An Announcement
The Wisest of Lines
A Poem
This is merely a copy, word by word, of what was published this
morning in the State newspaper:
"In another hundred and twenty days the building of the _Integral_
will be completed. The great historic hour is near, when the first
_Integral_ will rise into the limitless space of the universe. A
thousand years ago your heroic ancestors subjected the whole earth
to the power of the United State. A still more glorious task is
before you,--the integration of the indefinite equation of the
Cosmos by the use of the glass, electric, fire-breathing _Integral_.
Your mission is to subjugate to the grateful yoke of reason the
unknown beings who live on other planets, and who are perhaps still
in the primitive state of freedom. If they will not understand that
we are bringing them a mathematically faultless happiness, our duty
will be to force them to be happy. But before we take up arms, we
shall try the power of words.
"In the name of The Well-Doer, the following is announced herewith
to all Numbers of the United State:
"Whoever feels capable must consider it his duty to write treatises,
poems, manifestoes, odes and other compositions on the greatness and
the beauty of the United State.
"This will be the first load which the _Integral_ will carry.
"Long live the United State! Long live the Numbers!! Long live the
Well-Doer!!!"
I feel my cheeks are burning as I write this. To integrate the
colossal, universal equation! To unbend the wild curve, to
straighten it out to a tangent--to a straight line! For the United
State is a straight line, a great, divine, precise, wise line, the
wisest of lines!
I, D-503, the builder of the _Integral_, I am only one of the many
mathematicians of the United State. My pen, which is accustomed to
figures, is unable to express the march and rhythm of consonance;
therefore I shall try to record only the things I see, the things
I think, or to be more exact, the things _we_ think. Yes, we; that
is exactly what I mean, and "We" shall, therefore, be the title of
my records. But this will only be a derivative of our life,--of our
mathematical, perfect life in the United State. If this be so, will
not this derivative be a poem in itself, despite my limitations? It
will. I believe, I know it.
I feel my cheeks are burning as I write this. I feel something
similar to what a woman probably feels when for the first time she
senses within herself the pulse of a tiny, blind, human being. It
is I, and at the same time it is not I. And for many long months it
will be necessary to feed it with my life, with my blood, and then
with a pain at my heart, to tear it from myself and lay it at the
feet of the United State.
Yet I am ready, as everyone, or nearly everyone of us, is. I am
ready.