Do not forget to make proper arrangements for yourlast will and testament: speaking personally, I ask that I be taken tothe cemetery in a moving van. May my friends destroy every last copyof the printing of the Speech concerning the Modicum of Reality.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Language has been given to man so that he may make Surrealist use ofit. To the extent that he is required to make himself understood, hemanages more or less to express himself, and by so doing to fulfillcertain functions culled from among the most vulgar. Speaking, readinga letter, present no real problem for him, provided that, in so doing,he does not set himself a goal above the mean, that is, provided heconfines himself to carrying on a conversation (for the pleasure ofconversing) with someone. He is not worried about the words that aregoing to come, nor about the sentence which will follow after thesentence he is just completing. To a very simple question, he will becapable of making a lightning-like reply. In the absence of minor ticsacquired through contact with others, he can without any ado offer anopinion on a limited number of subjects; for that he does not need to "count up to ten" before speaking or to formulate anything whateverahead of time. Who has been able to convince him that this faculty ofthe first draft will only do him a disservice when he makes up hismind to establish more delicate relationships? There is no subjectabout which he should refuse to talk, to write about prolifically. Allthat results from listening to oneself, from reading what one haswritten, is the suspension of the occult, that admirable help. I am inno hurry to understand myself (basta! I shall always understandmyself). If such and such a sentence of mine turns out to be somewhatdisappointing, at least momentarily, I place my trust in the followingsentence to redeem its sins; I carefully refrain from starting it overagain or polishing it. The only thing that might prove fatal to mewould be the slightest loss of impetus. Words, groups of words whichfollow one another, manifest among themselves the greatest solidarity. It is not up to me to favor one group over the other. It is up to amiraculous equivalent to intervene -- and intervene it does.Not only does this unrestricted language, which I am trying to renderforever valid, which seems to me to adapt itself to all of life'scircumstances, not only does this language not deprive me

of any of mymeans, on the contrary it lends me an extraordinary lucidity, and it does so in an area where I least expected it. I shall even go so faras to maintain that it instructs me and, indeed, I have had occasionto use surreally words whose meaning I have forgotten. I wassubsequently able to verify that the way in which I had used themcorresponded perfectly with their definition. This would leave one to believe that we do not "learn," that all we ever do is "relearn."There are felicitous turns of speech that I have thus familiarizedmyself with. And I am not talking about the poetic consciousness ofobjects which I have been able to acquire only after a spiritualcontact with them repeated a thousand times over.The forms of Surrealist language adapt themselves best to dialogue.Here, two thoughts confront each other; while one is being delivered,the other is busy with it; but how is it busy with it? To assume thatit incorporates it within itself would be tantamount to admitting thatthere is a time during which it is possible for it to live completelyoff that other thought, which is highly unlikely. And, in fact, the attention it pays is completely exterior; it has only time enough toapprove or reject -- generally reject -- with all the consideration ofwhich man is capable. This mode of language, moreover, does not allowthe heart of the matter to be plumbed. My attention, prey to anentreaty which it cannot in all decency reject, treats the opposingthought as an enemy; in ordinary conversation, it "takes it up" almostalways on the words, the figures of speech, it employs; it puts me ina position to turn it to good advantage in my reply by distorting them. This is true to such a degree that in certain pathologicalstates of mind, where the sensorial disorders occupy the patient'scomplete attention, he limits himself, while continuing to answer thequestions, to seizing the last word spoken in his presence or the lastportion of the Surrealist sentence some trace of which he finds in hismind.Q. "How old are you?" A. "You." (Echolalia.)Q. "What is your name?" A. "Forty-five houses." (Ganser syndrome, orbeside-the-point replies.)There is no conversation in which some trace of this disorder does notoccur. The effort to be social which dictates it and the considerablepractice we have at it are the only things which enable us to concealit temporarily. It is also the great weakness of the book that it isin constant conflict with its best, by which I mean the mostdemanding, readers. In the very short dialogue that I concocted above between the doctor and the madman, it was in fact the madman who gotthe better of the exchange. Because, through his replies, he obtrudesupon the attention of the doctor examining him -- and because he isnot the person asking the questions. Does this mean that his thoughtat this point is stronger? Perhaps. He is free not to care any longerabout his age or name.Poetic Surrealism, which is the subject of this study, has focused itsefforts up to this point on reestablishing dialogue in its absolutetruth, by freeing both interlocutors from any obligations and politeness. Each of them simply pursues his soliloquy without tryingto derive any special dialectical pleasure from it and without tryingto impose anything whatsoever upon his neighbor. The remarks exchangedare not, as is generally the case, meant to develop some thesis,however unimportant it may be; they are as disaffected as possible. Asfor the reply that they elicit, it is, in principle, totallyindifferent to the personal pride of the person speaking. The words,the images are only so many springboards for the mind of the listener.In Les Champs magn�tiques, the first purely Surrealist work, this isthe way in which the pages grouped together under the title Barri�resmust be conceived of -- pages wherein Soupault and I show ourselves tobe impartial interlocutors.Surrealism does not allow those who devote themselves to it to forsakeit whenever they like. There is every reason to believe that it actson the mind very much as drugs do; like drugs, it creates a certainstate of need and can push man to frightful revolts. It also is, ifyou like, an artificial paradise, and the taste one has for it derivesfrom Baudelaire's criticism for the same reason as the others. Thusthe analysis of the mysterious effects and special pleasures it canproduce -- in many respects Surrealism occurs as a new vice which doesnot necessarily seem to be restricted to the happy few; like hashish,it has the ability to satisfy all manner of tastes -such an analysishas to be included in the present study.1. It is true of

