Acer XB270HU

Marek Bieńczyk

Born in Warsaw in 1956. He is a novelist, essayist, translator of Kundera and Cioran, a literary historian at Literary Research Institute of Polish Academy of Sciences and Letters, and a contributor to the French quarterly "L'atelier du roman". He studied Romance Languages and Literatures at Warsaw University.

His reputation was established by his novel Terminal (1994), a "post-modernist" love story of two scholarship winners who arrive in France from the opposite ends of the world. "Time's scholarship winner," as the male lover and narrator auto-ironically describes himself, is a contemporary troubadour - and the game that he must play is the contemplation of the vacuity and emptiness into which he is driven by self-knowledge and his role as a character in a tale of impossible love. After all, everything that happens is make-believe, in quotation marks, an intermezzo - for such is the nature of a scholarship. As a lover and as an author, he is fated to remain unsatisfied, to re- enact the gestures and rituals imposed by culture, language and memory. Bieńczyk's novel is full of delicate humor and elegant literary games, hidden quotations, allusions and digressions. It is complemented byMelancholy. Those Who Never Recover What They've Lost (1998), an essay on the melancholy sensibility and its presentation in contemporary literature.

In 1999 Bieńczyk has published his second novel Tworki, set in a psychiatric hospital during Second World War. It has received a prize from the Culture Foundation. It is a story about the proper name (the main protagonist Sonia doesn't survive the Holocaust, but she leaves a letter signed with the first letter of her name), which is both the closest and the most foreign thing in the world, since it is shared with so many other people. That is the definition of literature according to Bieńczyk: a signature asking for salvation, a trail of writing in need to be cared for.

A characteristic feature of Marek Bieńczyk's works is the obliteration of borders between genres - he fills his novels with essayist cogitation and in his collection of essays he puts fictional excerpts - or rather, excerpts in which the narrator reveals himself and his privacy - real or imagined. It's hard to define the genre of his prose - what's certain is that the author's individuality and the tenderness with which he looks around, are very strong. Possibly it's because in his essays he mostly writes about things important to him, it's almost impossible to distinguish the 'objective self' from the 'subjective self'. The way in which he reads reality before writing, a lecture that consists in collecting data (or: treasures) is very personal and also placed in-between genres. Bieńczyk reads both great novels and essays, and architecture, flavours, scents, movement.

Przezroczystość / Transparency (2007) is a collection of essays on the subject and at the same time a beautiful fable, a story of a dream (the word rêve - dream in French - is an anagram of the word verre, glass). In the book the author teaches us a beautiful Greek word diaphanes, which 'in French is used to describe a permeability of light, not total, but noticeable. Porcelain can be diaphane, as well as an autumn leaf, parchemenet, aristocratic skin on someone's hands'. Marek Bieńczyk also quotes Sartre: 'the sun was clear and diaphane: as white wine'. The quote indicates another characteristic property of his texts: synesthesia, the crucial role of reading the world through senses.

The Rock

Courtyard

The Ice Pirates

Year of the Dogs

Saki

Map of the China India Border Region

Codex Regius

The Primary Manuscript of the Poetic Eddahe Primary Manuscript of the Poetic Eddamary Manuscript of the Poetic Edda


A Complete Reproduction of
Codex Regius [R] or Konungsbók, The King's Book [K]


http://www.germanicmythology.com/works/CODEXREGIUS.html

A. J. Raffles - Cricketer and Criminal

Lisztomania

Seinfeld Season 8 outtakes

The Nerdwriter

http://thenerdwriter.tumblr.com/

Leavenworth - Beijing photos

 

The Craig Charles Funk and Soul Show

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0072ky7/episodes/player

The Three Pure Ones

Lake Peipus - the Battle on the Ice

On April 5, 1242. Alexander, intending to fight in a place of his own choosing, retreated in an attempt to draw the often over-confident Crusaders onto the frozen lake. The crusader forces likely numbered around 2,600, including 800 Danish and German knights, 100 Teutonic knights, 300 Danes, 400 Germans and 1,000 Estonian infantry. The Russians fielded around 5,000 men: Alexander and his brother Andrei's bodyguards (druzhina), totalling around 1,000, plus 2000 militia of Novgorod, 1400 Finno-Ugrian tribesman and 600 horse archers.

