In an Unknown Hand

The face on the right might be appropriate for a volume about ancient Rome; the one on the left looks almost as old, as if a monk long ago had seen it in a dream — or maybe the dreamer was drawn by another monk while he was asleep. Or maybe both were asleep. Either way, however it happened, I myself awoke from a dream this morning in which I came upon someone’s journal among some simple belongings he had left behind. Where he had gone, I don’t know; I only knew he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, return. It was one of those that are neatly divided into several days per page, with a few lines beside the dates to write on. But they weren’t divided uniformly; they seemed to expand and contract according to the amount the mystery person had written; and not all of the days had been filled. The writing varied in degree of haste from entry to entry, but I was sure it had all been done by the same hand. The colors of ink also varied, in tones similar to the two drawings presently under consideration. When I awoke, I was in the middle of reading the journal aloud, but the words immediately evaporated. All I remember now is that the top page was blank and white and very thin, and about to come off. The cover, if there had been one, was missing. Several days ago, while we were eating lunch, I arranged some sliced carrots on a plate in the shape of a make-believe Chinese pictograph. A great wind blew through the firs.

[ 1964 ]