Surrealist images as it is of opium images that mandoes not evoke them; rather they "come to him spontaneously,despotically. He cannot chase them away; for the will is powerless nowand no longer controls the faculties."* (Baudelaire.) It remains to beseen whether images have ever been "evoked." If one accepts, as I do, Reverdy's definition it does not seem possible to bring together,voluntarily, what he calls "two distant realities." The juxtapositionis made or not made, and that is the long and the short of it.Personally, I absolutely refuse to believe that, in Reverdy's work,images such asIn the brook, there is a song that flowsor:Day unfolded like a white tableclothor:The world goes back into a sackreveal the slightest degree of premeditation. In my opinion, it iserroneous to claim that "the mind has grasped the relationship" of tworealities in the presence of each other. First of all, it has seizednothing consciously. It is, as it were, from the fortuitousjuxtaposition of the two terms that a particular light has sprung, the light of the image, to which we are infinitely sensitive. The value ofthe image depends upon the beauty of the spark obtained; it is,consequently, a function of the difference of potential between thetwo conductors. When the difference exists only slightly, as in acomparison,* (Compare the image in the work of Jules Renard.) thespark is lacking. Now, it is not within man's power, so far as I can tell, to effect the juxtaposition of two realities so far apart. Theprinciple of the association of ideas, such as we conceive of it,militates against it. Or else we would have to revert to an ellipticalart, which Reverdy deplores as much as I. We are therefore obliged toadmit that the two terms of the image are not deduced one from theother by the mind for the specific purpose of producing the spark,that they are the simultaneous products of the activity I callSurrealist, reason's role being limited to taking note of, andappreciating, the luminous phenomenon.And just as the length of the spark increases to the extent that itoccurs in rarefied gases, the Surrealist atmosphere created byautomatic writing, which I have wanted to put within the reach ofeveryone, is especially conducive to the production of the mostbeautiful images. One can even go so far as to say that in thisdizzying race the images appear like the only guideposts of the mind.By slow degrees the mind becomes convinced of the supreme reality ofthese images. At first limiting itself to submitting to them, it soonrealizes that they flatter its reason, and increase its knowledgeaccordingly. The mind becomes aware of the limitless expanses whereinits desires are made manifest, where the pros and cons are constantlyconsumed, where its obscurity does not betray it. It goes forward,borne by these images which enrapture it, which scarcely leave it anytime to blow upon the fire in its fingers. This is the most beautifulnight of all, the lightningfilled night: day, compared to it, isnight.The countless kinds of Surrealist images would require aclassification which I do not intend to make today. To group themaccording to their particular affinities would lead me far afield;what I basically want to mention is their common virtue. For me, theirgreatest virtue, I must confess, is the one that is arbitrary to thehighest degree, the one that takes the longest time to translate intopractical language, either because it contains an immense amount ofseeming contradiction or because one of its terms is strangelyconcealed; or because, presenting itself as something sensational, it seems to end weakly (because it suddenly closes the angle of itscompass), or because it derives from itself a ridiculous formaljustification, or because it is of a hallucinatory kind, or because itvery naturally gives to the abstract the mask of the concrete, or theopposite, or because it implies the negation of some elementaryphysical property, or because it provokes laughter. Here, in order,are a few examples of it:The ruby of champagne. (LAUTR�AMONT)Beautiful as the law of arrested development of the breast in adults,whose propensity to growth is not in proportion to the quantity ofmolecules that their organism assimilates. (LAUTR�AMONT)A church stood dazzling as a bell. (PHILIPPE SOUPAULT)In Rrose S�lavy's sleep there is a dwarf issued from a well who comesto eat her bread at night. (ROBERT DESNOS)On the bridge the dew with the head of a tabby cat lulls itself tosleep. (ANDR� BRETON)A little to the left, in my firmament foretold, I see -- but it'sdoubtless but a mist of blood and murder -- the gleaming glass of

liberty's disturbances. (LOUIS ARAGON)In the forest aflameThe lions were fresh. (ROBERT VITRAC)The color of a woman's stockings is not necessarily in the likeness ofher eyes, which led a philosopher who it is pointless to mention, tosay: "Cephalopods have more reasons to hate progress than doquadrupeds."(MAX MORISE) 1st. Whether we like it or not, there is enough there to satisfyseveral demands of the mind. All these images seem to attest to thefact that the mind is ripe for something more than the benign joys itallows itself in general. This is the only way it has of turning toits own advantage the ideal quantity of events with which it isentrusted.* (Let us no forget that, according to Novalis' formula,"there are series of events which run parallel to real events. Men andcircumstances generally modify the ideal train of circumstances, sothat is seems imperfect; and their consequences are also equallyimperfect. Thus it was with the Reformation; instead of Protestantism,we got Lutheranism.") These images show it the extent of its ordinarydissipation and the drawbacks that it offers for it. In the finalanalysis, it's not such a bad thing for these images to upset themind, for to upset the mind is to put it in the wrong. The sentences Iquote make ample provision for this. But the mind which relishes themdraws therefrom the conviction that it is on the right track; on itsown, the mind is incapable of finding itself guilty of cavil; it has nothing to fear, since, moreover, it attempts to embrace everything.2nd. The mind which plunges into Surrealism relives with glowingexcitement the best part of its childhood. For such a mind, it issimilar to the certainty with which a person who is drowning reviewsonce more, in the space of less than a second, all the insurmountablemoments of his life. Some may say to me that the parallel is not veryencouraging. But I have no intention of encouraging those who tell methat. From childhood memories, and from a few others, there emanates asentiment of being unintegrated, and then later of having gone astray,which I hold to be the most fertile that exists. It is perhapschildhood that comes closest to one's "real life"; childhood beyond which man has at his disposal, aside from his laissez-passer, only afew complimentary tickets; childhood where everything neverthelessconspires to bring about the effective, risk-free possession ofoneself. Thanks to Surrealism, it seems that opportunity knocks asecond time. It is as though we were still running toward oursalvation, or our perdition. In the shadow we again see a precious terror. Thank God, it's still only Purgatory. With a shudder, we crosswhat the occultists call dangerous territory. In my wake I raise upmonsters that are lying in wait; they are not yet too ill-disposedtoward me, and I am not lost, since I fear them. Here are "theelephants with the heads of women and the flying lions" which used tomake Soupault and me tremble in our boots to meet, here is the "soluble fish" which still frightens me slightly. POISSON SOLUBLE, amI not the soluble fish, I was born under the sign of Pisces, and manis soluble in his thought! The flora and fauna of Surrealism areinadmissible.3rd. I do not believe in the establishment of a conventionalSurrealist pattern any time in the near future. The characteristicscommon to all the texts of this kind, including those I have justcited and many others which alone could offer us a logical analysisand a careful grammatical analysis, do not preclude a certainevolution of Surrealist prose in time. Coming on the heels of a largenumber of essays I have written in this vein over the past five years,most of which I am indulgent enough to think are extremely disordered,the short anecdotes which comprise the balance of this volume offer mea glaring proof of what I am saying. I do not judge them to be any more worthless, because of that, in portraying for the reader thebenefits which the Surrealist contribution is liable to make to hisconsciousness.Surrealist methods would, moreover, demand to beheard. Everything is valid when it comes to obtaining the desiredsuddenness from certain associations. The pieces of paper that Picassoand Braque insert into their work have the same value as the introduction of a platitude into a literary analysis of the mostrigorous sort. It is even permissible to entitle POEM what we get fromthe most random assemblage possible (observe, if you will, the syntax)of headlines and scraps of headlines cut out of the newspapers:POEMA burst of laughterof sapphire in the island of

