had suggested, a devotee of some nature god; would he lay himself on an altar and offer himself to the sun? I was daydreaming like this — following haphazardly a path in my mind — when I saw that I had come to the outcrop of rock at which I had left the path before. Franz was going straight on across the pine-needles; he had his satchel over his shoulder; he was going towards the cave. Then I saw that in his hand he carried a pistol. At least it looked like a pistoclass="underline" I thought — He is going to shoot deer? Hares? Rabbits? But you do not shoot such game with a pistol! Then — He is going to shoot himself? This was an idea quite likely to occur to someone at this time: there had been an alarming increase in suicides amongst students recently. There was the fashionable prototype of Werther who had killed himself because what else was there to do about love; there was the story of Kleist — often in my mind since the days when Trixie and Bruno and I used to visit his grave — who had shot himself because what else was there to do if one saw that one was trapped within one's own mind; and there were the suicidal characters in Dostoevsky, whom I also much loved and who was in vogue amongst students at this time. I thought — Well, yes, indeed, there are these patterns in people's minds.
I had stopped by the outcrop of rock where the path doubled back on one of its zig-zags. I thought — I can go on; I can turn back; what does it mean that the way in front might go on for ever?
I left the path and went off across the pine-needles following Franz who was now out of sight. I wondered — One has an impression of choice? Or one chooses to imagine one has a choice? I was trying not to make any sound as I moved over the pine-needles: it was as if I were slightly above myself, watching myself. I wondered if Franz was going to the cave that was full of bats: would he shoot at the bats; would he perform some ceremony there, to get rid of devils? When next I saw him he had stopped and was undoing the flap of his satchel and was pulling out a length of rope. I thought — So what is he going to do, hang himself as well as shoot himself? Go rock-climbing in the cave like a bat? Then — This is ridiculous. Franz went on towards the entrance of the cave. I had stopped at some distance away. I thought — To go any further might be like breaking into the back of someone else's head. I seemed to be listening — for the sound of the pistol? For noises unheard like those of bats? After a time I went on. I still trod carefully. I got to where I could see into the cave. Franz was sitting on the ground just inside: he had taken his clothes off; he seemed to be tying the rope
round his feet. I thought — Oh but I have no patterns in my mind that I can connect to something like this! He will hang himself upside down? He will be a sacrifice to something — what? — that which demands sacrifices of gods? Then again — This is ridiculous. I could not see the pistol. It might be under his bundle of clothes. Franz stood up and put one end of the rope through or over some aperture or projection in the roof of the cave; he pulled the end down; then he lay on his back and went on pulling so that his feet at the other end of the rope were heaved up towards the ceiling. He was then in the position of a piece of meat in a butcher's shop; or, yes, like a bat. I thought — But was not St Peter crucified like this? And there are all his poor insides, his cock and balls, hanging out! You mean, men might need to do something like this to give themselves a proper airing? When Franz was almost suspended, with his head just touching the ground, he slowly, through some inner momentum, swung so that his face was towards me: he seemed to see me: though it was difficult to imagine just what he saw, being upside down. I wondered — But doesn't the brain normally see things upside down? Might he not be doing some experiment to see things the right way up? There were, in fact, I knew, strange rituals being performed by nature-worshippers at this time. I thought that if I just stayed still, he might see me as some nymph of the forest. Then Franz let go of the end of the rope so that he collapsed, slowly, in a somersault. I thought I should bend down and pretend to have been doing something to my shoe. I picked up one or two pine-needles on the floor of the forest: the pine-needles seemed to be a representation of the fork in the road. I thought — Oh yes, there are connections between inside and outside worlds: you could say this is some turning I have taken. When I looked up again Franz was sitting with his feet underneath him and his bundle of clothes in his lap and he was holding the pistol which he was pointing sideways. There was no sign of the rope. I thought — He has not had time to untie the rope so that is why he is sitting with his feet underneath him. It did not seem that I could go either away or towards him. I thought — So I will stay here, on this my tightrope, just beyond the fork in the roadway.
After a time Franz, still watching me, raised the barrel of the gun so that it was in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I leaped into the air with my arms and legs flying out like those of a puppet. I thought — Oh it is I who have been shot, and am flying off round the universe!
Then — But this has got me moving.
I began walking towards Franz. The pistol had not gone off. I thought — He put only one bullet in it?
Franz watched me as I walked towards him. He held the pistol in his lap. The pistol was of the revolver type with which you can put as many bullets as you like into the cylinder and spin it.
I said Tve come here before. I often come here.* I do not know why I said this. I suppose I was offering some sort of explanation.
He said 'You often come here.'
I said* Yes.'
He said as if quoting ' — and must we not return and run down the lane in front of us, that long and terrible lane, must we not return, you and I, eternally — '
I said 'Oh yes, who said that?'
He said 'Nietzsche.'
I said 'Oh yes, Nietzsche.'
I had moved to the wall at the side of the cave which was opposite him. I leaned with my back to the wall. He still had his feet underneath him as if he were a mermaid.
I said 'And what happens then?'
He said 'What happens when?'
'At the turning. Doesn't he, Zarathustra, bite off the head of a snake, or something?'
'He comes across someone else who has a snake halfway down his throat, so he tells him to bite the head off.'
'And does he?'
'Yes.'
I said 'And then what?'
He said 'He is free. He is laughing.'
I said 'Can't you do that?'
After a time Franz raised the revolver and pointed it into the cave. Then he pulled the trigger. There was an explosion in which it seemed that my eardrums were going in and out together with the roof and walls of the cave; then hundreds of bats were flying around me like bits of black glass, like broken shadows, they bumped into walls, they almost bumped into me, I put my arms over my head. I thought — God damn you! Then — Oh well, have the shadows gone from the walls of the cave?
After a time I could see between my fingers that Franz was untying the rope from around his feet. When the bats had all gone I
looked up. I said 'Had you got just one bullet in it? You could have known where the bullet was!'
He said 'Oh yes, I might have known where the bullet was.'
I said 'I mean, that would have been sensible.'
He said 'You think it right to be sensible?'
I said'Yes.'
He said 'In this game?'
I said 'What game?'
He was still untying the rope from his feet. Then he said 'Why did you come here?'
I said 'I was following you.'
'Why?'
'I wanted to ask you about the connections between philosophy and physics.'
'You wanted to ask me about the connections between philosophy and physics.'
'Yes.'
He stretched his feet out in front of him. He leaned fowards and rubbed his ankle, which seemed to be hurting him.