again make the same nebula an insignificant speck in the super-universe. The little word “Why?” with a question mark.
So what could I do, a sailor without papers, against the power of the word “Why?”
“Why are you here? Where do you come from? What’s your name?”
I have given no answers as yet. But now I can no longer resist the question mark. I have to say something. I do not know what might be better, to tell him that I came from Paris or to tell him I came from Limoges. Since Limoges is nearer, the railroad hasn’t got so big a claim on me as it would have if I said I came from Paris.
“I took the train at Limoges.”
“That is not correct. You came from Paris.”
Let’s see if they are smart.
“No, officer, I was not on the train since Paris, only since Limoges.”
“But you have a station ticket here from Paris, good only for the first suburb out.”
With this I realize that my pockets have been searched again. I hadn’t noticed it at all. I seem to have become so accustomed to being searched that I have lost my capacity to take account of it. It must be the same with married people and their kisses; divorce proceedings begin when they take account again.
“This ticket? Oh, you mean this ticket from Paris? I have had this for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks or so.”
“Strange ticket. Rather a great miracle. The ticket given out to you six weeks ago bears yesterday’s date.”
“I am sure, then, that the clerk must have postdated it by mistake.”
“We have this fact clear now. You boarded the train at Paris.”
“I paid from Paris to Limoges.”
“Yes, you are a very good payer. You even buy two tickets. Because you would not have needed this ticket if you had bought a ticket to Limoges. Where is your ticket from Paris to Limoges? Since you did not leave the train at Limoges, the ticket must still be in your possession.”
“I gave it to the conductor on reaching Limoges.”
“Then where is the ticket from Limoges? How could you get into the train after you handed in the ticket at the collection gate at Limoges?”
“I do not know.”
“Let us now take your name.”
I could not spoil my decent American name. Some day I might belong to society. It is only a question of making money. So I gave him a name which I borrowed for this occasion from a grocer I used to know in Chic, who once threw a stick after me. For that he is now on the police blotter in Toulouse, France. A warning to all grocers never to throw sticks after little boys when they catch them with their dirty hands in the barrel of maple syrup.
“Nationality?”
What a question! It has been testified to by my consuls that I no longer have such a thing as nationality, since there is not the slightest proof that I was born. I might tell here that I am French. My consul told me there are lots of people who speak excellent French but are not Frenchmen, so there must also be lots of people who do not speak any more French than I do, but who are nevertheless French citizens. I should like to know for whom it would be cheaper to ride on a French railroad without a ticket — for a Frenchman, or for an American, or for —?
There’s an idea! A German! A Boche! Right now, only a few years after the war. All France is still filled to the brim with the most terrific hatred against the Heinies. Might be a new experience. One should never cease to learn. If you cannot go to college because you have no money and you have to sell papers to make your own living, you should nevertheless not miss any means by which you can get educated. Traveling, and having lots of experiences in life, are the best education for any man. Profs are as dull as last week’s morning paper. I wonder what they’ll do to a German caught riding on their express trains so soon after the war.
“I am only a German, sir.”
“A German? What do you know about that! A German! I suppose from Potsdam, too?”
“Not, not from Potsdam,
So what could I do, a sailor without papers, against the power of the word “Why?”
“Why are you here? Where do you come from? What’s your name?”
I have given no answers as yet. But now I can no longer resist the question mark. I have to say something. I do not know what might be better, to tell him that I came from Paris or to tell him I came from Limoges. Since Limoges is nearer, the railroad hasn’t got so big a claim on me as it would have if I said I came from Paris.
“I took the train at Limoges.”
“That is not correct. You came from Paris.”
Let’s see if they are smart.
“No, officer, I was not on the train since Paris, only since Limoges.”
“But you have a station ticket here from Paris, good only for the first suburb out.”
With this I realize that my pockets have been searched again. I hadn’t noticed it at all. I seem to have become so accustomed to being searched that I have lost my capacity to take account of it. It must be the same with married people and their kisses; divorce proceedings begin when they take account again.
“This ticket? Oh, you mean this ticket from Paris? I have had this for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks or so.”
“Strange ticket. Rather a great miracle. The ticket given out to you six weeks ago bears yesterday’s date.”
“I am sure, then, that the clerk must have postdated it by mistake.”
“We have this fact clear now. You boarded the train at Paris.”
“I paid from Paris to Limoges.”
“Yes, you are a very good payer. You even buy two tickets. Because you would not have needed this ticket if you had bought a ticket to Limoges. Where is your ticket from Paris to Limoges? Since you did not leave the train at Limoges, the ticket must still be in your possession.”
“I gave it to the conductor on reaching Limoges.”
“Then where is the ticket from Limoges? How could you get into the train after you handed in the ticket at the collection gate at Limoges?”
“I do not know.”
“Let us now take your name.”
I could not spoil my decent American name. Some day I might belong to society. It is only a question of making money. So I gave him a name which I borrowed for this occasion from a grocer I used to know in Chic, who once threw a stick after me. For that he is now on the police blotter in Toulouse, France. A warning to all grocers never to throw sticks after little boys when they catch them with their dirty hands in the barrel of maple syrup.
“Nationality?”
What a question! It has been testified to by my consuls that I no longer have such a thing as nationality, since there is not the slightest proof that I was born. I might tell here that I am French. My consul told me there are lots of people who speak excellent French but are not Frenchmen, so there must also be lots of people who do not speak any more French than I do, but who are nevertheless French citizens. I should like to know for whom it would be cheaper to ride on a French railroad without a ticket — for a Frenchman, or for an American, or for —?
There’s an idea! A German! A Boche! Right now, only a few years after the war. All France is still filled to the brim with the most terrific hatred against the Heinies. Might be a new experience. One should never cease to learn. If you cannot go to college because you have no money and you have to sell papers to make your own living, you should nevertheless not miss any means by which you can get educated. Traveling, and having lots of experiences in life, are the best education for any man. Profs are as dull as last week’s morning paper. I wonder what they’ll do to a German caught riding on their express trains so soon after the war.
“I am only a German, sir.”
“A German? What do you know about that! A German! I suppose from Potsdam, too?”
“Not, not from Potsdam,
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