In the evening Hans Castorp stood in his room and packed.
It is disheartening, dear reader, dear reader, how quickly a person falls into order after another’s death. You pack, you fold, you place, you close zippers, as if you could thereby prevent death from crawling into your own luggage. Hans Castorp did not pack the ring – the ring was on him anyway.
He packed the tins: yellow and green.
He packed the notebook.
He packed the little wooden stick that was still in his pocket, this ridiculous leitmotif-pen that does not write, but nevertheless makes all writing possible because it smudges.
Then he sat down.
He put the notebook on the table.
He opened it.
On one page there were numbers, out of habit: blood pressure values, minutes of sleep, steps, calories. Order. Morality. Protocol.
He looked at the numbers.
And then, very slowly, he ran his hand over them, as if he wanted to smooth them out.
He took the little wooden stick.
He wrote.
Not numbers.
Sentences.
He wrote: Gustav von A. died today by the water.
The sentence stood there, simple, unprotected, without commentary, and Hans Castorp felt something loosen inside him, because sentences, unlike numbers, have responsibility. They assert. They are not neutral.
He wrote on: You can improve the body. You cannot improve death.
He paused.
He heard water outside.
He wrote: I am leaving.
It was a short sentence.
A stab.
Then he closed the book.
He stood up.
And now, dear reader, dear reader, he did something that looks small and yet, for Hans Castorp, was a revolution:
He took off the ring.
He put it on the table.
The finger underneath was pale, and you could see a thin imprint, a circle on skin, as if the shape had inscribed itself.
He looked at the ring.
He thought of all the circles that had accompanied him: circles of progress, circles of candlesticks, lifebuoys.
He thought: This ring has been a god.
And a god, as you know, is always a danger.
He put the ring in his pocket.
Not as jewelry.
Not as an eye.
As a thing.
As a tool.
That was his System 2.
