On the Calculation of Volume, Book I

by Solvej Balle

Our communication, initially meaningful and coherent, turns into a series of fitful exchanges containing neither sentences nor information: little words and sounds meant—I suppose—to keep the line between us open, but which, instead, make all too clear how far apart we are.

I still remember how we discussed with a certain irony and detachment this burgeoning interest in the treasures of the past. Although we too could be said to suffer from this same nostalgia or hunger for history or whatever you want to call it, we were both slightly surprised that it was becoming more widespread.

The sudden feeling of sharing something inexplicable, a sense of wonder at the existence of the other—the one person who makes everything simple—a feeling of being calmed down and thrown into turmoil at one and the same time.

That the logic of the world and the laws of nature break down. That we are forced to acknowledge that our expectations about the constancy of the world are on shaky ground. There are no guarantees and behind all that we ordinarily regard as certain lie improbable exceptions, sudden cracks and inconceivable breaches of the usual laws.

It seems so odd to me now, how one can be so unsettled by the improbable. When we know that our entire existence is founded on freak occurrences and improbable coincidences.

The unthinkable is something we carry with us always. It has already happened: we are improbable, we have emerged from a cloud of unbelievable coincidences.

We have grown accustomed to living with that knowledge without feeling dizzy every morning, and instead of moving around warily and tentatively, in constant amazement, we behave as if nothing has happened, take the strangeness of it all for granted and get dizzy if life shows itself as it truly is: improbable, unpredictable, remarkable.

Gone, the fog which had been the greatest bliss but which—it seems to me now—requires one to be in a state of the utmost naivety, to dwell in the halls of folly, to surrender to the gentle grip of apathy.

I’m tired, but I’m also aware of a faint sense of satisfaction, like the feeling you get when you wake up to a mess of your own making but know that there’s no mistake. There is a reason for the mess. There was important work to be done.

I am not saying I have lost hope. It just doesn’t come by so often any more. It has moved away. It was quite undramatic, it did not slam the door behind it, it is more as if, like an animal, it has found new hunting grounds, like a cat that has moved next door or a plant that has scattered its seeds where they are more likely to grow.

The pace seems to have sped up, not much, there is no sudden acceleration or headlong rush, it’s quite gradual and I do nothing but follow the day and before I know it the day is over.

It is the loss that staggers me. It is the longing for what is lost and there is nothing I can do about it.

I have become a ravening monster, a monster in a finite world. A swarm of locusts. How long can my little world endure me?

I seem to have changed speed and direction, but also and more particularly, size. I have regained my proper proportions. I am not sure if this is because I spend my nights looking at the sky or because I have gone further afield, traveled by train, walked along unfamiliar streets.