person.”
“But when I think about the people I work for my thoughts are so evil, if you only knew, just as if my wretchedness was their fault. I try to reason with myself but I can never manage to think in any other way.”
“Don’t worry about those thoughts. You are not a nasty person.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. One day you will be very giving, with yourself and with your time.”
“You really are nice.”
“But I didn’t say that out of niceness.”
“But you, what will happen to you?”
“Nothing. As you can see I am no longer very young.”
“But you. . . . You who once thought of killing yourself—because you did say that.”
“Oh, that was only laziness at the thought of having to go on feeding myself: nothing serious really.”
“But that’s impossible. Something will happen to you or else it will only be because you don’t want anything to happen.”
“Nothing happens to me except the things that happen to everyone, every day.”
“You say that, but in that town?”
“There I was not alone. And then, afterwards, I was alone again. I think it was just luck.”
“No. When someone is without any hope at all, as you are, it is because something happened to him: it’s the only explanation.”
“One day you will understand. There are people like me, people who get so much pleasure from just being alive that they can get by without hope. I sing while I shave—what more do you want?”
“But were you unhappy after you left that town?”
“Yes.”
“And did you think of staying in your room and never leaving it again?”
“No, not then. Because then I knew that it is possible not to be alone, even if only by accident.”
“Tell me what else you do, apart from singing while you shave?”
“I sell my goods, then I eat, then I travel, then I read the newspapers. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy the newspapers. I read them from cover to cover including the advertisements. I get so absorbed in a newspaper that when I put it down I have to think for a minute who I am.”
“But I meant other things: what do you do apart from all the obvious things, apart from shaving and selling your goods and taking trains and eating and reading the newspapers? I mean those things which no one appears to be doing, but which everyone is doing all the same.”
“I see what you mean. . . . But I really don’t know what I do apart from the things I mentioned. I don’t deny that sometimes I do wonder what I am doing, but just wondering doesn’t seem to be enough. I probably don’t wonder hard enough and I think it’s perfectly possible that I shall never know. You see I believe that it is quite usual to be like me and that a great many people go through life without ever exactly knowing why.”
“But it seems to me that one could try to know a little harder than you do.”
“But I hang by a thread. I even hold on to myself by the merest thread. So you see life is easier for me than it is for you, which explains everything. And then too I can manage to live without having to know certain things.”
Once more they were silent. Then the girl went on:
“I still can’t understand. Forgive me for going back to the subject, but I still can’t understand how you came to be as you are, nor even how you came to do the work you do.”
“But as I told you, little by little. My brothers and sisters are all successful people who knew what they wanted. And I can only say once again that I didn’t know. They can’t understand either how I managed to come down so much in the world.”
“That seems an odd way of putting it: I would rather say, how did you come to be so discouraged? And it’s still beyond me to understand how you came to do such wretched work.”
“Perhaps it comes from the fact that the idea of success was always a little vague in my mind. I never quite understood what it had to do with me. And after all I don’t find my work quite so wretched.”
“I am
“But when I think about the people I work for my thoughts are so evil, if you only knew, just as if my wretchedness was their fault. I try to reason with myself but I can never manage to think in any other way.”
“Don’t worry about those thoughts. You are not a nasty person.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do. One day you will be very giving, with yourself and with your time.”
“You really are nice.”
“But I didn’t say that out of niceness.”
“But you, what will happen to you?”
“Nothing. As you can see I am no longer very young.”
“But you. . . . You who once thought of killing yourself—because you did say that.”
“Oh, that was only laziness at the thought of having to go on feeding myself: nothing serious really.”
“But that’s impossible. Something will happen to you or else it will only be because you don’t want anything to happen.”
“Nothing happens to me except the things that happen to everyone, every day.”
“You say that, but in that town?”
“There I was not alone. And then, afterwards, I was alone again. I think it was just luck.”
“No. When someone is without any hope at all, as you are, it is because something happened to him: it’s the only explanation.”
“One day you will understand. There are people like me, people who get so much pleasure from just being alive that they can get by without hope. I sing while I shave—what more do you want?”
“But were you unhappy after you left that town?”
“Yes.”
“And did you think of staying in your room and never leaving it again?”
“No, not then. Because then I knew that it is possible not to be alone, even if only by accident.”
“Tell me what else you do, apart from singing while you shave?”
“I sell my goods, then I eat, then I travel, then I read the newspapers. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy the newspapers. I read them from cover to cover including the advertisements. I get so absorbed in a newspaper that when I put it down I have to think for a minute who I am.”
“But I meant other things: what do you do apart from all the obvious things, apart from shaving and selling your goods and taking trains and eating and reading the newspapers? I mean those things which no one appears to be doing, but which everyone is doing all the same.”
“I see what you mean. . . . But I really don’t know what I do apart from the things I mentioned. I don’t deny that sometimes I do wonder what I am doing, but just wondering doesn’t seem to be enough. I probably don’t wonder hard enough and I think it’s perfectly possible that I shall never know. You see I believe that it is quite usual to be like me and that a great many people go through life without ever exactly knowing why.”
“But it seems to me that one could try to know a little harder than you do.”
“But I hang by a thread. I even hold on to myself by the merest thread. So you see life is easier for me than it is for you, which explains everything. And then too I can manage to live without having to know certain things.”
Once more they were silent. Then the girl went on:
“I still can’t understand. Forgive me for going back to the subject, but I still can’t understand how you came to be as you are, nor even how you came to do the work you do.”
“But as I told you, little by little. My brothers and sisters are all successful people who knew what they wanted. And I can only say once again that I didn’t know. They can’t understand either how I managed to come down so much in the world.”
“That seems an odd way of putting it: I would rather say, how did you come to be so discouraged? And it’s still beyond me to understand how you came to do such wretched work.”
“Perhaps it comes from the fact that the idea of success was always a little vague in my mind. I never quite understood what it had to do with me. And after all I don’t find my work quite so wretched.”
“I am
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