“…and for this purpose I erected, as you see, a fane of dreams.” — E. A. Poe

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when I, having re-read the pages freshly covered in my cramped handwriting, suddenly felt a pang of fear at the thoughts that had occupied me for the past few days. After reflecting for a few more minutes on the strangeness of my own feelings, I noticed with surprise that this mild trepidation was beginning to swell into a primal, animal terror. I spun around—but no one stood behind me with a heavy candlestick; no one threatened me with a poker from a dark corner. From this, I concluded that the horror was of a nervous origin, birthed by my own sensitivity as much as by something even more ethereal—something translucent and vague, lurking between the lines of my unfinished story.

And what lurked there was this: never, under any circumstances, would this story see the light of day, even if I dared call it a novella.

"But what if?.." a weak hope squeaked, only to be instantly suppressed. For the words just written with a ballpoint pen were repugnant to the human race, unnatural, and harmful.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, I leaned my aching head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes, intending to endure this tragedy in solitude.

"The hardest thing," I told myself, "is to thrash between objective reality and public opinion. Someone is always shaking their head, clicking their tongue in that loathsome way, reproaching: 'Tut-tut, we have granted thee the unbridled license of thy Speech, and yet thou hast produced only a series of slanders. For mercy’s sake, does such a world truly surround you?'"

Disgusting, indeed. But it is even more disgusting when this self-appointed censor has settled not somewhere outside, but inside your own head. And where, in all of this, is it—this so-called objective reality?

Sprawled in the chair without opening my eyes, I tried to remember when and who had struck me so hard across the knuckles that I continue to lie to this day. I always know what can be said and what cannot. With all my soul, I love what must not be loved, but I lose the gift of speech when it must be told aloud. Moreover, in the face of what is written on paper, I experience a true horror.

"Horror!" I whispered ominously, and that was the end of me. It finished me because, by pathetically uttering the word "horror," I was being dishonest again. I had invented a grand name for a tiny, mean, crawling fear. I was afraid of appearing l u d i c r o u s.

My reality turned out to be insufficiently objective, while the opinion of any passing fellow was equated to the voice of God. M y reality was incapable of withstanding a phrase dropped in passing and immediately forgotten—it shrivelled and instantly turned into stupidity. Accordingly, I turned into an idiot.

But then, *** did not look like an idiot, not in a single line, even though he too, to put it mildly, was not particularly embraced by the proverbial passing fellow. Unexpectedly, I developed a frantic complex before ***, and it felt like the next stage of a rapidly progressing neurosis.

"Stop!" I ordered myself desperately. "Freeze! Stop thinking!"

Easier said than done; foul thoughts are sometimes more persistent than flies. But I fought honestly, turning my exhausted brain into a round, white, perfectly smooth ball.

It is hard to grasp the exact moment the changes began. Suddenly, a barely perceptible breeze blew, and the scents shifted slightly. The specific smell of my own study had long been familiar to me, and I no longer sensed it, but something new appeared in the air. And the arm of the chair suddenly felt different under my right palm. Why only the right? I don’t know; I have no idea. But reality became different, perhaps even "objective." I knew perfectly well that I only had to open my eyes and everything would be as before. But I didn’t want any returns. I imagined myself as that well-known Japanese man who once, having closed his eyes like this, found himself on a ship sailing to an unknown land. Of course, he was Japanese, and anything can happen to them...

"Sorrow is complex," someone whispers near my ear, and I open my eyes.

Right before me is dirty glass, through which the vague outlines of a street are visible. I am in a small café with glass walls. The ceiling, draped in brown, soot-stained cloth, gives the impression of something temporary, as does everything else in this city. How do I know this? About the city and everything else? From somewhere. Perhaps I live here.

Over there, behind the window, the gray building is the publishing house. I know this from somewhere, too. To the right is the entrance, but it’s hidden because it is blocked by a slate patch where a window was once smashed. The gnarled skeleton of a kerosene lamp sticking out of the wall only intensifies the sense of abandonment. Such cafés are somehow called "stylish," as if the rusty remains of an obsolete lamp were a mark of impeccable taste. The barman fumbles with a stereo system that has suddenly gone silent and swears softly but crudely. I, however, relish the ensuing silence and a strangely concentrated feeling of loneliness.

Someone with a glass of beer in hand makes his way toward my table, and I feel a slight irritation that my solitude will be violated—this thin man with bushy eyebrows has already chosen me as his victim. He intends to carry on endless conversations about weather and politics, and now all that remains for me is to gulp down my cold coffee and hastily leave the cool room, escaping the unbearable chatter.

Despite the fact that a whole bunch of tables were empty, he headed toward me, clearly not doubting my readiness to strike up a conversation. "He liked me. Oh, God!" Throughout my life, I have had to be liked by a vast number of people, none of whom were interested in reciprocity. For their sympathy, I was forced to pay with my time and peace, to sympathize with their problems and listen to their advice. And all this only because I had the misfortune of being liked by them.

