8
PARTISAN REVIEW
pressions made by others"; and I have resigned myself, or do I speak
too frankly, to deriving what information and joy I can from this
-lamentable but irremediable-state of affairs. From my detached
rock-like book I shall be able to draw vast generalizations, abstrac-
tions of the grandest, most illuminating sort, like aliegories or poems,
ami by posing fragments of it against the surroundings and conversa-
tions of my prison, I shall be able to form my own examples of sur-
realist art !-something I should never know how to do outside, where
the sources are so bewildering. Perhaps it will be a book on the cure
of a disease, or an industrial technique,-but
no, even to try to
imagine the subject would be to spoil the sensation of wave-like fresh-
ness I hope to receive when it is first placed in my hands.
Writing on the Wall: I have formulated very definite ideas on
this important aspect of prison life, and have already composed sen-
tences and paragraphs (which I cannot give here) I hope to be able
to inscribe on the walls of my cell. First, however, even before look-
ing into the book mentioned above, I shall read very carefully (or try
to read, since they may be partly obliterated, or in a foreign language)
toe inscriptions already there. Then I shall adapt my own composi-
tions, in order that they may not conflict with those written by the
prisoner before me. The voice of a new inmate will be noticeable, but
there will be no contradictions or criticisms of what has already been
laid down, rather a "commentary." I have thought of attempting a
short, but immortal, poem, but I am afraid that is beyond me; I may
rise to the occasion, however, once I am confronted with that stained,
smeared, scribbled-on wall and feel the stub of pencil or rusty nail
between my fingers. Perhaps I shall arrange my "works" in a series
of neat inscriptions in a clear, Roman print; perhaps I shall write
them diagonally, across a corner, or at the base of a wall and half
on the floor, in an almost illegible scrawl. They will be brief, sug-
gestive, anguished, but full of the lights of revelation. And no small
part of the joy these writings will give me will be to think of the
person coming after me,-the legacy of thoughts I shall leave him,
like an old bundle tossed carelessly into a corner!
Once I dreamed that I was in Hell. It was a low, Netherlands-
like country, all the marsh-grass a crude artificial green, lit by bril-
liant but almost horizontal sunlight. I was dressed in an unbecoming
costume of gray cotton: trousers of an awkward length and a shirt
llanging outside them, and my hair cut close. I suffered constantly
from extreme dizziness, because the horizon (and this was how I
knew I was in Hell) was at an angle of forty-five degrees. Although
this useless tale may not seem to have' much connection with my
theme, I include it simply to illustrate the manner in which I expect