CeylonThe most beautiful strawsHAVE A FADED COLORUNDER THE LOCKSon an isolated farmFROM DAY TO DAYthe pleasantgrows worsecoffeepreaches for its saintTHE DAILY ARTISAN OF YOUR BEAUTYMADAM,a pairof silk stockingsis notA leap into spaceA STAG Love above allEverything could be worked out so wellPARIS IS A BIG VILLAGEWatch out forthe fire that coversTHE PRAYERof fair weatherKnow thatThe ultraviolet rays have finished their taskshort and sweetTHE FIRST WHITE PAPEROF CHANCERed will be The wandering singerWHERE IS HE?in memoryin his houseAT THE SUITORS� BALLI doas I danceWhat people did, what they�re going to do�And we could offer many many more examples. The theater, philosophy,science, criticism would all succeed in finding their bearings there.I hasten to add that future Surrealist techniques do not interest me.Far more serious, in my opinion* (Whatever reservations I may be allowed to make concerning responsibility in general and themedico-legal considerations which determine an individual's degree ofresponsibility -- complete responsibility, irresponsibility, limitedresponsibility (sic) -- however difficult it may be for me to acceptthe principle of any kind of responsibility, I would like to know howthe first punishable offenses, the Surrealist character of which willbe clearly apparent, will be judged. Will the accused be acquitted, orwill he merely be given the benefit of the doubt because ofextenuating circumstances? It's a shame that the violation of the lawsgoverning the Press is today scarcely repressed, for if it were not wewould soon see a trial of this sort: the accused has published a bookwhich is an outrage to public decency. Several of his "most respectedand honorable" fellow citizens have lodged a complaint against him,and he is also charged with slander and libel. There are also allsorts of other charges against him, such as insulting and defaming thearmy, inciting to murder, rape, etc. The accused, moreover, wastes notime in agreeing with the accusers in "stigmatizing" most of the ideasexpressed. His only defense is claiming that he does not considerhimself to be the author of his book, said book being no more and noless than a Surrealist concoction which precludes any question ofmerit or lack of merit on the part of the person who signs it;further, that all he has done is copy a document without offering anyopinion thereon, and that he is at least as foreign to the accusedtext as is the presiding judge himself.What is true for the publication of a book will also hold true for awhole host of other acts as soon as Surrealist methods begin to enjoywidespread favor. When that happens, a new morality must besubstituted for the prevailing morality, the source of all our trialsand tribulations.) -- I have intimated it often enough -- are the applications of Surrealism to action. To be sure, I do not believe inthe prophetic nature of the Surrealist word. "It is the oracle, thethings I say."* (Rimbaud.) Yes, as much as I like, but what of theoracle itself?** (Still, STILL.... We must absolutely get to thebottom of this. Today, June 8, 1924, about one o'clock, the voicewhispered to me: "B�thune, B�thune." What did it mean? I have neverbeen to B�thune, and have only the vaguest notion as to where it islocated on the map of France. B�thune evokes nothing for me, not evena scene from The Three Musketeers. I should have left for B�thune,where perhaps there was something awaiting me; that would have been tosimple, really. Someone told me they had read in a book by Chestertonabout a detective who, in order to find someone he is looking for in a certain city, simply scoured from roof to cellar the houses which,from the outside, seemed somehow abnormal to him, were it only in someslight detail. This system is as good as any other.Similarly, in 1919, Soupault went into any number of impossiblebuildings to ask the concierge whether Philippe Soupault did in fact live there. He would not have been surprised, I suspect, by anaffirmative reply. He would have gone and knocked on his door.) Men'spiety does not fool me. The Surrealist voice that shook Cumae, Dodona,and Delphi is nothing more than the voice which dictates my lessirascible speeches to me. My time must not be its time, why shouldthis voice help me resolve the childish problem of my destiny? I pretend, unfortunately, to act in a world where, in order to take intoaccount its suggestions, I would be obliged to resort to two kinds ofinterpreters, one to translate its judgements for me, the other,impossible to find, to transmit to my fellow men whatever sense Icould make out of them. This world, in which I endure

