The Delimitation of the Infinite
Angel
Meditations on Poetry
I continue to believe that I shall recover, that I may recover.
I slept very well. No dreams or any other symptoms of disease.
Dear O-90 will come tomorrow. Everything will again be simple,
regular and limited like a circle. I am not afraid of this word
"limited." The work of the highest faculty of man, judgment, is
always directed toward the constant limiting of the infinite,
toward the breaking up of the infinite into comfortably digestible
portions,--differentials. This is what gives divine beauty to my
element, mathematics. And it is exactly this beauty that that other
female lacks. But this last thought of mine is only an accidental
mental association.
These thoughts swarmed in my mind while I was listening to the
regular, rhythmic sounds of the underground railway. Silently I
followed the rhythm of its wheels and recited to myself R-'s verses
(from the book which he gave me yesterday), and I felt that behind
me some one was leaning over my shoulder and looking at the open
pages. I did not turn around but with the corner of my eye I noticed
pink ears, spread like wings, the double-curved ... like the
letter.... It was he, but I did not want to disturb him. I feigned
not to have noticed him. How he came in, I do not know. I did not
see him when I got into the car.
This incident, insignificant in itself, had an especially good
effect upon me; it invigorated me, I should say. It is pleasant to
feel that somebody's penetrating eye is watching you from behind
your shoulder, lovingly guarding you from making the most minute
mistake, from the most minute incorrect step. It may seem to you too
sentimental but I see in all this the materialization of the dream
of the ancients about a Guardian-Angel. How many things about which
the ancients had only dreams, are materialized in our life!
At the moment when I became aware of the presence of the
Guardian-Angel behind me I was enjoying a poem entitled "Happiness."
I think I am not mistaken when I say that it is a piece of rare
beauty and depth of thought. Here are the first four lines:
"Two times two--eternal lovers;
Inseparable in passion four ...
Most flaming lovers in the world,
Eternally welded, two times two."
And the rest is in the same vein: on the wisdom and the eternal
happiness of the multiplication table. Every poet is inevitably
a Columbus. America existed before Columbus for ages, but only
Columbus found it. The multiplication table existed before R-13
for ages, but only R-13 could find in the virginal forest of
figures a new Eldorado. Is it not true? Is there any happiness
more wise and cloudless in this wonderful world? Steel may rust.
The ancient god created the ancient man, i.e., the man capable
of mistakes, _ergo_ the ancient god himself made a mistake. The
multiplication table is more wise and more absolute than the ancient
god, for the multiplication table never (do you understand--_never_)
makes mistakes! There are no more fortunate and happy people than
those who live according to the correct, eternal laws of the
multiplication table. No hesitation! No errors! There is but one
truth, and there is but one path to it; and that truth is: four,
and that path is: two times two. Would it not seem preposterous for
these happily multiplied twos suddenly to begin thinking of some
foolish kind of freedom? i.e. (is it not clear?) of a mistake? It
seems undeniable, axiomatic, that R-13 knows how to grasp the most
fundamental, the most....
At that moment again I felt (first near the back of my head, then
on my left ear) the warm, tender breath of the Guardian-Angel. He
apparently noticed that the book on my lap had long been closed and
that my thoughts were somewhere very far.... Well, I am ready this
minute to spread before him the pages of my brain. This gives one
such a feeling of tranquility and joy. I remember I even turned
around and gazed long and questioningly into his eyes; but either
he did not understand, or he did not want to understand me. He did
not ask me anything.... The only thing left for me is to relate
everything to you, my unknown readers. You are to me now as dear and
as near and as far out of reach as he was at that moment.
This was my way of thinking: from the part to the whole,--R-13 is
the part; the whole is our Institution of State Poets and Authors.
I thought: how was it that the ancients did not notice the utter
absurdity of their prose and poetry? The gigantic, magnificent
power of the artistic word was spent by them in vain. It is really
droll; anybody wrote whatever happened to come into his head! It
was as foolish as the fact that in the days of the ancients the
ocean blindly splashed at the shore for twenty-four hours without
interruption or use. The millions of kilogram-meters of energy
which were hidden in the waves were used only for the stimulation
of sweethearts! We obtained electricity from the amorous whisper
of the waves! We made a domestic animal out of that sparkling,
foaming, rabid one! And in the same manner we domesticated and
harnessed the wild element of poetry. Now poetry is no longer the
unpardonable whistling of nightingales but a State Service! Poetry
is a commodity.
Our famous "Mathematical Norms"! Without them in our schools, how
could we love so sincerely and dearly our four rules of arithmetic?
And "Thorns!" This is a classical image: the Guardians are thorns
about a rose; thorns that guard our tender State-Flower from coarse
hands. Whose heart could resist, could remain indifferent to see
and hear the lips of our children recite like a prayer: "A bad boy
caught the rose with his hand but the thorn of steel pricked him
like a needle; the bad boy cried and ran home," etc., etc. And the
"Daily Odes to the Well-Doer!" Who, having read them, will not
bow piously before the unselfish service of that Number of all
Numbers? And the dreadful red "Flowers of Court Sentences!" And the
immortal tragedy, "Those Who Come Late to Work!" And the popular
book, "Stanzas on Sex-Hygiene!"
Our whole life in all its complexity and beauty is thus stamped
forever in the gold of words. Our poets do not soar any longer in
the unknown; they have descended to earth and they march with us,
keeping step to the accompaniment of our austere and mechanical
March of the musical State Tower. Their lyre is the morning
rubbing-sound of the electric tooth-brushes, and the threatening
crack of the electric sparks coming from the Machine of the
Well-Doer, and the magnificent echo of the Hymn of the United State,
and the intimate ringing of the crystalline, shining wash-basins,
and the stimulating rustle of the falling curtains, and the joyous
voices of the newest cook-books, and the almost imperceptible
whisper of the street membranes....
Our gods are here, below. They are with us in the Bureau, in the
kitchen, in the shops, in the rest-rooms. The gods have become like
us, _ergo_ we have become like gods. And we shall come to you, my
unknown readers on another planet, we shall come to you to make your
life as god-like, as rational and as correct as ours....