much success, to fit his flaccid, overstretched gaze into the confines of the neat white book in his hands. He is, by preference, only vaguely aware of those around him. There is a man with a shockingly large, rubbery face sitting not far from him on one side, and, on the other, a figure drooping in sleep, and somehow obscured. Glancing in that direction, it’s almost as if a blind spot appears in X.’s field of vision, hiding the man. A modishly-dressed young woman with a wide, goblin face sits opposite him. When it occurs to him to make a brief note to himself about the panel, a way to return once again to that impression even as the panel and its wall are hurtling away from him into a darkness like the depths of the ocean, to linger over that impression and its higher relief of reality. As he takes out his notebook to jot down a few words, a disagreeable expression of self-satisfaction comes over the face of the woman across the aisle, as if she assumed he must be taking down a description of her, so that he could recapture her image later on.
There is the usual jabbering, too, but his senses are too blunted with fatigue to be susceptible to irritation. It isn’t the language, as there are many spoken here, but the flat, insistent manner of speaking that is grating. Glancing around, he takes in the other passengers in a quick, perfunctory survey. They wear the faces printed on money.
The noise of these voices and bag rummagers becomes muffled. The air in the train is getting bad. As the atmosphere closes in on him, X. feels groggy, shiftless, and unable to focus his eyes on the words on the page. He dabs at his chest several times with the butt end of his pen before he can manage to get it into his shirt pocket, and finally allows himself to sink backward in his seat . . .
A squeal of brakes startles him — the train is different. No, it is the same, but his seat is different. He now occupies the seat in which the strangely obscured sleeping man had been. His mouth is pasty and dry, his body stiff, complaining in every joint, and this, and his inability to recognize anyone on the train, contributes to the presentiment of alarm that gathers in the still-dim corners of his waking mind. Through the window, he can see the lights of the next station appear against the tunnel walls ahead. A longing for the open air and sky comes over him; he thinks of the walk he took a night or two ago, gazing up at Jupiter, calm and tremendous. The first winds of autumn were tossing in the trees, so unlike the lifeless stillness of summer. The autumn winds, lightly fragrant like a woman’s hair, always bring him a special awakening feeling, even though they were harbingers of death. October was the month of his birth, and it sometimes felt as if the autumn season recognized him as one of its own creations. Now, if he were to get up and make his way to the surface, he might see Jupiter again, as if no time at all had elapsed since he’d seen it last.
He glances warily at his watch, expecting it to be shockingly late. For a time, he labors to understand its face, how it could now be five minutes earlier than it was the last time he’d looked at the time. The perennial night of the tunnels has fooled him; it’s almost twelve hours later.
The next station appears on the far side of the car. Through the other window, the one closer to him, he watches in silent consternation as the panel slides toward him. The train has gone full circle. How many times? The people standing on the platform look weary, heads hanging down over their books. They board the train with clumsy, enervated movements, and one man goes to stand somewhat before him. This man is neither familiar nor unfamiliar; it’s difficult to say what he looks like, so changeable are his features from one moment to the next, but he is gazing out the window, and his eyes are riveted on the panel.
X. rubs his face, and puts his clothes in order, although they seem entirely
There is the usual jabbering, too, but his senses are too blunted with fatigue to be susceptible to irritation. It isn’t the language, as there are many spoken here, but the flat, insistent manner of speaking that is grating. Glancing around, he takes in the other passengers in a quick, perfunctory survey. They wear the faces printed on money.
The noise of these voices and bag rummagers becomes muffled. The air in the train is getting bad. As the atmosphere closes in on him, X. feels groggy, shiftless, and unable to focus his eyes on the words on the page. He dabs at his chest several times with the butt end of his pen before he can manage to get it into his shirt pocket, and finally allows himself to sink backward in his seat . . .
A squeal of brakes startles him — the train is different. No, it is the same, but his seat is different. He now occupies the seat in which the strangely obscured sleeping man had been. His mouth is pasty and dry, his body stiff, complaining in every joint, and this, and his inability to recognize anyone on the train, contributes to the presentiment of alarm that gathers in the still-dim corners of his waking mind. Through the window, he can see the lights of the next station appear against the tunnel walls ahead. A longing for the open air and sky comes over him; he thinks of the walk he took a night or two ago, gazing up at Jupiter, calm and tremendous. The first winds of autumn were tossing in the trees, so unlike the lifeless stillness of summer. The autumn winds, lightly fragrant like a woman’s hair, always bring him a special awakening feeling, even though they were harbingers of death. October was the month of his birth, and it sometimes felt as if the autumn season recognized him as one of its own creations. Now, if he were to get up and make his way to the surface, he might see Jupiter again, as if no time at all had elapsed since he’d seen it last.
He glances warily at his watch, expecting it to be shockingly late. For a time, he labors to understand its face, how it could now be five minutes earlier than it was the last time he’d looked at the time. The perennial night of the tunnels has fooled him; it’s almost twelve hours later.
The next station appears on the far side of the car. Through the other window, the one closer to him, he watches in silent consternation as the panel slides toward him. The train has gone full circle. How many times? The people standing on the platform look weary, heads hanging down over their books. They board the train with clumsy, enervated movements, and one man goes to stand somewhat before him. This man is neither familiar nor unfamiliar; it’s difficult to say what he looks like, so changeable are his features from one moment to the next, but he is gazing out the window, and his eyes are riveted on the panel.
X. rubs his face, and puts his clothes in order, although they seem entirely
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