what I endure(don�t go see), this modern world, I mean, what the devil do you want me to do with it? Perhaps the Surrealist voice will be stilled, I havegiven up trying to keep track of those who have disappeared. I shallno longer enter into, however briefly, the marvelous detaileddescription of my years and my days. I shall be like Nijinski who wastaken last year to the Russian ballet and did not realize whatspectacle it was he was seeing. I shall be alone, very alone within myself, indifferent to all the world�s ballets. What I have done, whatI have left undone, I give it to you.And ever since I have had a great desire to show forbearance toscientific musing, however unbecoming, in the final analysis, from every point of view. Radios? Fine. Syphilis? If you like. Photography?I don�t see any reason why not. The cinema? Three cheers for darkenedrooms. War? Gave us a good laugh. The telephone? Hello. Youth?Charming white hair. Try to make me say thank you: "Thank you." Thankyou. If the common man has a high opinion of things which properlyspeaking belong to the realm of the laboratory, it is because such research has resulted in the manufacture of a machine or the discoveryof some serum which the man in the street views as affecting himdirectly. He is quite sure that they have been trying to improve hislot. I am not quite sure to what extent scholars are motivated byhumanitarian aims, but it does not seem to me that this factorconstitutes a very marked degree of goodness. I am, of course,referring to true scholars and not to the vulgarizers and popularizersof all sorts who take out patents. In this realm as in any other, Ibelieve in the pure Surrealist joy of the man who, forewarned that allothers before him have failed, refuses to admit defeat, sets off fromwhatever point he chooses, along any other path save a reasonable one,and arrives wherever he can. Such and such an image, by which he deemsit opportune to indicate his progress and which may result, perhaps,in his receiving public acclaim, is to me, I must confess, a matter ofcomplete indifference. Nor is the material with which he must perforceencumber himself; his glass tubes or my metallic feathers� As for hismethod, I am willing to give it as much credit as I do mine. I haveseen the inventor of the cutaneous plantar reflex at work; hemanipulated his subjects without respite, it was much more than an "examination" he was employing; it was obvious that he was followingno set plan. Here and there he formulated a remark, distantly, withoutnonetheless setting down his needle, while his hammer was never still.He left to others the futile task of curing patients. He was whollyconsumed by and devoted to that sacred fever.Surrealism, such as I conceive of it, asserts our completenonconformism clearly enough so that there can be no question oftranslating it, at the trial of the real world, as evidence for thedefense. It could, on the contrary, only serve to justify the completestate of distraction which we hope to achieve here below. Kant�s absentmindedness regarding women, Pasteur�s absentmindedness about"grapes," Curie�s absentmindedness with respect to vehicles, are inthis regard profoundly symptomatic. This world is only very relativelyin tune with thought, and incidents of this kind are only the mostobvious episodes of a war in which I am proud to be participating. "Cemonde n�est que tr�s relativement � la mesure de la pens�e et lesincidents de ce genre ne sont que les �pisodes jusqu�ici les plusmarquants d�une guerre d�ind�pendence � laquelle je me fais gloire departiciper." Surrealism is the "invisible ray" which will one dayenable us to win out over our opponents. "You are no longer trembling,carcass." This summer the roses are blue; the wood is of glass. Theearth, draped in its verdant cloak, makes as little impression upon meas a ghost. It is living and ceasing to live which are imaginarysolutions. Existence is elsewhere.�__________________________________________The Waste Landby T. S. Eliot"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meisvidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD� April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,And

drank coffee, and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie,Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.� What are the roots that clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,You cannot say, or guess, for you know onlyA heap of broken images, where the sun beats,And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,And the dry stone no sound of water. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust.� � � �Frisch weht der Wind� � � �Der Heimat zu� � � �Mein Irisch Kind,� � � �Wo weilest du?"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"They called me the hyacinth girl."��Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Oed' und leer das Meer.� Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations.Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water.I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.� Unreal City,Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,I had not thought death had undone so many.Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!"You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"II. A GAME OF CHESS� The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,Glowed on the marble, where the glassHeld up by standards wrought with fruited vinesFrom which a golden Cupidon peeped out(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabraReflecting light upon the table asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion;In vials of ivory and coloured glassUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confusedAnd drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the airThat freshened from the window, these ascendedIn fattening the prolonged candle-flames,Flung their smoke into the laquearia,Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.Huge sea-wood fed with copperBurned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.Above the antique mantel was displayedAs though a window gave upon the sylvan sceneThe change of Philomel, by the barbarous kingSo rudely forced; yet there the nightingaleFilled all the desert with inviolable voiceAnd still she cried, and still the world pursues,"Jug Jug" to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring formsLeaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.Footsteps shuffled on the stair.Under the firelight, under the brush, her hairSpread out in fiery pointsGlowed into words, then would be savagely still.� "My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me."Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.� "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?"I never know what you are thinking. Think."� I think we are in rats' alleyWhere the dead men lost their bones.� "What is that noise?"� � � � � � � � � � � � � � The wind under the door."What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"� � � � � � � � � � � � � � Nothing again nothing.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �

� � � � � � � "Do"You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember"Nothing?"� I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes."Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � ButO O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -It's so elegantSo intelligent "What shall I do now? What shall I do?"I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street"With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?"What shall we ever do?"� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �The hot water at ten.And if it rains, a closed car at four.And we shall play a game of chess,Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMENow Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave youTo get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEIf you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.Others can pick and choose if you can't.But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.You are a proper fool, I said.Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,What you get married for if you don't want children?HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEWell, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEGoonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.III. THE FIRE SERMON� The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;Departed, have left no addresses.By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.But at my back in a cold blast I hearThe rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother's wreckAnd on the king my father's death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd bones cast in a little low dry garret,Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.But at my back from time to time I hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bringSweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. PorterAnd on her daughterThey wash their feet in soda waterEt O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc'd.Tereu� Unreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currantsC.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.� At the violet hour, when the eyes and backTurn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strivesHomeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,On the divan are piled (at night her bed)Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the

rest -I too awaited the expected guest.He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.The time is now propitious, as he guesses,The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,Endeavours to engage her in caressesWhich still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence;His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wallAnd walked among the lowest of the dead.)Bestows one final patronising kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .� She turns and looks a moment in the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lover;Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."When lovely woman stoops to folly andPaces about her room again, alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,And puts a record on the gramophone.� "This music crept by me upon the waters"And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City city, I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.� � The river sweats� � Oil and tar� � The barges drift� � With the turning tide� � Red sails� � Wide� � To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.� � The barges wash� � Drifting logs� � Down Greenwich reach� � Past the Isle of Dogs.� � � � �Weialala leia� � � � �Wallala leialala� � Elizabeth and Leicester� � Beating oars� � The stern was formed� � A gilded shell� � Red and gold� � The brisk swell� � Rippled both shores� � Southwest wind� � Carried down stream� � The peal of bells� � White towers� � � � �Weialala leia� � � � �Wallala leialala"Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and KewUndid me. By Richmond I raised my kneesSupine on the floor of a narrow canoe.""My feet are at Moorgate, and my heartUnder my feet. After the event He wept. He promised 'a new start'.I made no comment. What should I resent?""On Margate Sands.I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expectNothing."� � la laTo Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest burningIV. DEATH BY WATERPhlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swellAnd the profit and loss.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � A current under seaPicked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youthEntering the whirlpool.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID After the torchlight red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the cryingPrison and palace and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patienceHere is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without waterIf there were water we should stop and drinkAmongst the rock one cannot stop or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spitHere one can neither stand nor lie nor sitThere is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and snarlFrom doors of mudcracked houses� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � If there were water� And no rock� If there were rock� And also water� And water� A spring� A pool among the rock� If there were the sound of water only� Not the cicada� And dry grass singing� But sound of water over a rock� Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees� Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop� But there is no water� Who is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman- But who is that on the other side of you?� What is that sound high in the airMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless

