shave themselves. But does he shave himself?” You see how it goes: If he does, he doesn’t, and vice versa. There’s no rational answer, except to say: “There can be no such village.” But the true mystic, the man of vision, says: “Why not?” Why not indeed? You see, Man is a paradox in himself. He is apparently finite, yet he can easily conceive of vast infinities …’
I suppose it must have been just about that time that poor Corcoran was cutting his wrists with a razor blade.
We all share in the blame for Corcoran’s death. I, for sitting arguing futile theories with Beddoes, instead of staying with him. Smith – if what Corcoran told me was true – for his momentary loss of faith. Beddoes most of all, for hating all that is of a subtle and mysterious beauty, all that he cannot immediately reduce to a petty formula, all that he cannot slash with Ockham’s Razor. With his relentless scepticism, he almost certainly drove ‘Corky’ to the brink of insanity and to his death.
This being true, I have had no hesitation in dismissing Beddoes’s theory of the vanishing village as simply another of his destructive fantasies. Even without checking, I am sure it is utterly without foundation.
For different reasons, Corcoran’s statements about Smith’s ‘fraud’ must also be dismissed. To dootherwise would be to take the word of a hopelessly insane man against that of a reputable scientist with a brilliant record.
Our work carried on, though we now see much less of Beddoes. What would be the point? One cannot explain the incredibly beautiful colours of a sunset to a blind man.
T HE I NTERSTATE
Andor sat three rows back from the driver. Having jammed his small suitcase in the rack overhead, having seen his large suitcase stowed in the bowels of the bus, Andor began the pleasurable process of relaxing.
First he concentrated on the calves of his legs, letting their knots of muscle soften and grow numb. Then he folded his hands across his paunch, the left still gripping a magazine, however, in case the man next to him began talking. Andor let the muscles of his shoulders and neck relax now, ordering the tension in them to surrender.
He felt some of the nervous charge generated by the exciting activity at the great bus terminal drain out of him now, as the bus got into smooth, gearless motion. The acceleration sickened him, and as the bus rolled on through terminal tunnels, he turned his thoughts to the circumstances that had led to his trip.
Once again, on the television screen of his mind, Andor sat erect at his desk, operating a small calculator and marking numbers upon torms of pink, white, yellow, pale blue and pale green. At the desks just to his left and right, and immediately before and behind him, were men performing similar tasks. He knew their names, though now, away from the office, he could not recall their faces. One, he thought, had white hair. Andor supposed that on the floors immediately above him and below him were men performing similar tasks, though he had no proof of this. In thoughts, Andor’s office moved through the office seasons.
Fall.
Aitkin, on his left, sold tickets on a football pool, the Army-Navy game. Andor bought one ticket, number 0 – 0.
Each day, when he opened his desk drawer, the ticket lay looking up at him with its blank spectacles. Long after the game was over, weary of its inspection, Andor threw the ticket into the wastebasket to the right of his desk.
Winter.
Jurgens, in front of him, seemed to suffer from a severe sinus infection. Another man in another department was said to have suffered a heart attack from shovelling snow, but Andor was never able to check the truth of this story. Jurgens brought a new portable radio to work after the holiday. Playing it was not possible, however, for it interfered with the office’s normal recorded music, which played continuously.
Spring.
Cleaning men came to clean all the office’s typewriters and calculators.
I suppose it must have been just about that time that poor Corcoran was cutting his wrists with a razor blade.
We all share in the blame for Corcoran’s death. I, for sitting arguing futile theories with Beddoes, instead of staying with him. Smith – if what Corcoran told me was true – for his momentary loss of faith. Beddoes most of all, for hating all that is of a subtle and mysterious beauty, all that he cannot immediately reduce to a petty formula, all that he cannot slash with Ockham’s Razor. With his relentless scepticism, he almost certainly drove ‘Corky’ to the brink of insanity and to his death.
This being true, I have had no hesitation in dismissing Beddoes’s theory of the vanishing village as simply another of his destructive fantasies. Even without checking, I am sure it is utterly without foundation.
For different reasons, Corcoran’s statements about Smith’s ‘fraud’ must also be dismissed. To dootherwise would be to take the word of a hopelessly insane man against that of a reputable scientist with a brilliant record.
Our work carried on, though we now see much less of Beddoes. What would be the point? One cannot explain the incredibly beautiful colours of a sunset to a blind man.
T HE I NTERSTATE
Andor sat three rows back from the driver. Having jammed his small suitcase in the rack overhead, having seen his large suitcase stowed in the bowels of the bus, Andor began the pleasurable process of relaxing.
First he concentrated on the calves of his legs, letting their knots of muscle soften and grow numb. Then he folded his hands across his paunch, the left still gripping a magazine, however, in case the man next to him began talking. Andor let the muscles of his shoulders and neck relax now, ordering the tension in them to surrender.
He felt some of the nervous charge generated by the exciting activity at the great bus terminal drain out of him now, as the bus got into smooth, gearless motion. The acceleration sickened him, and as the bus rolled on through terminal tunnels, he turned his thoughts to the circumstances that had led to his trip.
Once again, on the television screen of his mind, Andor sat erect at his desk, operating a small calculator and marking numbers upon torms of pink, white, yellow, pale blue and pale green. At the desks just to his left and right, and immediately before and behind him, were men performing similar tasks. He knew their names, though now, away from the office, he could not recall their faces. One, he thought, had white hair. Andor supposed that on the floors immediately above him and below him were men performing similar tasks, though he had no proof of this. In thoughts, Andor’s office moved through the office seasons.
Fall.
Aitkin, on his left, sold tickets on a football pool, the Army-Navy game. Andor bought one ticket, number 0 – 0.
Each day, when he opened his desk drawer, the ticket lay looking up at him with its blank spectacles. Long after the game was over, weary of its inspection, Andor threw the ticket into the wastebasket to the right of his desk.
Winter.
Jurgens, in front of him, seemed to suffer from a severe sinus infection. Another man in another department was said to have suffered a heart attack from shovelling snow, but Andor was never able to check the truth of this story. Jurgens brought a new portable radio to work after the holiday. Playing it was not possible, however, for it interfered with the office’s normal recorded music, which played continuously.
Spring.
Cleaning men came to clean all the office’s typewriters and calculators.
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