G
Dearest, don’t let me disturb you, I’m only saying goodnight, and to do so I broke off in the middle of a page of my writing. I’m afraid that soon I shall no longer be able to write to you, for to be able to write to someone (I must give you all kinds of names, so for once you must be called “someone”) one has to have an idea of the face one is addressing. I do have a clear idea of your face, that wouldn’t be the trouble. But far clearer than that is an image that now comes to me more and more often: of my face resting on your shoulder, of my talking, partly smothered and indistinctly, to your shoulder, your dress, to myself, while you can have no notion of what is being said.
Are you asleep? Or are you still reading—of which I would disapprove? Or are you still at a rehearsal? I most sincerely hope not. By my watch, always slow but never out of order, it is now 7 minutes to 1. Remember, you should sleep more than other people, for I sleep less, though not much less, than most. And I can’t think of a better place to store my unused share of universal sleep than in your beloved eyes.
And no wild dreams, please! In my mind I am making a tour around your bed, demanding silence. And after I have put everything in order there, and perhaps even shooed away a drunk from the Immanuelkirchstrasse, I return, more orderly within myself as well, to my writing, or perhaps even straight to sleep.
Never fail, dearest, to tell me roughly what you were doing roughly at the time I am writing to you. I will then check my own guesses against it, and if possible you will make the facts approach my guesses; would it then be so incredible if eventually, after many attempts, they were to coincide and become one great reality of which we could always be certain?—Just now the tower clock strikes 1 o’clock, Prague time.
Adieu, , adieu! How did you get that name? And don’t fly away! This suddenly comes to my mind somehow, perhaps through the word “adieu,” which has a certain soaring quality. I think one could derive extraordinary pleasure from soaring to great heights, if this could rid one of a heavy burden which clings to one as I cling to you. Don’t be tempted by the beckoning of such relief. Hold on to the delusion that you need me; think yourself more deeply into it. It won’t do you any harm, you know, and if one day you want to get rid of me you will always have the strength to do so; but meanwhile you have given me a gift such as I never even dreamt of finding in this life. That’s how it is, even if in your sleep you shake your head.
Are you asleep? Or are you still reading—of which I would disapprove? Or are you still at a rehearsal? I most sincerely hope not. By my watch, always slow but never out of order, it is now 7 minutes to 1. Remember, you should sleep more than other people, for I sleep less, though not much less, than most. And I can’t think of a better place to store my unused share of universal sleep than in your beloved eyes.
And no wild dreams, please! In my mind I am making a tour around your bed, demanding silence. And after I have put everything in order there, and perhaps even shooed away a drunk from the Immanuelkirchstrasse, I return, more orderly within myself as well, to my writing, or perhaps even straight to sleep.
Never fail, dearest, to tell me roughly what you were doing roughly at the time I am writing to you. I will then check my own guesses against it, and if possible you will make the facts approach my guesses; would it then be so incredible if eventually, after many attempts, they were to coincide and become one great reality of which we could always be certain?—Just now the tower clock strikes 1 o’clock, Prague time.
Adieu, , adieu! How did you get that name? And don’t fly away! This suddenly comes to my mind somehow, perhaps through the word “adieu,” which has a certain soaring quality. I think one could derive extraordinary pleasure from soaring to great heights, if this could rid one of a heavy burden which clings to one as I cling to you. Don’t be tempted by the beckoning of such relief. Hold on to the delusion that you need me; think yourself more deeply into it. It won’t do you any harm, you know, and if one day you want to get rid of me you will always have the strength to do so; but meanwhile you have given me a gift such as I never even dreamt of finding in this life. That’s how it is, even if in your sleep you shake your head.