plains, stumbling in cracked earthRinged by the flat horizon onlyWhat is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet airFalling towers Jerusalem Athens AlexandriaVienna LondonUnreal� A woman drew her long black hair out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on those stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled, and beat their wingsAnd crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.� In this decayed hole among the mountainsIn the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.It has no windows, and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one.Only a cock stood on the rooftreeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gustBringing rain� Ganga was sunken, and the limp leavesWaited for rain, while the black cloudsGathered far distant, over Himavant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunderDADatta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment's surrenderWhich an age of prudence can never retractBy this, and this only, we have existedWhich is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the beneficent spiderOr under seals broken by the lean solicitorIn our empty roomsDADayadhvam: I have heard the keyTurn in the door once and turn once onlyWe think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prisonOnly at nightfall, aetherial rumours Revive for a moment a broken CoriolanusDADamyata: The boat respondedGaily, to the hand expert with sail and oarThe sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedientTo controlling hands� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � I sat upon the shoreFishing, with the arid plain behind meShall I at least set my lands in order?London Bridge is falling down falling down falling downPoi s'ascose nel foco che gli affinaQuando fiam ceu chelidon - O swallow swallowLe Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolieThese fragments I have shored against my ruinsWhy then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.� � � � � � � � � � � � � Shantih � �shantih � �shantihNOTES ON "THE WASTE LAND"Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidentalsymbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston's bookon the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan).<1> Indeed, sodeeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucidate thedifficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and Irecommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to anywho think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To anotherwork of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which hasinfluenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I haveused especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. �Anyone who isacquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poemcertain references to vegetation ceremonies.The Society of the Spectacleby Guy-Ernest DebordChapter 2 "Commodity as Spectacle"The commodity can only be understood in its undistorted essence whenit becomes the universal category of society as a whole. Only in this context does the reification produced by commodity relations assumedecisive importance both for the objective evolution of society andfor the stance adopted by men towards it. Only then does the commoditybecome crucial for the subjugation of men's consciousness to the formsin which this reification finds expression.... As labor isprogressively rationalized and mechanized man's lack of will is reinforced by the way in which his activity becomes less and lessactive and more and more contemplative.Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness35In the essential movement of the spectacle, which consists of takingup all that existed in human activity in a fluid state so as topossess it in a congealed state as things which have become theexclusive value by their formulation in negative of lived value, we recognize our old enemy, the commodity, who knows so well how to seemat first glance something trivial and obvious, while on the contraryit is so complex and so full of metaphysical subtleties.36This is the principle of commodity fetishism, the domination ofsociety by "intangible as well as tangible things," which reaches itsabsolute fulfillment in the spectacle, where the tangible world isreplaced by a selection of images which exist above it, and whichsimultaneously impose

themselves as the tangible par excellence.37The world at once present and absent which the spectacle makes visibleis the world of the commodity dominating all that is lived. The worldof the commodity is thus shown for what it is, because its movement isidentical to the estrangement of men among themselves and in relationto their global product.38The loss of quality so evident at all levels of spectacular language,from the objects it praises to the behavior it regulates, merely translates the fundamental traits of the real production which brushesreality aside: the commodity-form is through and through equal toitself, the category of the quantitative. The quantitative is what thecommodity-form develops, and it can develop only within thequantitative.39This development which excludes the qualitative is itself, asdevelopment, subject to qualitative change: the spectacle indicatesthat it has crossed the threshold of its own abundance; this is as yet true only locally at some points, but is already true on the universalscale which is the original context of the commodity, a context whichits practical movement, encompassing the Earth as a world market, hasverified.40The development of productive forces has been the real unconscioushistory which built and modified the conditions of existence of humangroups as conditions of survival, and extended those conditions: theeconomic basis of all their undertakings. In a primitive economy, thecommodity sector represented a surplus of survival. The production of commodities, which implies the exchange of varied products amongindependent producers, could for a long time remain craft production,contained within a marginal economic function where its quantitativetruth was still masked. However, where commodity production met thesocial conditions of large scale commerce and of the accumulation ofcapitals, it seized total domination over the economy. The entireeconomy then became what the commodity had shown itself to be in thecourse of this conquest: a process of quantitative development. Thisincessant expansion of economic power in the form of the commodity,which transformed human labor into commodity-labor, into wage-labor,cumulatively led to an abundance in which the primary question ofsurvival is undoubtedly resolved, but in such a way that it is constantly rediscovered; it is continually posed again each time at ahigher level. Economic growth frees societies from the naturalpressure which required their direct struggle for survival, but atthat point it is from their liberator that they are not liberated. Theindependence of the commodity is extended to the entire economy averwhich it rules. The economy transforms the world, but transforms it only into a world of economy. The pseudo-nature within which humanlabor is alienated demands that it be served ad infinitum, and thisservice, being judged and absolved only by itself, in fact acquiresthe totality of socially permissible efforts and projects as itsservants. The abundance of commodities, namely, of commodityrelations, can be nothing more than increased survival.41The commodity's domination was at first exerted aver the economy in anoccult manner; the economy itself, the material basis of social life,remained unperceived and not understood, like the familiar which isnot necessarily known. In a society where the concrete commodity israre or unusual, money, apparently dominant, presents itself as an emissary armed with full powers who speaks in the name of an unknownforce. With the industrial revolution, the division of labor inmanufactures, and mass production far the world market, the commodityappears in fact as a power which comes to occupy social life. It isthen that political economy takes shape, as the dominant science andthe science of domination.42The spectacle is the moment when the commodity has attained the totaloccupation of social life. Not only is the relation to the commodityvisible but it is all one sees: the world one sees is its world.Modern economic production extends its dictatorship extensively and intensively. In the least industrialized places, its reign is alreadyattested by a few star commodities and by the imperialist dominationimposed by regions which are ahead in the development of productivity.In the advanced regions, social space is invaded by a continuoussuperimposition of geological layers of commodities. At this point inthe "second industrial revolution," alienated consumption becomes for the masses a duty supplementary to alienated production. It is all thesold labor of a society which globally becomes the total commodity forwhich the cycle must be

