M’s
fantasy was to stop time. Not with regard to himself. He was happy to age.
Aesthetically, he thought there was an improvement. He looked more thoughtful
and more distinguished. No, the world would stop. Everything except himself
would halt. He, meanwhile, would sort out his health, he would read, he would
prepare a whole sheaf of manuscripts. He would inspect, of course, the
suspended world and he would move through it unheard, unseen. And then, after
perhaps years, it would start up again, the clocks, metronomes, watches,
alarms, the whole machinery of time would creak into motion. The world would resume. But now he would be prepared, he would
not be lagging behind out of sync. They would think he
had been afflicted with some terrible disease - loosened skin, deep dark rings around his eyes.. But
nevertheless, despite the usual contusions of time, he would be in sync with
the world, prepared to live.
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