In the evening he sat in his suite, at the table on which the ring lay or sat on his finger – it is, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, disheartening how much we cling to circles – and in front of him lay the logbook.
He took the little wooden stick, this ridiculous tool that had once carried a marshmallow and then a truth and then, in his pocket, had become a writing instrument.
He put the tip to the page.
He wrote at the top:
The five resolutions.
Then he wrote, underneath, each word by itself, with a period, as if it were a sentence, as if one could use a period to complete a character.
Respect.
Compassion.
Responsibility.
Safety.
Partnership.
He looked at the words. They stood there, neat and yet – because a little wooden stick is not a pen – a bit smudged. They were not printed, they were not perfect. They looked as if they had cost resistance.
Hans Castorp thought of Morgenstern, how he had put the phone in his pocket. That was perhaps the real point. Not the period at the end of the word, but the point in the moment when one does not react.
He thought of Mrs. Morgenstern, how she had placed her hand on the forearm. That was safety. Not as a concept, but as a touch.
He thought of the children, how they had looked at a beetle as if life were not complicated. That was compassion, without a word.
He thought of himself. And suddenly, very Tonio-like, he felt that these five words, as neatly as they stood there, had a gap in his life.
He left one line blank.
Only one.
A small white spot under five big words.
He did not know which word would have to stand there. Perhaps “love”. Perhaps “courage”. Perhaps “belonging”. Perhaps nothing.
He closed the book.
The ring shone dully.
And Hans Castorp felt that in the world of programs there are things that cannot be measured – and that one must nevertheless, or precisely for that reason, practice them.