The Teutonic knights and crusaders charged across the lake and reached the enemy, but were held up by the infantry of the Novgorod militia. This caused the momentum of the crusader attack to slow. The battle was fierce, with the allied Russians fighting the Teutonic and crusader troops on the frozen surface of the lake. A little after two hours of close quarters fighting, Alexander ordered the left and right wings of his army (including cavalry) to enter the battle. The Teutonic and crusader troops by that time were exhausted from the constant struggle on the slippery surface of the frozen lake. The Crusaders started to retreat in disarray deeper onto the ice, and the appearance of the fresh Novgorod cavalry made them retreat in panic.

It is commonly said that "the Teutonic knights and crusaders attempted to rally and regroup at the far side of the lake, however, the thin ice began to give way and cracked under the weight of their heavy armour, and many knights and crusaders drowned"; but Donald Ostrowski in Alexander Nevskii’s "Battle on the Ice": The Creation of a Legend contends that the part about the ice breaking and people drowning was a relatively recent embellishment to the original historical story. He cites a large number of scholars who have written about the battle, Karamzin, Solovev, Petrushevskii, Khitrov, Platonov, Grekov, Vernadsky, Razin, Myakotin, Pashuto, Fennell and Kirpichnikov, none of whom mention the ice breaking up or anyone drowning when discussing the battle on the ice. After analysing all the sources Ostrowski concludes that the part about ice breaking and drowning appeared first in the 1938 film Alexander Nevsky by Sergei Eisenstein.

Xie Bingxin

Bingxin, a distinguished contemporary writer, poet, translator, and social activist, was born Xie Wanying on Oct.5, 1900, in Fuzhou, Fujian Province, to the family of a patriotic naval officer. During the May Fourth Movement, a patriotic student movement against foreign aggression and for new culture, she was a student at Yanjing University, was elected secretary of the Students’ Union, and took an active part in the publicity work for the Beijing Federation of Women Students. Greatly inspired by the movement, she began contributing to the newspaper Chenbao (Morning Paper). After she graduated from Yanjing University in 1923 with a Bachelor’s Degree, Phi-Beta-Kappa, she went to the United States to further her study in literature at Wellesley College and finished her postgraduate study with a Master’s Degree. Her M.A. Thesis was An English Translation and Edition of the Poems of Lady Li I-an (1926), a distinguished woman poet of the Sung Dynasty. In 1926, Bingxin returned to China to teach Chinese Literature at Yanjing University, a post she held until 1936. In 1929, she married Wu Wenzao, one of the founders of anthropology in China and widely respected in that field.

Bingxin had never stopped writing, contributing all her life to various papers and journals. She wrote a lot about her life and experience in the United States, from her journey there to the end of her stay. Those essays were later collected and published under the title of Letters to Young Readers, which has won her great popularity. As well as being educated in America, in 1947,Bingxin went with her husband to Japan where she taught a course on the New Chinese Literature at Tokyo University. She returned to China in 1951.1n 1960,as a member of the Chinese Writers Association, she paid visits to various countries in Europe, Asia, and Africa to promote international cultural exchanges.

Bingxin’s literary involvement covers a wide spectrum. Her achievements in writing for children are the most significant and her influence has been widespread. Letter to Young Readers in the 192Os,More Letters to Young Readers in the 1950s and Still More Letters in the 1970s have stimulated and educated generation after generation of young 20th century readers.

Her most salient literary achievements are in prose, which constitutes the bulk of her writing, A Smile in the 1920s, A Little Orange Lantern in the 1950s, Ode to Cherry Blossoms in the 1960s are modern prose classics. In the spirit of" Life Begins at 80", she had continued her writing into her later years. In the 1980s,she completed a series of prose writings, for example, About Men. Since 1985 she had been writing reminiscences, short stories, prose, essays, which have stimulated great interest and response on the part of her many readers.

The Scofield 2.1 - Clarice Lispector

The Waste Land - Notated

http://eliotswasteland.tripod.com/

Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston's book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognize in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.

Streets of Rogue

Is antimatter just matter that is moving backwards in time?