continued. For this to be done, the totalcommodity has to return as a fragment to the fragmented individual,absolutely separated from the productive forces operating as a whole.Thus it is here that the specialized science of domination must inturn specialize: it fragments itself into sociology, psychotechnics, cybernetics, semiology, etc., watching over the self-regulation ofevery level of the process.43Whereas in the primitive phase of capitalist accumulation, "politicaleconomy sees in the proletarian only the worker" who must receive the minimum indispensable for the conservation of his labor power, withoutever seeing him "in his leisure and humanity," these ideas of theruling class are reversed as soon as the production of commoditiesreaches a level of abundance which requires a surplus of collaborationfrom the worker. This worker, suddenly redeemed from the totalcontempt which is clearly shown him by all the varieties oforganization and supervision of production, finds himself every day,outside of production and in the guise of a consumer, seeminglytreated as an adult, with zealous politeness. At this point thehumanism of the commodity takes charge of the worker's "leisure and humanity," simply because now political economy can and must dominatethese spheres as political economy. Thus the "perfected denial of man"has taken charge of the totality of human existence.44The spectacle is a permanent opium war which aims to make peopleidentify goods with commodities and satisfaction with survival that increases according to its own laws. But if consumable survival issomething which must always increase, this is because it continues tocontain privation. If there is nothing beyond increasing survival, ifthere is no point where it might stop growing, this is not because itis beyond privation, but because it is enriched privation.45Automation, the most advanced sector of modern industry as well as the model which perfectly sums up its practice, drives the commodity worldtoward the following contradiction: the technical equipment whichobjectively eliminates labor must at the same time preserve labor as acommodity and as the only source of the commodity. If the social labor(time) engaged by the society is not to diminish because of automation(or any other less extreme form of increasing the productivity oflabor), then new jobs have to be created. Services, the tertiary sector, swell the ranks of the army of distribution and are a eulogyto the current commodities; the additional forces which are mobilizedjust happen to be suitable for the organization of redundant laborrequired by the artificial needs for such commodities.46Exchange value could arise only as an agent of use value, but its victory by means of its own weapons created the conditions for itsautonomous domination. Mobilizing all human use and establishing amonopoly over its satisfaction, exchange value has ended up bydirecting use. The process of exchange became identified with allpossible use and reduced use to the mercy of exchange. Exchange valueis the condottiere of use value who ends up waging the war for himself.47The tendency of use value to fall, this constant of capitalisteconomy, develops a new form of privation within increased survival:the new privation is not far removed from the old penury since itrequires most men to participate as wage workers in the endlesspursuit of its attainment, and since everyone knows he must submit ordie. The reality of this blackmail accounts for the general acceptanceof the illusion at the heart of the consumption of modern commodities: use in its most impoverished form (food and lodging) today exists onlyto the extent that it is imprisoned in the illusory wealth ofincreased survival. The real consumer becomes a consumer of illusions. The commodity is this factually real illusion, and the spectacle isits general manifestation.48In the inverted reality of the spectacle, use value (which was implicitly contained in exchange value) must now be explicitlyproclaimed precisely because its factual reality is eroded by theoverdeveloped commodity economy and because counterfeit life requiresa pseudo-justification.49The spectacle is the other side of money: it is the general abstractequivalent of all commodities. Money dominated society as therepresentation of general equivalence, namely, of the exchangeabilityof different goods whose uses could not be compared. The spectacle isthe developed modern complement of money where the totality of the commodity world appears as a whole, as a general equivalence for whatthe entire

society can be and can do. The spectacle is the money whichone only looks at, because in the spectacle the totality of use isalready exchanged for the totality of abstract representation. Thespectacle is not only the servant of pseudo-use, it is already initself the pseudo-use of life.50At the moment of economic abundance, the concentrated result of sociallabor becomes visible and subjugates all reality to appearance, whichis now its product. Capital is no longer the invisible center whichdirects the mode of production: its accumulation spreads it all theway to the periphery in the form of tangible objects. The entireexpanse of society is its portrait.51The victory of the autonomous economy must at the same time be its defeat. The forces which it has unleashed eliminate the economicnecessity which was the immutable basis of earlier societies. Wheneconomic necessity is replaced by the necessity for boundless economicdevelopment, the satisfaction of primary human needs is replaced by anuninterrupted fabrication of pseudo-needs which are reduced to thesingle pseudo-need of maintaining the reign of the autonomous economy.The autonomous economy permanently breaks away from fundamental needto the extent that it emerges from the social unconscious whichunknowingly depended on it. "All that is conscious wears out. What isunconscious remains unalterable. But once freed, does it not fall toruins in turn?" (Freud).52As soon as society discovers that it depends on the economy, theeconomy, in fact, depends on society. This subterranean force, whichgrew until it appeared sovereign, has lost its power. That which wasthe economic it must become the I. The subject can emerge only fromsociety, namely from the struggle within society. The subject'spossible existence depends on the outcome of the class struggle whichshows itself to be the product and the producer of the economicfoundation of history.53The consciousness of desire and the desire for consciousness areidentically the project which, in its negative form, seeks theabolition of classes, the workers' direct possession of every aspectof their activity. Its opposite is the society of the spectacle, wherethe commodity contemplates itself in a world it has created.from The Painter of Modern Life by Charles Baudelaire (1863)... Thus to begin to understand M. G. [an artist Baudelaire admires],the first thing to note is this: that curiosity may be considered thestarting point of his genius. Do you remember a picture (for indeed itis a picture!) written by the most powerful pen of this age andentitled The Man of the Crowd? Sitting in a cafe, and looking throughthe shop window, a convalescent is enjoying the sight of the passingcrowd, and identifying himself in thought with all the thoughts thatare moving around him. He has only recently come back from the shadesof death and breathes in with delight all the spores and odours oflife; as he has been on the point of forgetting everything, heremembers and passionately wants to remember everything. In the end herushes out into the crowd in search of a man unknown to him whoseface, which he had caught sight of, had in a flash fascinated him.Curiosity had become a compelling, irresistible passion.Now imagine an artist perpetually in the spiritual condition of the convalescent, and you will have the key to the character of M. G. ....The crowd is his domain, just as the air is the bird's, and water thatof the fish. His passion and his profession is to merge with thecrowd. For the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomesan immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in thethrong, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; tosee the world, to be at the very centre of the world, and yet to beunseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of thoseindependent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselveseasily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoyinghis incognito wherever he goes. The lover of life makes the whole world into his family, just as the lover of the fair sex creates hisfrom all the lovely women he has found, from those that could befound, and those who arc impossible to find, just as the picture-loverlives in an enchanted world of dreams painted on canvas. Thus thelover of universal life moves into the crowd as though into anenormous reservoir of electricity. He, the lover of life, may also be compared to a mirror as vast as this crowd: to a kaleidoscope endowedwith consciousness, which with every one of its movements presents apattern of life, in

