he could not concentrate on any subject for long, he passed his time like a spoiled and stupid child who cannot amuse itself, wandering from room to room in the house, up and down the staircase from one floor to the other, gazing absently from this window or that. When he would pass by me during this endless, maddening to and fro that made the floors of the wooden house groan and creak in protest, I knew he hoped I would distract him with some joke, some novel idea or encouraging word. But despite my sense of defeat, the anger and hatred I felt for him had lost none of their force and I would not respond. Even when, to get some sort of answer out of me, he swallowed his pride and met my intractability humbly, with a few kind words, I wouldn’t say what he longed to hear; when he announced he had information from the palace that could be favourably interpreted, or was struck by a new idea that could be worth its weight in gold if he persisted and followed it up, I either pretended not to hear him or doused his enthusiasm at once by emphasizing the most insipid thing in what he said. I enjoyed watching him struggle in the vacuum of his own mind.
But later he found in this very emptiness the new idea he needed; perhaps because he was left to his own devices, perhaps because his mind, unable to be still, could not escape its own rampant impatience. It was then that I gave him an answer – I wanted to encourage him – my interest too was aroused; perhaps while this was going on I even thought he cared for me. One evening when Hoja’s steps creaked through the house to my room and he said, as if asking the most ordinary sort of question, ‘Why am I what I am?’ I wanted to encourage him and tried to answer.
I replied that I didn’t know why he was what he was, adding that this question was often asked by ‘them’, and asked more and more every day. When I said this I had nothing to support it, no particular theory in mind, nothing at all but a desire to answer his question as he wished, perhaps because I sensed instinctively that he would enjoy the game. He was surprised. He eyed me with curiosity, he wanted me to continue; when I remained silent he couldn’t restrain himself, he wanted me to repeat what I’d said: So they ask this question? When he saw me smile in approval he immediately became angry: he wasn’t asking this because he thought ‘they’ asked it, he’d asked it on his own without knowing they did, he couldn’t care less what they did. Then, in a strange tone he said, ‘It’s as if a voice were singing in my ear.’ This mysterious voice reminded him of his beloved father, he’d heard a voice like that too before he died, but his song had been different. ‘Mine keeps singing the same refrain,’ he said, and seeming a bit embarrassed, added suddenly, ‘I am what I am, I am what I am, ah!’
I almost laughed out loud, but controlled the impulse. If this were a harmless joke then he should laugh too; he wasn’t laughing; but he realized that he was on the verge of appearing ridiculous. I had to show that I was aware both of the absurdity and the meaning of the refrain; for this time I wanted him to go on. I said the refrain should be taken seriously; of course, the singer he heard was none other than himself. He must have found some hint of ridicule in what I said, for he became angry: he too knew that; what mystified him was why the voice kept on repeating this phrase!
He was so agitated that of course I didn’t tell him, but frankly, this is what I was thinking: I knew, not only from my own experience but from that of my brothers and sisters, that the boredom selfish children experience could lead either to productive results or to nonsense. I said it was not why he heard this refrain, but what it meant that he should consider. Perhaps it also occurred to me then that he might go mad for lack of anything to fix upon; and that I could escape the oppression of my own despair and cowardice
But later he found in this very emptiness the new idea he needed; perhaps because he was left to his own devices, perhaps because his mind, unable to be still, could not escape its own rampant impatience. It was then that I gave him an answer – I wanted to encourage him – my interest too was aroused; perhaps while this was going on I even thought he cared for me. One evening when Hoja’s steps creaked through the house to my room and he said, as if asking the most ordinary sort of question, ‘Why am I what I am?’ I wanted to encourage him and tried to answer.
I replied that I didn’t know why he was what he was, adding that this question was often asked by ‘them’, and asked more and more every day. When I said this I had nothing to support it, no particular theory in mind, nothing at all but a desire to answer his question as he wished, perhaps because I sensed instinctively that he would enjoy the game. He was surprised. He eyed me with curiosity, he wanted me to continue; when I remained silent he couldn’t restrain himself, he wanted me to repeat what I’d said: So they ask this question? When he saw me smile in approval he immediately became angry: he wasn’t asking this because he thought ‘they’ asked it, he’d asked it on his own without knowing they did, he couldn’t care less what they did. Then, in a strange tone he said, ‘It’s as if a voice were singing in my ear.’ This mysterious voice reminded him of his beloved father, he’d heard a voice like that too before he died, but his song had been different. ‘Mine keeps singing the same refrain,’ he said, and seeming a bit embarrassed, added suddenly, ‘I am what I am, I am what I am, ah!’
I almost laughed out loud, but controlled the impulse. If this were a harmless joke then he should laugh too; he wasn’t laughing; but he realized that he was on the verge of appearing ridiculous. I had to show that I was aware both of the absurdity and the meaning of the refrain; for this time I wanted him to go on. I said the refrain should be taken seriously; of course, the singer he heard was none other than himself. He must have found some hint of ridicule in what I said, for he became angry: he too knew that; what mystified him was why the voice kept on repeating this phrase!
He was so agitated that of course I didn’t tell him, but frankly, this is what I was thinking: I knew, not only from my own experience but from that of my brothers and sisters, that the boredom selfish children experience could lead either to productive results or to nonsense. I said it was not why he heard this refrain, but what it meant that he should consider. Perhaps it also occurred to me then that he might go mad for lack of anything to fix upon; and that I could escape the oppression of my own despair and cowardice
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