We (Translated by Natasha Randall 2006) by Yevgeny Zamyatin

Author:Yevgeny Zamyatin [Zamyatin, Yevgeny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780812974621
Publisher: Modern Library; Random House
Published: 1924-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

RECORD NINETEEN

KEYWORDS: Infinitely Small of the Third Order. From Underneath Eyebrows. Over the Parapet.

There, in the strange corridor with the vibrating dotted line of dim lamps . . . Or no, no—not there: later, when I was with her in that forsaken corner in the courtyard of the Ancient House, she said: “The day after tomorrow.” This “day after tomorrow” is today and everything is on wings—the day is flying. And our Integral is now winged, too: they finished the construction of the rocket engine, and today started it up and let it idle. What magnificent, powerful salvos; for me, each of them was a salute to her honor, to the one and only, in honor of today.

Before the action began (= the blast), a dozen ciphers from our hangar were standing around and gaping under the barrel of the engine. Afterward, exactly nothing of them remained, except some crumbs and soot. I write this here with pride because the rhythm of our labor did not falter for even a second because of this—no one even flinched. We and our machines continued our straight-lined and circular movements with the same old precision, as if nothing had happened. A dozen ciphers are barely one hundred millionth part of the mass of the One State and, according to practical calculations, this is infinitely small of the third order. Arithmetically illiterate compassion was only something the Ancients knew; to us, it is amusing.

And it is amusing to me that yesterday I could ponder over some sorry, insignificant speck, some smudge, and even write about it in these pages. This is that same “softening” of the surface which should be amber-hard like our walls (there was an ancient saying, “like being up against a brick wall”).

It’s 16:00. I didn’t take an extra walk: I couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t decide, at any moment, when everything is sparkling in the sun, to come . . .

I am almost alone in the building. I can see far into the distance through the sun-flooded walls: there are rooms, hanging in the air, empty, mirrorly repeating one another to the right, to the left, and below. Only a gaunt gray shadow is slowly crawling up the bluish stairway, sketched in sunny ink. I can already hear its footsteps. Now I can see it through the door. I feel it: a plaster-smile pasted on me as it goes past, to the other stairway, and continues upward . . .

The intercom clicked. I threw my whole self at the narrow white panel and . . . and it was some unfamiliar male cipher (it started with a consonant). There was a buzzing and the elevator door banged. In front of me was a forehead, sloppily pulled aslant over a pair of eyes . . . what a very strange effect: it was as if he were speaking from that place, from underneath his eyebrows, where his eyes were.

“A letter to you from her” (this, from underneath his eyebrows, from under the overhang).

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