all its multiplicity, and the flowing grace of allthe elements that go to compose life. It is an ego athirst for thenon-ego, and reflecting it at every moment in energies more vivid thanlife itself, always inconstant and fleeting. 'Any man', M. G. oncesaid, in one of those talks he rendered memorable by the intensity ofhis gaze, and by his eloquence of gesture, 'any man who is not weigheddown with a sorrow so searching as to touch all his faculties, and whois bored in the midst of the crowd, is a fool! A fool ! and I despisehim!'And so, walking or quickening his pace, he goes his way, for ever insearch. In search of what? We may rest assured that this man, such asI have described him, this solitary mortal endowed with an activeimagination, always roaming the great desert of men, has a nobler aimthan that of the pure idler, a more general aim, other than thefleeting pleasure of circumstance. He is looking for that indefinablesomething we may be allowed to call 'modernity', for want of a betterterm to express the idea in question. The aim for him is to extractfrom fashion the poetry that resides in its historical envelope, todistil the eternal from the transitory. If we cast our eye over our exhibitions of modern pictures, we shall be struck by the generaltendency of our artists to clothe all manner of subjects in the dressof the past. Almost all of them use the fashions and the furnishingsof the Renaissance, as David used Roman fashions and furnishings, butthere is this difference, that David, having chosen subjectspeculiarly Greek or Roman, could not do otherwise than present them inthe style of antiquity, whereas the painters of today, choosing, asthey do, subjects of a general nature, applicable to all ages, willinsist on dressing them up in the fashion of the Middle Ages, of theRenaissance, or of the East. This is evidently sheer laziness; for itis much more convenient to state roundly that everything is hopelesslyugly in the dress of a period than to apply oneself to the task of extracting the mysterious beauty that may be hidden there, howeversmall or light it may be. Modernity is the transient, the fleeting,the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the-eternal andthe immovable. There was a form of modernity for every painter of thepast; the majority of the fine portraits that remain to us from formertimes are clothed in the dress of their own day. They are perfectlyharmonious works because the dress, the hairstyle, and even thegesture, the expression and the smile (each age has its carriage, itsexpression and its smile) form a whole, full of vitality. You have noright to despise this transitory fleeting element, the metamorphosesof which are so frequent, nor to dispense with it. ...SELECTED LANGSTON HUGHES POEMSAdvertisement For The Waldorf-AstoriaFine living . . . a la carte?Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!Look! See what Vanity Fair says about thenew Waldorf-Astoria:"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-househas turned you down this winter?Furthermore:"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotelworld. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguishedbackground for society.So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungryones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight goodenough?)ROOMERSTake a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, willyou:GUMBO CREOLECRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE BOILED BRISKET OF BEEFSMALL ONIONS IN CREAMWATERCRESS SALADPEACH MELBAHave luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.Why not?Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off ofyour labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividendsand live easy.Dream DeferredWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry upLike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore--And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.Or does it explode?The BluesWhen the shoe strings breakOn both your shoesAnd you're in a hurry-That's the blues.When you go to buy a candy barAnd you've lost the dime you had-Slipped through a hole in your pocket

somewhere-That's the blues, too, and bad!The Weary BluesDroning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas lightHe did a lazy sway ....He did a lazy sway ....To the tune o' those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody.O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man's soul.O Blues!In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--"Ain't got nobody in all this world,Ain't got nobody but ma self.I's gwine to quit ma frownin'And put ma troubles on the shelf."Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more--"I got the Weary BluesAnd I can't be satisfied.Got the Weary BluesAnd can't be satisfied--I ain't happy no mo'And I wish that I had died."And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that's dead. Katherine Mansfield � the fly"Y'are very snug in here," piped old Mr. Woodifield, and peered out ofthe great, green-leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as ababy peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him tobe off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his ...stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house everyday of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushedand allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he didthere the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himselfto his friends, they supposed....Well, perhaps so. All the same, wecling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. Sothere sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedilyat the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five yearsolder than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did onegood to see him.Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added,"It's snug in here, upom my word!""Yes, it's comfortable enough," agreed the boss, and he flipped theFinancial Times�with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proudof his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by oldWoodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to beplanted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figurein the muffler."I've had it done up lately," he explained, as he had explained forthe past�how many!�weeks. "New carpet," and he pointed to the brightred carpet with a pattern of large white rings."New furniture," and henodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs liketwisted treacle."Electric heating!" He waved almost exultantly towardsthe five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tiltedcopper pan.But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph overthe table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of thosespectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behindhim. It was not new. It had been there for over six years."There was something I wanted to tell you," said old Woodifield, andhis eyes grew dim remembering. "Now what was it? I had it in my mindwhen I started out this morning." His hands began to tremble, andpatches of red showed above his beard.Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feelingkindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly,"I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something here that'll do you good beforeyou go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurta child." He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard belowhis desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. "That's the medicine,"said he."And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. itcame from the cellars at Windsor Castle."Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have lookedmore surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit."It's whisky, ain't it?" he piped feebly.The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was."D'you know," said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, "they won'tlet me touch it at home." And he looked as though he was going to cry."Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies," cried the boss,swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with thewater-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. "Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege totamper with

stuff like this. Ah!" He tossed off his, pulled out hishandkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at oldWoodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly,"It's nutty!"But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain�he remembered."That was it," he said, heaving himself out of his chair."I thoughtyou'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a lookat poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boy's.They're quite near each other, it seems."Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver inhis eyelids showed that he heard."The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept," piped the old voice. "Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they wereat home. You've not been across, have yer?""No, no!" For various reasons the boss had not been across."There's miles of it," quavered old Woodifield,"and it's all as neatas a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths." Itwas plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully."D'you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?" hepiped. "Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, soGertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken morethan a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought thepot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it'strading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having alook round we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is." And heturned towards the door."Quite right, quite right!" cried the boss, though what was quiteright he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followedthe shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out.Woodifield was gone. For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while thegrey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of hiscubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: "I'llsee nobody for half an hour, Macey," said the boss. "Understand!Nobody at all.""Very good, sir."The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, thefat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, theboss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he hadarranged to weep....It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang thatremark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though theearth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six yearshad passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lyingunchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever."My son!"groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the firstmonths and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say thosewords to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fitof weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had toldeverybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover,might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible! His boywas an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at buildingup this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not forthe boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those yearswithout the promise for ever before him of the boy's stepping into hisshoes and carrying on where he left off?And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been inthe office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morningthey had started off together; they had come back by the same train.And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father! Nowonder; he had taken to it marvellously. As to his popularity with thestaff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn't make enoughof the boy. And he wasn't in the least spoilt. No, he was just hisbright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, "Simply splendid!"But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. Theday had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought thewhole place crashing about his head. "Deeply regret to inform you ..."And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins. Six years ago, six years.... How quickly time passed! It might havehappened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he waspuzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with