I think the public at large usually sees time as the flow of information. An antiparticle doesn't contain any information about the future. If I create an antiparticle now, I don't gain any information about the future aside from the reasonable guess that at some point it will annihilate. So I think that's what people are really asking when they ask about "backwards traveling antiparticles."

If we want to get all metaphysical on this, it seems to me that the best representation of reality has no "flow" of time at all. It's a big set block. Just like a wave equation encodes past present and future behaviour (it merely needs to be evaluated for different values of t), it seems to me that our universe is one big block, some big universal wave equation. At any point in time, we occupy our local time T, and we only have memories of times for t
So in that regard nothing "flows" through time at all. Everything just... is. There's no real difference, in this block time model, considering the "perspective" of an anti-particle traveling back in time from its annihilation to its creation (as we label them in our "forward in time" perspective). So a pair-production creation/annihilation pair is really, in this model, just one electron looping around through time, going forward along the electron's worldline, then returning via the positron's worldline. Physics doesn't seem to care a whole lot which one of those lines we pick until we ask questions about information.

The Metabarons

Yoshida Hiroshi (1876-1950)

the most prominent artist of the Shin Hanga new print movement in Japan

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985)

Jakub Rozalski

Bulkland

Checkers Is Solved

The game of checkers has roughly 500 billion billion possible positions (5 × 10^20). The task of solving the game, determining the final result in a game with no mistakes made by either player, is daunting. Since 1989, almost continuously, dozens of computers have been working on solving checkers, applying state-of-the-art artificial intelligence techniques to the proving process. This paper announces that checkers is now solved: Perfect play by both sides leads to a draw. This is the most challenging popular game to be solved to date, roughly one million times as complex as Connect Four. Artificial intelligence technology has been used to generate strong heuristic-based game-playing programs, such as Deep Blue for chess. Solving a game takes this to the next level by replacing the heuristics with perfection.

https://webdocs.cs.ualberta.ca/~chinook/index.php

Myles na gCopaleen

I notice these days that the Green Isle is getting greener. Delightful ulcerations resembling buds pit the branches of our trees, clumpy daffodils can be seen on the upland lawn. Spring is coming and every decent girl is thinking of that new Spring costume. Time will run on smoother till Favonius re-inspire the frozen Meade and clothe in fresh attire the lily and rose that have not sown nor spun. Curse it, my mind races back to my Heidelberg days. Sonya and Lili. And Magda. And Ernst Schmutz, Georg Geier, Theodor Winkleman, Efrem Zimbalist, Otto Grün. And the accordion player Kurt Schachmann. And Doktor Oreille, descendant of Irish princes. Ich hab' mein Herz/ in Heidelberg verloren/ in einer lauen/ Sommernacht/ Ich war verliebt/ bis über beide/ Ohren/ und wie ein Röslein/hatt'/ Ihr Mund gelächt or something humpty tumpty tumpty tumpty tumpty mein Herz it schlägt am Neckarstrand. A very beautiful student melody. Beer and music and midnight swims in the Neckar. Chats in erse with Kun O'Meyer and John Marquess ... Alas, those chimes. Und als wir nahmen/ Abschied vor den Toren/ beim letzten Küss, da hab' Ich Klar erkannt/ dass Ich mein Herz/ in Heidelberg verloren/ MEIN HERZ/ es schlägt am Neck-ar-strand! Tumpty tumpty tum.

The Plain People of Ireland: Isn't the German very like the Irish? Very guttural and so on?

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: People say that the German language and the Irish language is very guttural tongues.

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: The sounds is all guttural do you understand.

Myself. Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: Very guttural languages the pair of them the Gaelic and the German.

Préface à 'Mitsou - Rilke

Does anyone know cats? Do you, for example, think that you do? I must admit I have always considered that their existence was never anything but shakily hypothetical.

For, if they are to share our world animals have somehow to participate in it. They must, to however small an extent, fall in with our way of life, tolerate it; else by their hostility or their fear they will merely measure the distance that separates them from us, and relations between us will consist solely in that.

Take dogs: the admiration and trust evidenced in their approach to us often make some of them seem to have abandoned their most primal canine traditions and turned to worship of our ways, and even of our faults. That is precisely what makes them tragic and sublime. Their determination to acknowledge us forces them to live at the very limits of their nature, constantly -- through the humanness of their gaze, their nostalgic nuzzlings -- on the verge of passing beyond them.

