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him. It was more that he did not wish those around him to know who he was, and he was not, in any event, the sort of man who would be willing to exert himself to be known.
Only now did I begin to understand why it was not always through words that people sought each other out and came to understand each other, and why some poets went to such lengths to seek out companions who could, like them, contemplate the beauties of nature in silence.
I looked at this man who wished to leave nothing of himself behind, who, even as he moved toward death, wished to take his loneliness with him.
But life was meant to be lived, as these people were doing. They were taking their share of life and giving something back. What was I in comparison? What did my soul ever do, apart from gnawing away at me like a woodworm? This gramophone, this wooden inn, this ice-covered lake, these snow-covered trees, and this jumbled crowd � they were all busy with the tasks that life had given them. There was meaning in everything they did, even if I could not see it at first glance. And I was but the wheel that had spun off its axle, still searching for reasons as I wobbled off into the void.
