lines
“But a man must have some lines!” the philosophy student Everett cried, his hand trembling. He was standing at the mirror in his small, mouldy bathroom, trying to shave.
“Without lines a man ceases to be a man; he is too abstract an entity. I don’t understand how you, as a student of philosophy, can say otherwise… I’m not talking about hundreds or even dozens of lines, but a few lines… at least a few! A man must have a few lines over which he doesn’t venture, by which he determines his course! Otherwise there are half-measures, outbursts, and all manner of strange behaviours…”
Milford was sitting on the bed watching Everett (this was going on in one of those impossibly small student dorm rooms). He was also in a state of extreme agitation, his shoulders trembling, though his face was strained into something almost like a smile.
“I reject the premise!” he said in a weak laugh, “I simply reject that there can be any such lines in the first place! Today I decide that I would like to walk to the station, but tomorrow it’s too far, and I drive… or perhaps a better example; today I feel no need to drink, but then evening comes around, and I change my mind; what, should I have drawn the line this morning? But then I am hostage to another man’s lines, for I was not myself this morning, but someone else entirely! And now, before the vastness of night, I am emboldened and ready to take on a challenge… would you have me clip my own wings, all because this morning someone drew some lines?”
“And by the way,” he hurried to add, “people are between lines; that’s where one finds what is beautiful!”
Everett was stiff and jittering, unable to lower the razor to his half-shaven cheek, “But you’ve mistaken me…” he muttered, “as usual, you’ve taken my meaning and corrupted it… the lines I’m talking about aren’t…. you have no right, Milford, you have no right to speak in such clichés…”
“Your lines don’t enhance living, they limit it! Fear… you’re afr…”
”What did you say?” Everett stammered, turning away from the mirror to face his friend, “Afraid?”
”Yes, you’re afraid,” said Milford, a wicked smile suddenly possessing his face, “Afraid because you can draw as many lines as you want, but others won’t pay them any mind! There can be no drawing of lines for others…”
“You’re wrong…” Everett muttered, almost in a whisper. Now he was looking absently past his friend, as if in delirium.
Milford noticed a tear on his cheek, and was possessed by the impulse to lunge toward it, but he held himself back at the last moment and instead began pacing the room frantically.
“When i was young I looked for the line to obliterate all others!” Milford suddenly cried, “I wanted a line to tell me whether I was alive or merely ongoing, whether I’m a human being! I want one line! What do you think, that I didn’t look for it? I searched for your lines, secretly I still long for a line, but there are none, so best to stop looking… to hell with your lines!” he hissed, casting a hateful glance at his friend.
They found themselves face to face, Everett still jittering with his razor, Milford with a vicious aspect to his eyes. For two whole minutes neither moved or said anything.
Then there was a knock at the door. Robert, the student of Fine Arts, marched in.
“It’s decided! We absolutely must leave this very instant!” he piped, his chest a-puff.
Everett and Milford scrambled and began collecting their coats, boots, cigarettes, and notebooks. The three students burst into the street where the rest of their company was waiting.
Everett, enthralled with the Autumn night, the beautiful young women, and the warmth of his comrades, nevertheless didn’t understand why for people were especially merry with him on this occasion, laughed so kindly with him, and were so much more at ease with him than usual.
At ease with him
… and his half-shaven cheek.
Leonid Pasternak. Pine-trees and the Sea. 1910