![]() ![]() My mind wanted to wander, to invent, to use what I had seen as a canvas, rather than the paints. What made beginning so difficult, and the remainder so seemingly automatic, was imagination – the initial problem, and ultimate liberation, of imagining. In the remaining month, I wrote 280 pages. Was it this way, or that way? Did the wagon flip and sink, or didn't it? Did Trachim B drown, or did he escape? It took me a week to finish the first sentence. I returned to Prague, where I was spending the summer, and sat down to explain, on the page, what had happened.īut what had happened? This is always the problem. The impoverished nothing was as much a result of me as of what I encountered. But this was no such nothing.) Because I didn't tell my grandmother about the trip – she would never have let me go – I didn't know what questions to ask, or who to ask, or the necessary names of people, places and things. (There is such a thing as a rich nothing, of course. I found nothing but nothing, and in that nothing – a landscape of total absence – nothing was to be found. The comedy of errors was really a tragedy of errors, and it lasted a mere three days. He was neither intentionally, nor unintentionally, funny. A young man named Alex did take me around, although we had absolutely no relationship whatsoever during the trip and did not correspond after. ![]()
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