him. He wasn't feeling ashe wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy'sphotograph. But it wasn't a favourite photograph of his; theexpression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy hadnever looked like that. At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broadinkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again.Help! Help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpotwere wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The bosstook up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to apiece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still onthe dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, tookhold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immensetask of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over andunder, went a leg along a wing as the stone goes over and under thescythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on thetips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other.It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat,to clean its face. Now one could Imagine that the little front legsrubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger wasover; it had escaped; it was ready for life again.But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into theink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the flytried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make ofthat! What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned,and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as ifpainfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caughthold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things;that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of...But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss hadjust time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on thenew-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? Apainful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs wereagain waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the flyand said to it tenderly, "You artful little b..." And he actually hadthe brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process.All the same, there was something timid and weak about its effortsnow, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as hedipped the pen deep into the inkpot.It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and thedraggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck tothe body; the front legs were not to be seen."Come on," said the boss."Look sharp!" And he stirred it with hispen�in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly wasdead.The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung itinto the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling ofwretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He startedforward and pressed the bell for Macey."Bring me some fresh blotting-paper," he said sternly,"and look sharpabout it." And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering whatit was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was ... He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For thelife of him he could not remember.Sylvia Plath - In Plaster�I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:�This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,�And the white person is certainly the superior one.�She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.�At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --�She lay in bed with me like a dead body�And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was�Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.�I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.�I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.�I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!�When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.�Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:�She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.�Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.�I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose�Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,�And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,�Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.�I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --�You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.�I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.�In the

morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun�From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice�Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:�She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,�Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.�In time our relationship grew more intense.�She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.�I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,�As if my habits offended her in some way.�She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.�And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces�Simply because she looked after me so badly.�Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal.�She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,�And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --�Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!�And secretly she began to hope I'd die.�Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,�And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case�Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.�I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.�She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --�I had forgotten how to walk or sit,�So I was careful not to upset her in any way�Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.�Living with her was like living with my own coffin:�Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.�I used to think we might make a go of it together --�After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.�Now I see it must be one or the other of us.�She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,�But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.�I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,�And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.�Anne Sexton, Buying the Whore�You are the roast beef I have purchased�and I stuff you with my very own onion.�You are a boat I have rented by the hour�and I steer you with my rage until you run aground.�You are a glass�that I have paid to shatter� and I swallow the pieces down with my spit.�You are the grate I warm my trembling hands on,�searing the flesh until it's nice and juicy.�You stink like my Mama under your bra�and I vomit into your hand like a jackpot�its cold hard quarters.� Anne Sexton, Music Swims Back to Me�Wait Mister. Which way is home?�They turned the light out�and the dark is moving in the corner.�There are no sign posts in this room,�four ladies, over eighty,�in diapers every one of them.�La la la, Oh music swims back to me�and I can feel the tune they played�the night they left me� in this private institution on a hill.�Imagine it. A radio�playing�and everyone here was crazy.�I liked it and danced in a circle.�Music pours over the sense�and in a funny way�music sees more than I.�I mean it remembers better;�remembers the first night here.�It was the strangled cold of November;�even the stars were strapped in the sky�and that moon too bright�forking through the bars to stick me� with a singing in the head.�I have forgotten all the rest.�They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.�and there are no signs to tell the way,�just the radio beating to itself�and the song that remembers�more than I. Oh, la la la,�this music swims back to me.�The night I came I danced a circle�and was not afraid.�Mister?�John Berryman, There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart�There sat down, once, a thing on Henry�s heart�so heavy, if he had a hundred years�& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time�Henry could not make good.�Starts again always in Henry's ears�the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.�And there is another thing he has in mind�like a grave Sienese face a thousand years�would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,�with open eyes, he attends, blind.�All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;�thinking.�But never did Henry, as he thought he did,�end anyone and hacks her body up�and hide the pieces, where they may be found.�He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.�Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.�Nobody is ever missing.�Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.�After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,�we ourselves flash and yearn,�and moreover my mother told me as a boy�(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored�means you have no�Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no� inner resources, because I am heavy bored.�Peoples bore me,�literature bores me, especially great literature,�Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes�as bad as achilles,�Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.�And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag�and somehow a dog�has taken itself & its tail

considerably away�into mountains or sea or sky, leaving�behind: me, wag.�Waking in the Blue by Robert Lowell�The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,�rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy head�propped on The Meaning of Meaning.�He catwalks down our corridor.�Azure day�makes my agonized blue window bleaker.�Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.�Absence! My hearts grows tense�as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill.�(This is the house for the "mentally ill.")�What use is my sense of humour?�I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties,�once a Harvard allAmerican fullback,�(if such were possible!)�still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties,�as he soaks, a ramrod�with a muscle of a seal�in his long tub,� vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing.�A kingly granite profile in a crimson gold-cap,�worn all day, all night,�he thinks only of his figure,�of slimming on sherbert and ginger ale--�more cut off from words than a seal.�This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean's;�the hooded night lights bring out "Bobbie,"� Porcellian '29,�a replica of Louis XVI�without the wig--�redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale,�as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit�and horses at chairs.�These victorious figures of bravado ossified young.�In between the limits of day,�hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts�and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle�of the Roman Catholic attendants.�(There are no Mayflower�screwballs in the Catholic Church.)�After a hearty New England breakfast,�I weigh two hundred pounds�this morning. Cock of the walk,�I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey�before the metal shaving mirrors,�and see the shaky future grow familiar�in the pinched, indigenous faces�of these thoroughbred mental cases,�twice my age and half my weight.�We are all oldtimers,�each of us holds a locked razor.