But what attitudes do cats adopt? Cats are just that: cats. And their world is utterly, through and through, a cat's world. You think they look at us? Has anyone ever truly known whether or not they deign to register for one instant on the sunken surface of their retina our trifling forms? As they stare at us they might merely be eliminating us magically from their gaze, eternally replete. True, some of us indulge our susceptibility to their wheedling and electric caresses. But, let such persons remember the strange, brusque, and offhand way in which their favorite animal frequently cuts short the effusions they had fondly imagined to be reciprocal. They too, even the privileged elected to enjoy their proximity of cats, have been rejected and denied time and time again, and even as they cherish some mysteriously apathetic creature in their arms they too have felt themselves brought up short at the threshold of a world that is a cat's world, a world inhabited exclusively by cats and in which they live in ways that no one of us can ever fathom.

Has man ever been their coeval? I doubt it. And I can assure you that sometimes, in the twilight, the cat next door pounces across and through my body, either unaware of me or as demonstrated to some eerie spectator that I really don't exist.

Is it a mistake, then, for me to burden you with these reflections when my real purpose is to introduce you to the story with which my young friend Baltusz is about to regale you? True, he will do so by drawing, without speaking to you very much, but his images will more than slake your curiosity. Why, then, should I replicate them in another form? I would rather add to them what he has not yet uttered. But first, to summarize:

Baltusz (I think he must have been ten years old at the time) finds a cat. This was at Chateau de Nyon, with which you are probably familiar. He is allowed to keep his minuscule and trembling treasure and - behold!- he sets off with it on his travels. We are shown the boat, we see his arrival at Geneva,  at Molard, we see the tram. He introduces his new companion to domestic life, he tames her he cherishes her. "Mitsou" good-humoredly goes along with the rules laid down for her, although she sometimes breaks the monotony of the household with some frisky, ingenious and unexpected exploit. Do you find it excessive that when her master takes her out for walks he insists on using that restricting lead? He is leery of all the fancies to which her affectionate, albeit enigmatic and adventurous, tomcat heart can fall prey. Yet he seems to be mistaken. Even a moving day, a time fraught with perils, passes without untoward event, and the playful, tiny creature adapts to the new surroundings with an amused docility. Then, suddenly, in an instant, she disappears. The house is roused, but thank God, this time it's a false alarm. Mitsou is discovered on the plot of grass, and Baltusz, for from scolding the deserter, snugly ensconces her on the pipes of the beneficent and cozy radiator. I imagine that you too will savor the peace, the repletion that follows such anxiety. alas, the respite will be brief. Christmastime sometimes seems too filled with temptations - there are cakes to be eaten when no one is keeping count: one sometimes gets sick. To recover, a nap is in order. Instead of awakening you when she grows bored with your prolonged slumber, Mitsou runs away. What an uproar! Fortunately Baltusz has recovered sufficiently to set out in search of the fugitive. He begins by crawling under his bed: nothing. How courageous he looks there in the cellar, all alone, with the candle that he carries as emblem of his search - he carries it everywhere henceforth, in the garden, in the street: still nothing! See his lonely little form. Who has abandoned him? A cat! Will he be able to console himself with the picture of Mitsou his father recently sketched? No - that had something almost premonitory about it, it was an evil omen, and God knows when the loss was actually ordained! Now there can be no doubt, it has actually happened. He returns to the house. He weeps. He shows us his tears with his own two hands.

Consider them well.

And there you have the story. The artist has told it better than I. What is left for me to say? Very little.

It is always diverting to find something: a moment before, and it was not yet there. But to find a cat: that is unheard of! For you must agree with me that a cat does not become an integral part of our lives, not like, for example, some toy might be: even though it belongs to us now, it remains somehow apart, outside, and thus we always have:

life + a cat,

which, I can assure you, adds up to an incalculable sum.

It is sad to lose something. We imagine that it may be suffering, that it may have hurt itself somehow, that it will end up in utter misery. But to lose a cat: no! that is unheard of. No one has ever lost a cat. Can one lose a cat, a living thing, a living being, a life? But losing something living is death!

