He walked on, into the back part of the gallery, where a table stood.<\/p>\n
And there sat Gustav von A.<\/p>\n
One did not recognize him by the fact that he looked \u201cfamous\u201d \u2013 fame, esteemed reader, dear reader, is rarely a face, more often a posture \u2013, but by the fact that he was not reading the way people read in hotels, namely to relax or to adorn themselves, but as if reading were work. Next to him lay a notebook. He wrote in it, not hastily, but without that sluggishness that vacationers display, as if they wanted to prove to themselves that today they \u201cdon\u2019t have to do anything\u201d.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stopped.<\/p>\n
It was as if he saw a form of legitimation that he lacked.<\/p>\n
Gustav raised his gaze.<\/p>\n
He looked at Hans Castorp, not curiously, not scrutinizingly, rather with that unobtrusive alertness that some people have who are not easily deceived because they have deceived themselves too often.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are up again,\u201d said Gustav.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am\u2026\u201d he began \u2013 and realized how ridiculous it is to say something about being in a hotel.<\/p>\n
Gustav smiled briefly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are very\u2026\u201d he said, and he seemed to search for the word that Zieser and Porsche and AuDHS would equally like to use. \u201c\u2026optimized.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp had to smile. The word had something comical, because it is so technical and yet is meant to be so human.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is a program,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Gustav. \u201cPrograms are always right. They are built that way.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp sat down, not directly opposite, but slightly offset \u2013 the bourgeois distance that he kept again and again, even when he longed for closeness.<\/p>\n
He looked at the notebook.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are writing,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI must,\u201d said Gustav. \u201cOtherwise I will not remain.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of Zieser: Whoever writes, remains. A saying from the gym, up here suddenly literature.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what,\u201d asked Hans Castorp, cautiously, \u201care you writing?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gustav raised his shoulders.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhite spots,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt a small blow in his chest, as if someone had briefly tightened the ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Gustav tapped with the pen on a spot in the notebook that was indeed empty: a paragraph, a gap.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat,\u201d he said. \u201cThe unwritten. The unsaid. That which one does not fill, because one knows that every filling would be a lie.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at the emptiness, and he felt how unpleasant it is \u2013 and how necessary.<\/p>\n
\u201cOur time,\u201d Gustav continued, \u201chas an obsession with completeness. It wants to measure everything, tell everything, show everything. And if something is missing, it is not accepted as a limit, but as a mistake. You know that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp involuntarily raised his hand, looked at the ring.<\/p>\n
Gustav saw it.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh,\u201d he said softly. \u201cThe eye.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp would have liked to say something ironically learned, something Settembrini-like perhaps, but he was not Settembrini. He was Hans Castorp, and Hans Castorp instead said:<\/p>\n
\u201cIt calms.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gustav nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cCalming is a great power,\u201d he said. \u201cIt can also be a great lie.\u201d<\/p>\n
He leaned forward a little.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t let yourself be improved too much,\u201d he then said, and the sentence fell so plain, so un-pathetic, that precisely thereby it sounded like a command.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled, because he knew the sentence \u2013 and because he still did not understand it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow is one supposed to improve oneself,\u201d he asked, \u201cwithout\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gustav raised his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am not saying: do not improve yourself,\u201d he said. \u201cI am saying: leave a hole. Leave a margin. Leave something that is not controlled. Otherwise at some point you are no longer human, but\u2026\u201d He searched briefly. \u201c\u2026a perfect file.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of his alias. Of the papers. Of the doors that had closed before anyone realized who had passed through. He thought: I saved myself because I was a gap.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou mean,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cthat the gap\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201c\u2026protects you,\u201d said Gustav. \u201cAnd forces you. Both.\u201d<\/p>\n
He leaned back.<\/p>\n
\u201cA sentence,\u201d he said, \u201clives from the white. It is not only letters. It is also spacing. Pause. Breath.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd a life?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Gustav smiled again, briefly, and it was a smile that neither comforted nor hurt.<\/p>\n
\u201cA life too,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Then he fell silent, and the silence was not a lack, but a space.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt that he wanted to do something \u2013 not think, not feel, but do.<\/p>\n
He stood up.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Gustav nodded, as if thanks were not necessary here, because it was not about kindness, but about truth.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp walked down the stairs, under the chandelier, and the chandelier burned above him like a proper sun.<\/p>\n