Sometimes I locked the doors, but persistent ringing forced me to plug my ears, cut the electricity, and rip the phone cord from the wall. I sat for hours like a prisoner in a dark apartment, shuddering at a knock on the door, afraid to go to the window because of the secret thought of the offense a person might feel upon realizing they are not wanted. Not my intrusive visitor, but I—I felt guilty. But for some reason, not once did I simply say: "Sorry, I’m busy!" or "I don’t want to see you, you bore me." I hated my weakness and soothed myself with the thought that these were merely the costs of a "good upbringing," which forbade sending a living human being to the place where, in many people's opinion, he belonged.

And this stranger sitting opposite me seems like a quintessence of all my torments. And again, chatter instead of blissful peace.

"I am not introducing myself," he says. "It is not my habit to name myself. What is a name but a set of sounds designed to toggle your attention? I prefer to do without such buttons that anyone can press."

And was I expecting any bowing and scraping? Not at all. I feel a deep loathing for this self-satisfied fop, but I remain silent, stubbornly staring at the dull film on the surface of my coffee. My fingers stroke the tabletop. At first, I even like it. Under a thick layer of varnish, one can guess at noble wood, with all its dark veins and knots. Then I begin to realize that the table is pretending to be wooden—beneath the shiny face, I sense the core: glue-soaked sawdust, sawdust that actually exists, unlike the millimetric illusory layer. And then I realize that the deceptive wood irritates me almost more than the unplanned conversation. Finding myself at the mercy of a dual first impression, I am glad that I found a stronger excuse for my irritability—the table; if I transfer all my indignation to the table, the stranger is, truly, no longer such a nuisance.

He is saying something, and it seems I have missed a good portion of his outpourings. I raise my eyes and look him straight in the face. His gaze is fixed on me, but it expresses neither greedy curiosity nor intrusive expectation. He does not ask questions only to wait endlessly for answers. He knows the answers himself, and his gaze is immovably deep and clear. He does not ask questions—he answers.

"No," he says, "I am not lonely, if you mean the common human, everyday concept. But your question anticipates our conversation, and I find it unpleasant that I am forced to justify myself. No, I repeat—I am not lonely. I have everything a person is supposed to have—a wife, children, a friend."

And while I feverishly try to remember if I had, indeed, asked any question, he continues, as if hurrying to speak before he is interrupted:

"And I could be satisfied with that. But... sorrow is complex," he repeats sadly.

The beautiful phrase nails me to the chair. I love beautiful phrases, and this is one of them. I want to hear the continuation. Therefore, instead of asking for the check, I order another cup of coffee.

"A person’s horizon is determined by the number of words and concepts they use. The more there are, the more multifaceted the perception. If their circle is narrow, a kind of substitution occurs—the instinctive animal feeling expands," my companion smirks. "Where I might derive intellectual pleasure, someone else is bored; but as soon as he sits down at a laid table, there—he is satisfied, and his soul knows no contradictions. Don't misunderstand me, I’m not against a good table either, but for dessert, I prefer to leave other delicacies."

I dislike his aesthetic contempt because, by definition, one should not like it. However, another part of my soul agrees. I even allow myself to feel a sort of vengeful joy.

"Of course, one can find common ground with anyone and even kill time," he continues. "But will this communication be just? You will do everything to understand this 'anyone' and you will speak his language, but is this worthy of you? Chattering about anything just to pass the time... Oh, spare me! That isn't even altruism; it’s stupidity."

An involuntary sigh escapes me. I am ready to take my leave, saying that I don't want to push him toward stupidity and fruitless pastime. I feel humiliated and cannot find the reason for this stinging feeling. I am again humiliated by the fleeting phrase of a man I barely know.

"Sit down," he says, "my, what sensitivity... Would I have started speaking if I hadn't counted on being understood?"

"You flatter me," I reply gloomily, "I have done nothing to earn your trust. I simply kept silent—and you spoke."

"You understood me (I saw it in your eyes) and it stung you. Does that mean I am right? And haven't you found yourself in a similar situation? I know you have. And what happened—your companion rattled on without stopping, while you merely nodded your head, not even thinking about his words. And to persistent questions, you answered something automatically. Why? Because there was nothing to say? Because the subject of conversation was too complex?"

"Because I was bored!" I bark. "Because a topic chewed five hundred times is uninteresting. Because it’s always only their problems, and I couldn't care less about them!"

"But you understood everything? Did no mysterious places remain, beyond your comprehension?"

"If only..." I reply with a groan. "I would give half my life for some mysterious phrase that could hold my attention. But I understood everything. Of course. What the devil do I need this understanding for! In a conversation, it should be the thought that works, not the tongue."

