It would seem
silly of me not to become "the hero of my own novel". After only a
few days, I've shut this entire place down. The windows have been sealed with
tar, a blackish distillate. There in the mirror stands my image. What a strange
place to find yourself, in a mirror, in a tower. It is I who live here now. My
name is Ulrich. It's very dark, dank--which suits me perfectly. Ulrich, the
dank, Ulrich the dark. I came by the tower via fashionable literature. It is my
tower now, I who live here. A man in a red suit coat offered the position and his carriage. I was dropped off, bag in hand, no more than a week after my acceptance. That was it. I took the
ring of old keys and turned the locks. Now there's no manner of my interacting
with "the outside world" except for a little hole I've fashioned in
the top part of the wall, so that I can keep an eye on things.
One recognizes
very clearly the scar on your forehead, from when you slammed it against the table,
covered with papers, on which you've written your observations. For instance, the
weather here is particularly fascinating. For instance, what is weather? A
condition for the appearance of things, whose forms rely on that which makes
forms sensible. It means for example the puddles of rain on the streets of the
city where you were born, or the hill covered in snow, where
you went sledding with school friends. This is exactly why I'm here, the form
of being here.
One must strive
to exist in weather, not as it is, but as you would have it. It rises and falls
according to the whims of your intellect. It sears and burns, then the wind
stirs, cool and plaintive, it makes its first gesture, and something emerges.
It looks like you, feels like you. It as though you were a parent or guardian, seeing
life, new life, adjust its mouth, as it opens up to howl
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