. . . facts; I create them; they’re my facts, do you understand? But still . . . I . . . feel some sort of truth in them; a great general truth . . . that changes everything . . . until it explodes. And this great truth is hidden in facts and not in words. And so one must go for facts, even if both one’s arms are torn off. . . .”
Annie, leaning against the wall, was scarcely breathing. Their gloomy guest had never said so much before—and, principally, had never spoken about himself. He had to struggle hard with words. There was wrestling within him an enormous pride, but also pain and shyness; and even when he spoke in terms of integral numbers Annie understood that something interior and humanly lacerated was taking place before her.
“But the worst of it is,” mumbled Prokop, “that sometimes . . . and especially now, it all seems to me to be stupid . . . and worthless. Even this final truth . . . in fact everything. It’s never happened to me before. Why? . . . Perhaps it would be wiser to give in . . . to everything”—(he indicated with his hands something surrounding them). “Simply to Life. A man mustn’t be happy; it softens him, you understand? Then everything else appears to be useless, small . . . and senseless. The best things . . . the best things are done by a man through desperation. Through anger, loneliness, being stunned. So nothing’s enough for him. I used to work like a maniac. But now, now I’ve begun to be happy. I’ve now learnt that perhaps . . . there’s something better than thinking. Here one only lives . . . and sees that it is something
