We by Yevgeny Zamyatin (the unexpected everything .txt) 📕

torturing and perhaps dearest piece of my own self.⁠ ⁠…

Voices from a distance (from the corridor) and steps. I had only time to snatch a handful of pages and put them under me, and then as if soldered to the armchair, every atom of which was quivering, I remained sitting, while the floor under my feet rolled like the deck of a ship, up and down.⁠ ⁠…

All shrunk together and hidden under the awning of my own forehead like that messenger, I watched them stealthily; they were going from room to room, beginning at the right end of the corridor. Nearer⁠ ⁠… nearer.⁠ ⁠… I saw that some sat in their rooms, torpid like me; others would jump up and open their doors wide⁠—lucky ones! If only I too, could.⁠ ⁠…

“The Well-Doer is the most perfect fumigation humanity needs, consequently no peristalsis in the organism of the United State could.⁠ ⁠…” I was writing this nonsense, pressing my trembling pen hard, and lower and lower my head bent over the table, and within me some sort of crazy forge.⁠ ⁠… With my back I was listening⁠ ⁠… and I heard the click of the doorknob.⁠ ⁠… A current of fresh air.⁠ ⁠… My armchair was dancing a mad dance.⁠ ⁠… Only then, and even then with difficulty, I tore myself away from the page, turned my head in the direction of the newcomers (how difficult it is to play a foul game!). In front of all was S-, morose, silent, swiftly drilling with his eyes deep shafts within me, within my armchair and within the pages which were twitching in my hands. Then for a second⁠—familiar, everyday faces at the door; one of them separated itself from the rest with its bulging, pinkish-brown gills.⁠ ⁠…

At once I recalled everything that happened in the same room half an hour ago and it was clear to me that they would presently.⁠ ⁠…

All my being was shriveling and pulsating in that fortunately opaque part of my body with which I was covering the manuscript. U- came up to S-, gently plucked his sleeve and said in a low voice:

“This is D-503, the builder of the Integral. You have probably heard of him. He is always like that, at his desk; does not spare himself at all!”

… And I thought!⁠ ⁠… What a dear, wonderful woman!⁠ ⁠…

S- slid up to me, bent over my shoulder toward the table. I covered the lines I had written with my elbow but he shouted severely:

“Show us at once what you have there, please!”

Dying with shame, I held out the sheet of paper. He read it over, and I noticed a tiny smile jump out of his eyes, jump down his face and slightly wagging its tail, perch upon the right angle of his mouth.⁠ ⁠…

“Somewhat ambiguous, yet.⁠ ⁠… Well, you may continue; we shall not disturb you any more.”

He went splashing towards the door as if in a ditch of water. And with every step of his I felt coming back to me my legs, my arms, my fingers⁠—my soul again distributed itself evenly over my whole body; I breathed.⁠ ⁠…

The last thing: U- lingered in my room to come back to me and say in my very ear in a whisper: “It is lucky for you that I.⁠ ⁠…”

I did not understand. What did she mean by that? The same evening I learned that they led away three Numbers, although nobody speaks out loud about that, or about anything that happened. This ostensible silence is due to the educational influence of the Guardians who are ever present among us. Conversations deal chiefly with the quick fall of the barometer and the forthcoming change in the weather.

Record Twenty-Nine

Threads on the face⁠—Sprouts⁠—An unnatural compression.

It is strange: the barometer continues to fall yet there is no wind. There is quiet. Above, the storm which we do not yet hear has begun. The clouds are rushing with a terrific speed. There are few of them as yet; separate fragments; it is as if there above us an unknown city were being destroyed and pieces of walls and towers were rushing down, coming nearer and nearer with terrific speed, but it will take some days of rushing through the blue infinite before they reach the bottom, that is us, below. And below there is silence.

There are thin, incomprehensible, almost invisible threads in the air; every autumn they are brought here from beyond the Wall. They float slowly, and suddenly you feel something foreign and invisible on your face; you want to brush it off, but no, you cannot rid yourself of it. You feel it especially near the Green Wall, where I was this morning. I-330 made an appointment with me to meet her in the Ancient House in that “Apartment” of ours.

I was not far from the rust-red, opaque mass of the Ancient House, when I heard behind me short hasty steps and rapid breathing. I turned around and saw O-90 trying to catch up to me. She seemed strangely and perfectly rounded. Her arms and breast, her whole body, so familiar to me, was rounded out, stretching her unif. It seemed as though it would soon tear the thin cloth and come out into the sun, into the light. I think that there in the green debris, in springtime, the unseen sprouts try thus to tear their way through the ground in order to emit their branches and leaves and to bloom.

For a few seconds she shone into my face with her blue eyes in silence.

“I saw you on the Day of Unanimity.”

“I saw you, too.” I at once remembered; below, in a narrow passage she had stood, pressing herself to the wall, protecting her abdomen with her arms, and automatically I glanced now at her abdomen which rounded the unif. She must have noticed, for she became pink, and with a rosy smile:

“I am so happy⁠ ⁠… so happy! I am so full of⁠ ⁠… you understand, I am⁠ ⁠… I walk and I hear