Debris of Logic
Wounds and Plaster
Never Again
Last night， as soon as I had gone to bed， I fell momentarily to the bottom of the ocean of sleep like an overloaded ship that has been wrecked. The heavy mass of wavy green water enveloped me. Then， slowly， I floated from the bottom upward， and somewhere in the middle of that course I opened my eyes—my room！ The morning was still green and motionless. A fragment of sunshine coming from the mirror on my closet door shone into my eyes. This fragment did not permit me to sleep， being thus an obstacle in the way of fulfilling exactly the rules of the Tables， which prescribe so many hours of sleep. I should have opened the closet but I felt as though I were in a spider web， and cobweb covered my eyes； I had no power to sit up.
Yet I got up and opened the closet door； suddenly， there behind that door， making her way through the mass of garments that hung there， was I-330！ I have become so accustomed of late to most improbable things that as far as I remember I was not even surprised； I did not even ask a question. I jumped into the closet， slammed the mirror door behind me， and breathlessly， brusquely， blindly， avidly I clung to her. I remember clearly even now： through the narrow crack of the door a sharp sun ray like lightning broke into the darkness and played on the floor and walls of the closet， and a little higher the cruel ray blade fell upon the naked neck of I-330， and this for some reason seemed to me so terrible that I could not bear it， and I screamed—and again I opened my eyes. My room！
The morning was still green and motionless. On the door of my closet was a fragment of the sunshine. I was in bed. A dream？ Yet my heart was still wildly beating， quivering and twitching； there was a dull pain in the tips of my fingers and in my knees. This undoubtedly did happen！ And now I am no longer able to distinguish what is dream from what is actuality； irrational numbers grow through my solid， habitual， tridimensional life； and instead of firm， polished surfaces， there is something shaggy and rough.
I waited long for the Bell to ring. I was lying thinking， untangling a very strange logical chain. In our superficial life， every formula， every equation， corresponds to a curve or a solid. We have never seen any curve or solid corresponding to my square root of minus one. The horrifying part of the situation is that there exist such curves or solids. Unseen by us they do exist， they must， inevitably； for in mathematics， as on a screen， strange， sharp shadows appear before us. One must remember that mathematics， like death， never makes mistakes， never plays tricks. If we are unable to see those irrational curves or solids， it means only that they inevitably possess a whole immense world somewhere beneath the surface of our life.
I jumped up without waiting for the waking Bell and began to pace up and down the room. My mathematics， the only firm and immovable island of my shaken life， this， too， was torn from its anchor and was floating， whirling. Then it means that that absurd thing， the "soul，" is as real as my unif， as my boots， although I do not see them since they are behind the door of the closet. If boots are not a sickness， why should the "soul" be one？ I sought， but I could not find， a way out of the logical confusion. It looked to me like that strange and sad debris beyond the Green Wall； my debris of logic， too， is filled with extraordinary， incomprehensible， wordless， but speaking beings. It occurred to me for a moment that through some strange， thick glass I saw it； I saw it at once infinitely large and infinitely small， scorpion-like， with hidden but ever perceptible sting； I saw the square root of minus one. Perhaps it was nothing else but my "soul，" which， like the legendary scorpion of the ancients， was voluntarily stinging itself with...
The Bell！ The day began. All I saw and felt neither died nor disappeared； it merely became covered with daylight， as our visible world does not die or disappear at the end of the day but merely becomes covered with the darkness of night. My head was filled with a light， a thin haze. Through that haze I perceived the long glass tables and the globe-like heads busy chewing—slowly， silently， in unison. At a distance， through the haze， the metronome was slowly beating its tick-tock， and to the accompaniment of this customary and caressing music I joined with the others in counting automatically to fifty： fifty is the number of chewing movements required by the law of the State for every piece of food. And auto-maritally then， keeping time， I went downstairs and put my name down in the book for the outgoing Numbers， as everyone did. But I felt I lived separately from everybody； I lived by myself separated by a soft wall which absorbed noises； beyond that wall there was my own world.
