piece of cardboard on the landing outside his door. Then he raced across to the toilet, to rid himself of the cardboard.
When he got back to his own apartment he was more dead than alive. He set the alarm clock to go off earlier than usual. He had no desire to witness the scene which would follow the discovery of what had happened.
But the next morning there was no trace of the events of the night before. A strong antiseptic odor rose from the still-damp wood of the steps.
Trelkovsky had his chocolate and two slices of dry toast in the café across the street.
Since he was early, he decided to walk to the office. He strolled through the streets unhurriedly, observing the passing crowds. The ranks of faces filed steadily, almost rhythmically, before him, as if their owners were standing on some kind of endless, moving sidewalk. Faces with the great bulging eyes of toads; pinched and wary faces of disillusioned men; round, soft faces of abnormal children; bull necks, fishlike noses, ferret teeth. Half closing his eyes, he imagined that they were really all one face, shifting and changing like the patterns of a kaleidoscope. He was astonished by the peculiarity of all these faces. Martians—they were all Martians. But they were ashamed of it, and so they tried to conceal it. They had determined, once and for all, that their monstrous disproportions were, in reality, true proportion, and their inconceivable ugliness was beauty. They were strangers on this planet, but they refused to admit it. They played at being perfectly at home. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a shop window. He was no different. Identical, exactly the same likeness as that of the monsters. He belonged to their species, but for some unknown reason he had been banished from their company. They had no confidence in him. All they wanted from him was obedience to their incongruous rules and their ridiculous laws. Ridiculous only to him, because he could never fathom their intricacy and their subtlety.
Three young men attempted to speak to a woman just in front of him. She said something very brief and sharp, and strode rapidly away. The men began to laugh and slap each other heartily on the back.
Virility was something else that disgusted him. He had never understood this business of vulgar pride in one’s body and one’s sex. They grunted and wallowed like hogs in their men’s trousers, but they were still hogs. Why did they disguise themselves, why did they feel compelled to cover their bodies with clothing when everything they did reeked of the belly and the glands it harbored? He smiled to himself.
“I wonder what someone who could read my mind would think, if he were walking beside me now.”
This was a question he often asked himself. Occasionally, he would even play at making up problems for the unknown mind reader to solve. He would say all kinds of things to him; sometimes telling him the truth about himself, and at other times just being crude and insulting. Then, as if he were talking on the telephone, he would pause suddenly in his narrative and listen for a reply. Quite obviously he never got one.
“He would probably think that I’m homosexual.”
But he wasn’t homosexual, he didn’t have a sufficiently religious mind for that. Every homosexual is a sort of would-be Christ. And Christ, Trelkovsky thought, was a homosexual whose eyes were larger than his belly’s appetite. People like that simply wanted to bleed for humanity; it was nauseating.
“I suppose I think that way because I am a man, after all. God knows what I might think if I had been born a woman . . .”
He burst out laughing. But then the picture of Simone Choule on her hospital bed flashed before his eyes, and the laughter froze on his lips.
10
The Fever
H e was ill. For several days, he had not felt well. Cold chills raced across his back and up the length of his spine, his jaw trembled uncontrollably, his forehead burned one moment and was covered
When he got back to his own apartment he was more dead than alive. He set the alarm clock to go off earlier than usual. He had no desire to witness the scene which would follow the discovery of what had happened.
But the next morning there was no trace of the events of the night before. A strong antiseptic odor rose from the still-damp wood of the steps.
Trelkovsky had his chocolate and two slices of dry toast in the café across the street.
Since he was early, he decided to walk to the office. He strolled through the streets unhurriedly, observing the passing crowds. The ranks of faces filed steadily, almost rhythmically, before him, as if their owners were standing on some kind of endless, moving sidewalk. Faces with the great bulging eyes of toads; pinched and wary faces of disillusioned men; round, soft faces of abnormal children; bull necks, fishlike noses, ferret teeth. Half closing his eyes, he imagined that they were really all one face, shifting and changing like the patterns of a kaleidoscope. He was astonished by the peculiarity of all these faces. Martians—they were all Martians. But they were ashamed of it, and so they tried to conceal it. They had determined, once and for all, that their monstrous disproportions were, in reality, true proportion, and their inconceivable ugliness was beauty. They were strangers on this planet, but they refused to admit it. They played at being perfectly at home. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a shop window. He was no different. Identical, exactly the same likeness as that of the monsters. He belonged to their species, but for some unknown reason he had been banished from their company. They had no confidence in him. All they wanted from him was obedience to their incongruous rules and their ridiculous laws. Ridiculous only to him, because he could never fathom their intricacy and their subtlety.
Three young men attempted to speak to a woman just in front of him. She said something very brief and sharp, and strode rapidly away. The men began to laugh and slap each other heartily on the back.
Virility was something else that disgusted him. He had never understood this business of vulgar pride in one’s body and one’s sex. They grunted and wallowed like hogs in their men’s trousers, but they were still hogs. Why did they disguise themselves, why did they feel compelled to cover their bodies with clothing when everything they did reeked of the belly and the glands it harbored? He smiled to himself.
“I wonder what someone who could read my mind would think, if he were walking beside me now.”
This was a question he often asked himself. Occasionally, he would even play at making up problems for the unknown mind reader to solve. He would say all kinds of things to him; sometimes telling him the truth about himself, and at other times just being crude and insulting. Then, as if he were talking on the telephone, he would pause suddenly in his narrative and listen for a reply. Quite obviously he never got one.
“He would probably think that I’m homosexual.”
But he wasn’t homosexual, he didn’t have a sufficiently religious mind for that. Every homosexual is a sort of would-be Christ. And Christ, Trelkovsky thought, was a homosexual whose eyes were larger than his belly’s appetite. People like that simply wanted to bleed for humanity; it was nauseating.
“I suppose I think that way because I am a man, after all. God knows what I might think if I had been born a woman . . .”
He burst out laughing. But then the picture of Simone Choule on her hospital bed flashed before his eyes, and the laughter froze on his lips.
10
The Fever
H e was ill. For several days, he had not felt well. Cold chills raced across his back and up the length of his spine, his jaw trembled uncontrollably, his forehead burned one moment and was covered
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