This morning, recalling again this slim green book, I got it out of my suitcase in the storehouse. Flicking through page by page, I discovered a handwritten note. It read “the world is an illusion, and living is dreaming”, and had been written directly below a sentence by Borges: “How is that dream so vivid? How does blood flow and hot tears gush forth?” Below that, I could make out the trace of “life, life” scrawled in German and thickly 17
underlined. It was clearly my handwriting, and yet I had no memory of having written it. All I knew was that it was the same dark blue ink which German students use for note-taking. I opened the desk drawer and rummaged around for my old grey leather pencil case. Inside there was a fountain pen, just as I remembered. It was the selfsame pen I'd used when I first moved to Germany, sharpening the nib countless times until I finally laid it aside during my second year of university. I took off the lid which, apart from a few scratches, was intact, and carried the fountain pen to the bathroom, to wash away the dried ink crusted on the nib. I filled the sink with clean water and then, when I submerged the nib, the dark blue ink ribboned steadily through the water in a slender, wavering line.
4
μή αϊτει ούδέν αύτόν Do not ask him anything.
μή άλλως π οιήδης Do not do it another way.