present be a prime number again or display another interesting arithmetical qualityâas at that memorable moment when it had been exactly 111111; Uncle Johann had supposedly run out of his room and had stood in the hallway in front of an open window and gratefully greeted the fresh new world and its glorious light, passionately blowing a kiss and somewhat awkwardly making the sign of the cross, which had caught the attention of one of the nurses and led to a rather unpleasant hallway conversation.
Any topic of conversation but this monster in his head, growing by a certain amount every day, every hour, was for his uncle uninteresting to a grotesque degree.
Yet he himself seemed not at all to suffer from the presence of the number-parasite the way those around him (who longed for ordinary communication with him) did, he maintained and cultivated the number like a flower bed. He had cared for it from infancy, through the very early stage of 5, 6, 7, then through the rapidly developing two-digit and three-digit, and finally even through the adolescent four-digit range, which it had also soon left behind. It could be claimed that the number was now gradually nearing mature adulthood. Every evening he entered it in a small notebook, which was meant only as a sort of summary of the dayâs events, not as a memory aid. For he never forgot the number itself, not even after seventeen hours of sleep under the influence of strong sedatives. It stayed in him.
Sometimes, when the number had an unremarkable phase ahead of it, the day would be a good one, then you could go for a walk with him or treat him to an ice cream in the quiet café just after the entrance to the clinic. He would sit on one of the plastic chairs, would be responsive and calm and even capable of making a joke. You could get along with him. Now and then you could tell from a silent nod that he had again added 1 and was now taking in the taste and the shape of the new number. If he licked his lips, you could assume that he was satisfied with it. But even if the number wasnât all he had hoped, he was never mad at the new number for that, it couldnât help its appearance or its behavior, it had just hatched, after all, and needed attention, just like any other number. Who knows, maybe it would ultimately reveal a few nice divisibility properties, hidden talents that had escaped him at first glance.
The fact that the number kept growing didnât bother him, for it went nicely step by step, he explained. Sure, if he suddenly added a three-digit number and so skipped hundreds of other stages of the numberâs development, then that would certainly throw some things off. That would be like starting a car in a too-high gear. But the way it was going now, each day about fifty steps, that was manageable, that didnât demand all too much of you. For he was quite well aware of the danger emanating from such a companion number. How easily people with less robust nerves than his might suspect in the numerical sequence a secret code or a message from the beyond or from other realms of heaven. It was perfectly clear to him that the number was only a number, no more and no less. He looked after it and dealt with it responsibly. He had never made a mistake, taken a counting step twice or reversed two digits within the number, no, the number was completely safe with him. Nothing could happen to it, even if some people claimed it would one day be taken away from him. He knew that this was not even possible, was in fact a contradiction in terms. In any case, he would continue to fulfill his care obligations toward this precious and vulnerable being, for he, Johann Rauber, was simply the only protector the number had in the whole world. Impossible to imagine what might happen to it without him.
Robert sat on a bench in front of the psychiatric clinic at the University Hospital of Graz. There was always something off about psychiatric institutions, that is, in
Any topic of conversation but this monster in his head, growing by a certain amount every day, every hour, was for his uncle uninteresting to a grotesque degree.
Yet he himself seemed not at all to suffer from the presence of the number-parasite the way those around him (who longed for ordinary communication with him) did, he maintained and cultivated the number like a flower bed. He had cared for it from infancy, through the very early stage of 5, 6, 7, then through the rapidly developing two-digit and three-digit, and finally even through the adolescent four-digit range, which it had also soon left behind. It could be claimed that the number was now gradually nearing mature adulthood. Every evening he entered it in a small notebook, which was meant only as a sort of summary of the dayâs events, not as a memory aid. For he never forgot the number itself, not even after seventeen hours of sleep under the influence of strong sedatives. It stayed in him.
Sometimes, when the number had an unremarkable phase ahead of it, the day would be a good one, then you could go for a walk with him or treat him to an ice cream in the quiet café just after the entrance to the clinic. He would sit on one of the plastic chairs, would be responsive and calm and even capable of making a joke. You could get along with him. Now and then you could tell from a silent nod that he had again added 1 and was now taking in the taste and the shape of the new number. If he licked his lips, you could assume that he was satisfied with it. But even if the number wasnât all he had hoped, he was never mad at the new number for that, it couldnât help its appearance or its behavior, it had just hatched, after all, and needed attention, just like any other number. Who knows, maybe it would ultimately reveal a few nice divisibility properties, hidden talents that had escaped him at first glance.
The fact that the number kept growing didnât bother him, for it went nicely step by step, he explained. Sure, if he suddenly added a three-digit number and so skipped hundreds of other stages of the numberâs development, then that would certainly throw some things off. That would be like starting a car in a too-high gear. But the way it was going now, each day about fifty steps, that was manageable, that didnât demand all too much of you. For he was quite well aware of the danger emanating from such a companion number. How easily people with less robust nerves than his might suspect in the numerical sequence a secret code or a message from the beyond or from other realms of heaven. It was perfectly clear to him that the number was only a number, no more and no less. He looked after it and dealt with it responsibly. He had never made a mistake, taken a counting step twice or reversed two digits within the number, no, the number was completely safe with him. Nothing could happen to it, even if some people claimed it would one day be taken away from him. He knew that this was not even possible, was in fact a contradiction in terms. In any case, he would continue to fulfill his care obligations toward this precious and vulnerable being, for he, Johann Rauber, was simply the only protector the number had in the whole world. Impossible to imagine what might happen to it without him.
Robert sat on a bench in front of the psychiatric clinic at the University Hospital of Graz. There was always something off about psychiatric institutions, that is, in
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