We - Yevgeny Zamyatin (whitelam books txt) 📗

funny! A purely childish question. You tell something to children, come to the very end, yet they will invariably ask you, ‘what further?’ and ‘what for?’ ”

“Children are the only courageous philosophers. And courageous philosophers are invariably children. One ought always to ask like children, ‘what further’?”

“Nothing further! Period. In the whole world evenly, everywhere, there is distributed.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah, ‘evenly!’ ‘Everywhere!’ That is the point, entropy! Psychological entropy. Don’t you as a mathematician know that only differences (only differences!), in temperature, only thermic contrasts make for life? And if all over the world there are evenly warm or evenly cold bodies, they must be pushed off!⁠ ⁠… in order to get flame, explosions! And we shall push!⁠ ⁠…”

“But I-330, please realize that our ancestors during the Two Hundred Years’ War did exactly that!”

“Oh, they were right! A thousand times right! They did one wrong thing, however; later they began to believe that they were the last number, a number that does not exist in nature. Their mistake was the mistake of Galileo; he was right in that the earth revolves about the sun but he did not know that our whole solar system revolves about some other centre, he did not know that the real (not relative) orbit of the earth is not a naive circle.”

“And you, the Mephi?”

“We? For the time being we know that there is no last number. We may forget that some day. Of course, we shall certainly forget it when we grow old, as everything inevitably grows old. Then we shall inevitably fall like autumn leaves from the trees, like you the day-after-tomorrow.⁠ ⁠… No, no dear, not you personally. You are with us, are you not? You are with us?”

Flaming, stormy, sparkling! I never before had seen her in such a state. She embraced me with her whole self; I disappeared.

Her last word, looking steadily, deeply into my eyes:

“Then, do not forget: at twelve o’clock sharp.”

And I answered:

“Yes, I remember.”

She left. I was alone amidst a rebellious, multi-voiced commotion of blue, red, green, saffron-yellow and orange.⁠ ⁠…

Yes, at twelve!⁠ ⁠… Suddenly a feeling of something foreign on my face, of something implanted, that could not be brushed off. Suddenly, yesterday morning, and U- and all she shouted into the face of I-330! Why, how absurd!

I hastened to get out of the house and home, home! Somewhere behind me I heard the chattering of birds beyond the Wall. And ahead of me in the setting sun the balls of cupolas made of red, crystallized fire, enormous flaming cubes⁠—houses, and the sharp point of the Accumulating Tower high in the sky like a paralyzed streak of lightning. And all this, all this impeccable, most geometric beauty, shall I, I myself, with my hands⁠ ⁠… ? Is there no way out? No path? No trail?

I passed by an auditorium (I do not recall its number). Inside, the benches were stacked along the walls. In the middle, tables covered with snow-white glass sheets, with pink stains of sunny blood on the white.⁠ ⁠… There was foreshadowed in all that some unknown and therefore alarming tomorrow. It is unnatural for a thinking and seeing human being to live among irregularities, unknowns, X’s. If suddenly your eyes were covered with a bandage and you were let go to feel around, to stumble, ever aware that somewhere very close to you there is the borderline, one step only and nothing but a compressed, smothered piece of flesh will be left of you.⁠ ⁠… I now feel somewhat like that.

… And what if without waiting for anything I should⁠ ⁠… just head down.⁠ ⁠… Would it not be the only right thing to do? To disentangle everything at once?

Record Thirty-One

The great operation⁠—I forgave everything⁠—The collision of trains.

Saved! At the very last moment, when it seemed that there was nothing to hold to, that it was the end!⁠ ⁠…

It was as if you already ascended the steps towards the threatening machine of the Well-Doer, or as if the great glass Bell with a heavy thud already covered you, and for the last time in life you looked at the blue sky to swallow it with your eyes⁠ ⁠… when suddenly, it was only a dream! The sun is pink and cheerful and the wall⁠ ⁠… what happiness to be able to touch the cold wall! And the pillow! To delight endlessly in the little cavity formed by your own head in the white pillow!⁠ ⁠… This is approximately what I felt, when I read the State Journal this morning. It has been all a terrible dream and this dream is over. And I was so feeble, so unfaithful, that I thought of selfish, voluntary death! I am ashamed now to reread the last lines of yesterday. But let them remain as a memory of that incredible might-have-happened, which will not happen! On the front page of the State Journal the following gleamed:

“Rejoice!

“For from now on we are perfect!

“Before today your own creation, engines, were more perfect than you.

“Why?

“For every spark from a dynamo⁠—is a spark of pure reason; each motion of a piston⁠—a pure syllogism. Is it not true that the same faultless reason is within you?

“The philosophy of the cranes, presses, and pumps is finished and clear like a circle. But is your philosophy less circular? The beauty of a mechanism lies in its immutable, precise rhythm, like that of a pendulum. But have you not become as precise as a pendulum, you who are brought up on the system of Taylor?

“Yes, but there is one difference:

“Mechanisms have no fancy

“Did you ever notice a pump cylinder during its work show upon its face a wide, distant, sensuously-dreaming smile? Did you ever hear cranes restlessly toss about and sigh at night, during the hours designed for rest?

“No!

“Yet on your faces (you may well blush with shame!), the Guardians have seen more and more frequently those smiles and they have heard your sighs. And (you should hide your eyes for shame!) the historians of the United State all tendered