Very well, it is death.

Finding. Losing. Have you ever really thought what loss is? It is not simply the negation of that generous moment that had replied to an expectation you yourself had never sensed or suspected. For between that moment and that loss there is always something that we call—the word is clumsy enough, I admit—possession.

[Now loss, however cruel, is powerless against possession, which it completes or even, affirms: loss is, in fact, nothing else than a second acquisition -but now completely interiorized, and just as intense.](Agamben).

Of course, you felt this, Baltusz. No longer able to see Mitsou, you bent your efforts to seeing her even more clearly.

Is she still alive? She lives within you, and her insouciant kitten’s frolics that once diverted you now compel you: you fulfilled your obligation through your painstaking melancholy.

And so, a year later, I discovered you grown taller, consoled.

Nevertheless, for those who will always see you bathed in tears at the end of your book I composed the first—somewhat whimsical—part of this preface. Just to be able to say at the end: “Don’t worry: I am. Baltusz exists. Our world is sound.

There are no cats."

__
Qui connaît les chats? - Se peut-il, par exemple, que vous prétendiez les connaître? J'avoue que, pour moi, leur existence ne fut jamais qu'une hypothèse passablement risquée.

Les bêtes, n'est-ce pas, pour appartenir à notre monde, il faut qu'elles y entrent un peu. Il faut qu'elles consentent, tant soit peu, à notre façon de vivre, qu'elles la tolèrent; sinon, elles mesureront, soit hostiles, soit craintives, la distance qui les sépare de nous et ce sera là leur manière de rapports.

Voyez les chiens: leur rapprochement confidentiel et admiratif est tel que certains d'entre eux semblent avoir renoncé à leurs plus anciennes traditions canines, pour adorer nos habitudes et même nos erreurs. C'est bien cela qui les rend tragiques et sublimes. Leur décision de nous admettre les force d'habiter, pour ainsi dire, aux confins de leur nature qu'ils dépassent constamment de leur regard humanisé et de leur museau nostalgique.

Mais quelle est l'attitude des chats? - Les chats sont des chats, tout court, et leur monde est le monde des chats d'un bout à l'autre. Ils nous regardent, direz-vous? Mais a-t-on jamais su, si vraiment ils daignent loger un instant auf fond de leur rétine notre futile image? Peut-être nous opposent-ils, en nous fixant, tout simplement un magique refus de leur prunelles à jamais complètes? - Il est vrai que certains d'entre nous se laissent influencer par leur caresses câlines et électriques. Mais que ceux-là se souviennent de l'étrange et brusque distraction avec laquelle leur animal favori mit souvent fin à des épanchement qu'ils eussent cru réciproques. Eux aussi, ces privilégiés admis auprès des chat, ont été reniés et désavoués maintes fois et, tout en pressant encore contre leur potrine la bête mystérieusement t apathique, ils se sentaient arrêtés au seuil de ce monde qui est celui des chats et que ceux-ci habitent exclusivement, entourés de circonstances que nul de nous ne saurait deviner.

L'homme fut-il jamais leur contemporain? - J'en doute. Et je vous assure que parfois, au crépuscule, le chat du voisin saute à travers mon corps, en m'ignorant, ou pour prouver aux choses ahuries que je n'existe point.

Ai-je tort, dites, de vous mêler à ces réflexions, tout en voulant vous conduire vers l'histoire que mon petit ami Baltusz va vous raconter? Il la dessine, c'est vrai, sans vous parler davantage, mais ses images suffiront largement à votre curiosité. Pourquoi les répéterais-je sous une autre forme? Je préfère y ajouter ce que lui ne dit pas encore. Résumons cependant l'histoire:

Baltusz (je crois qu'il avait dix ans cette époque) trouve un chat. Cela se passe au château de Nyon que, sans doute, vous connaissez. On lui permet d'emporter sa petite trouvaille tremblante, et le voilà en voyage avec elle. C'est le bateau, c'est l'arrivée à Genève, au Molard, c'est le tram. Il introduit son nouveau compagnon à la vie domestique, il l'apprivoise, il le gâte, il le chérit. «Mitsou» se prête, joyeusement, aux conditions qu'on lui propose, tout en rompant parfois la monotonie de la maison par quelque improvisation folâtre et ingénue. Trouvez-vous exagéré que son maître, en le promenant, l'attache à cette ficelle gênante? C'est qu'il se méfie de toutes les fantaisies qui traversent ce coeur de matou, aimant, mais inconnu et aventureux. Cependant, il a tort. Même le déménagement dangereux s'opère sans aucun accident, et la petite bête capricieuse s'adapte au milieu nouveau avec une docilité amusée. Puis, tout à coup, elle disparaît. La maison s'alarme; mais, Dieu soit loué, ce n'est pas sérieux cette fois: On retrouve Mitsou au milieu du gazon, et Baltusz, loin de réprimander son déserteur, l'installe sur les tuyaux du calorifère bienfaisant. Vous goûterez comme moi, je suppose, l'accalmie, la plénitude qui suit cette angoisse. Hélas! ce n'est qu'une trève. Noël parfois se montre par trop séduisant. On mange des gâteaux, un peu sans compter; on tombe malade. Et pour guérir, on s'endort. Mitsou, ennuyé de votre sommeil trop long, au lieu de vous éveiller, s'évade. Quel effarement! Heureusement, Baltusz se trouve assez rétabli pour se lancer à la recherche du fugitif. Il commence par ramper sous son lit: rien. Ne vous semble-t-il pas bien courageux, tout seul, à la cave, avec sa bougie qu'en signe de recherche il emporte ensuite partout, au jardin, dans la rue: rien! Regardez sa petite figure solitaire: Qui l'a abandonné? C'est un chat? - Se consolera-t-il avec le portrait de Mitsou que, dernièrement, son père ébauchait? Non; il y avait du pressentiment là-dedans; et la perte commence Dieu sait quand! C'est définitif, c'est fatal. Il rentre. Il pleure. Il vous montre ses larmes de ses deux mains:

Regardez-les bien.

Voilà l'histoire. L'artiste l'a mieux racontée que moi. Que me reste-t-il à dire encore? Peu.

Trouver une chose, c'est toujours amusant; un moment avant elle n'y était pas encore. Mais trouver un chat: c'est inouï! Car ce chat, convenez-en, n'entre pas tout à fait dans votre vie, comme ferait, par exemple, un jouet quelconque; tout en vous appartenant maintenant, il reste un peu en dehors, et cela fait toujours;

la vie + un chat,

ce qui donne, je vous assure, une somme énorme.

Perdre une chose, c'est bien triste. Il est à supposer qu'elle se trouve mal, qu'elle se casse quelque part, qu'elle finit dans la déchéance. Mais perdre un chat: Non! ce n'est pas permis. Jamais personne n'a perdu un chat. Peut-on perdre un chat, une chose vivante, un être vivant, une vie? Mais perdre une vie: c'est la mort!

Eh bien, c'est la mort.

Trouver. Perdre. Est-ce que vous avez bien réfléchi à ce que c'est que la perte? Ce n'est pas tout simplement la négation de cet instant généreux qui vint combler une attente que vous-même ne soupçonniez pas. Car entre cet instant et la perte il y a toujours ce qu'on appelle - assez maladroitement, j'en conviens - la possession.

Or, la perte, toute cruelle qu'elle soit, ne peut rien contre la possession, elle la termine, si vous voulez; elle l'affirme; au fond ce n'est qu'une seconde acquisition, toute intérieure cette fois et autrement intense.

Vous l'avez senti d'ailleurs, Baltusz; ne voyant plus Mitsou, vous vous êtes mis à le voir davantage. Vit-il encore? Il survit en nous, et sa gaieté de petit chat insouciant, après vous avoir amusé, vous oblige: vous avez dû l'exprimer par les moyens de votre tristesse laborieuse.

Aussi, une année après, je vous ai trouvé grandi et consolé.

Pour ceux cependant qui vous verront toujours éploré au bout de votre ouvrage, j'ai composé la première partie - un peu fantaisiste - de cette préface. Pour pouvoir leur dire à la fin:

«Tranquillisez-vous: Je suis. Baltusz existe. Notre monde est bien solide. Il n'y a pas de chats.»




Au Château de Berg-am-Irchel,

en Novembre 1920