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[Foreword]Gregory Zilboorgv
Record
1.[An Announcement—The Wisest of Lines—A Poem]1
2.[Ballet—Square Harmony—X]4
3.[A Coat—A Wall—The Tables]12
4.[The Wild Man with the Barometer—Epilepsy—If]18
5.[The Square—The Rulers of the World—An Agreeable and Useful Function]24
6.[An Accident—The Cursed “It’s Clear”—Twenty-four Hours]28
7.[An Eyelash—Taylor—Henbane and Lily of the Valley]38
8.[An Irrational Root—R-13—The Triangle]46
9.[Liturgy—Iambus—The Cast-Iron Hand]53
10.[A Letter—A Membrane—Hairy I]59
11.[No, I Can’t; Let It Be without Headings!]70
12.[The Delimitation of the Infinite—Angel—Meditations on Poetry]77
13.[Fog—Thou—A Decidedly Absurd Adventure]83
14.[“Mine”—Impossible—A Cold Floor]91
15.[The Bell—The Mirror-Like Sea—I am to Burn Eternally]95
16.[Yellow—A Two-dimensional Shadow—An Incurable Soul]102
17.[Through Glass—I Died—The Corridor]111
18.[Logical Debris—Wounds and Plaster—Never Again]121
19.[The Infinitesimal of the Third Order—From Under the Forehead—Over the Railing]130
20.[Discharge—The Material of an Idea—The Zero Rock]139
21.[The Duty of an Author—The Ice-swells—The Most Difficult Love]144
22.[The Benumbed Waves—Everything is Improving—I Am a Microbe]152
23.[Flowers—The Dissolution of a Crystal—If Only (?)]158
24.[The Limit of the Function—Easter—To Cross Out Everything]165
25.[The Descent from Heaven—The Greatest Catastrophe in History—The Known—Is Ended]171
26.[The World Does Exist—Rash—Forty-one Degrees Centigrade]181
27.[No Headings. It Is Impossible]187
28.[Both of Them—Entropy and Energy—The Opaque Part of the Body]196
29.[Threads of the Face—Sprouts—An Unnatural Compression]207
30.[The Last Number—Galileo’s Mistake—Would It Not Be Better]211
31.[The Great Operation—I Forgave Everything—The Collision of Trains]217
32.[I Do Not Believe—Tractors—A Little Human Splinter]228
33.[This without a Synopsis, Hastily, the Last]237
34.[The Forgiven Ones—A Sunny Night—A Radio-Walkryie]239
35.[In a Ring—A Carrot—A Murder]251
36.[Empty Pages—The Christian God—About My Mother]260
37.[Infusorian—Doomsday—Her Room]266
38.[I Don’t Know What Title—Perhaps the Whole Synopsis May Be Called a Cast-off Cigarette-Butt]272
39.[The End]276
40.[Facts—The Bell—I Am Certain]284

WE

RECORD ONE

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.