"The tongue is also not the least means for conveying thought," he sneers. "But why did you believe the spoken word? You did believe it, didn't you?"

"I did," I admit. "I believed that I was writing incorrectly, uninterestingly, badly. I quit writing. I quit everything. I hated them, but I couldn't help but believe."

He looks at me strangely:

"And did you not wonder why they speak this way? Is it because it is truly bad, or are there other reasons that have nothing to do with you or your writing? Your business is to publish and see what comes of it. And only then decide if the piece is a failure or not. Without re-reading. Those who have ears will hear. A fool will call you a fool—so be it, what do I care about him. And one who is wiser will correct you or remain silent, mentally continuing the conversation, arguing or agreeing."

"And artistic value?" I can’t help myself. "Who will determine if a piece has artistic value?"

"You’ve certainly aimed high! Time will decide, but that will be later."

"And that’s it?"

"Would you want it here and now? I can offer only one consolation—graphomaniacs do not doubt. If doubts visit you, there is already some rational grain in your work. As for evaluations... Well, I’ll give you two examples from my own personal practice, so to speak. As I said, I have a wife. A most worthy woman. Perhaps even one of the best specimens of her tribe. And she reasons so sensibly. She has many friends and everyone loves her. They come for advice. And how she worries for everyone. She doesn’t sleep at night if, say, Mr. X has a pimple on his bald spot, or Mr. Y has been left by his wife. Everyone else has gone home, and she is still worrying. An amazing woman! I often say to her: 'Kisa, read my new verses. Well, what do you say?' 'O-o-h!' she’ll reply, barely glancing at the sheet, 'Wonderful, dear!' And always it’s 'Wonderful, dear.' Naturally, for I have no pimple on my bald spot (I don’t even have a bald spot), and my wife hasn’t left me—here she is, sitting right beside me. So, everything is fine and the poems are wonderful. Is that not a definition of artistic value? Now, if I were to fall into the category of the miserable... An amazing woman!" He winces as if from a toothache. "In short, as an evaluator, she can be freely disregarded.

But I also have a friend (I don’t keep a dozen friends; one is enough for me). I am very lucky to also have a friend. A very good man. But he has one small flaw. Oh, quite tiny—he is a physicist. And since physics has always agreed only with dry facts and eternally denied all manner of delusions, he, by inertia, denies everything. That is, absolutely everything. Every phrase of mine, even a meaningless one, is a signal for him. He gets on his hobby-horse and begins to smash every word to pieces, only calming down when he is poured a drink. Once, for two days, he tormented me with insane musings on the spectrum, having read 'blue-orange hair' in one of my stories, and eventually proved that the hair was dark green. I was forced to agree with him just to get some rest in the silence. Of course, without an opponent, a conversation is boring, but when it becomes an end in itself... It doesn't satisfy hunger, just as paper soaked in nicotine will not replace real tobacco. Once he asked: 'What is the point of admiring the moon?' 'But why not derive pleasure from contemplating a beautiful phenomenon?' I replied. 'Nonsense,' he reacted instantly, 'it isn't rational because it cannot be used practically.'"

"It can," I reply. "One can paint a picture or write poetry. One can remember what has already been written by someone else."

"Precisely. All of that is irrational. Just... poetry... 'One can also remember,' he replied, 'but why?' What could I answer? I fell silent and let him rail. Which he did with relish.

And so I sit here before you and analyze sorrow as an abstract concept. Yes, I am lonely, but not in the conventional sense. When I close my eyes, I see other places—Japanese houses with paper windows, blooming chrysanthemums... And that is my home. Or ancient streets of a European city—and that is my home. And then sorrow arises, like a memory of the unlived. I argue with Condillac or Hegel, or listen to the poetry of the Silver Age performed by the authors. I open my eyes—and sorrow arises because there is no one to share this happiness with. It is my refuge, but it is my prison. A solitary cell with a round window through which the past, the future, the connection of things, and the meaning of existence are visible. And again, sorrow comes. And there is no one to share it with me. And in your eyes is the same hunger, and I can say for certain that it will never be sated. 'Sorrow is complex.'"

" 'And the multi-suffering of humanity is vast.' "

"Oh!" he exclaims. "Let us drink to the author of those words, who showed the world all the facets of sorrow."

"To the author," I echo, and find before me a beer that appeared out of nowhere. (Perhaps the waiter mixed up the order?)

A crash and noise erupt—the barman has managed to fix the system and is celebrating with some especially loud music, which draws the approval of the patrons. I want to return to the interrupted conversation, but my stranger has vanished. And I notice that the objective reality I am trying to grasp is trembling and blurring, forming holes through which something else is visible.

"For mercy’s sake, does such a world truly surround you?" I do not desire another world. And now I very much want to believe that the author of those very words spoke to me: "Sorrow is complex."