Aí vai o primeiro desses dois textos que escrevi, há uns três anos, como projetos finais do meu curso final de inglês. Reli-os recentemente e cheguei à conclusão de que não são tão ruins assim.
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The Prison
I. The prison and its warden
There is a prison that was once well known because of the unusual working method of its lights. The warden of the prison, responsible for the creation of this method, explained with his own words how it used to function: “The lights are turned off, with no previous warning, whenever I decide they should be turned off. It is obvious that I never use predictable schedules, which means that a prisoner is never able to tell at what time the lights will be turned off on the following day.” This was an overwhelming inconvenience to the prisoners, for they needed light to accomplish some very basic necessities, such as going to the bathroom. One may argue that after not much time, they were able to learn their way to the bathroom, being possible to get there even in the dark. But the warden, having thought of this detail, decided to assign different cells for each prisoner everyday, leaving them no time to memorize their way, for all the cells were enormous and had the bathroom in different locations. The prisoners’ families were astonished when they first learned the prison’s eccentric routine, but, it must be said, they hardly ever visited the unfortunate prisoners; not because they couldn’t or didn’t want to, but because they never knew when to do it. The warden told us why: “When they were free, they had all the time in the world to be with their loving families, but, instead, they chose to spend their time with unlawful behaviors such as robbing, killing, raping, shouting in libraries and so forth. Now, their loving families have to be lucky enough to get here on a day the prison happens to be open for visits, such as yesterday, when, fortunately, no one appeared.”
It is fairly noticeable that the warden enjoyed being arbitrary. Except for reading and writing about the universal classics of literature, practicing incomprehensible despotism was his favorite pastime. The foreigners who read about this prison never seem to understand how a mere warden could have had such power and influence, since nobody dared question his rather questionable methods. But the truth is, because of his work, the crime rates in the town decreased dramatically, and thus he started to become a respected figure. Many criminals simply stopped being criminals, and the rest moved out of town, which is perfectly understandable. Moreover, the ones who spent any time in the prison would rather commit suicide than allow themselves back again in that terrifying gaol, which is also perfectly understandable.
The warden’s power reached a point that allowed him to decide whether a person should go to prison or not. Often times, he himself would write an order of imprisonment (he was particularly fond of writing those, for he believed he had an innate talent for written composition, especially when the latter was based on disagreeable news) stating all the reasons why he reputed this or that man a threat to society. He would, then, picture, with abundance of details, while lasciviously licking his lips, the circumstances under which his new victim would receive the news. He told us, with his usual sincerity: “I can never help imagining their faces. Maybe while having dinner, or playing with their kids, or engaged in any other pleasant activity, they would, then, receive the fateful order and stop whatever they were doing momentarily. The kids would wonder why their parents were so suddenly uneasy, but they would soon find out, for a member of the family would invariably be missing for a while.” With all this ritual in mind, the warden decided to send an order of imprisonment to the town’s one and only writer. After everything that happened because of this decision, he realized he had made a big mistake.
At any rate, he did so, but not before consulting the opinion of his group of loyal advisors. The impression I have is that he had advisors not to make sure he was making the right decision, but to assure himself that he was being as despotic as possible. The first advisor said, reluctantly: “You can’t simply throw this poor fellow in jail just because you don’t agree with his writings.” The second advisor said, thoughtfully: “The first advisor is right. Besides, you, as an admirer of good literature, should know that people have different ideas and therefore write about different things.” The warden responded, impatiently: “You two big idiots. I don’t intend to do what I intend to do because I don’t agree with his writings. I have never read a single line from him. What I can’t accept is to know that he writes fictional stories. We don’t need new literature: there’s still a lot to be said and written about the classics. Writing new material is the same as implying that what we already have is not sufficient, and that I cannot bear.” The advisors consented instantly, which does not mean they truly agreed: they just knew how to secure their jobs, and so did I.
II. The prisoner and the possibility of his death
The town’s one and only writer, having no other choice other than following the warden’s orders, became the prison’s most celebrated prisoner. He was the most celebrated because of his behavior, which was scrupulously flawless, in spite of the false idea that many had of him: a disquiet and revolutionary man full of ideas. Because his name was inexplicably unknown, and because this denomination was perfectly suitable, he was known as the prisoner.
He was a peaceful man. One would think he was a hideous criminal, for he seemed to accept his punishment with remarkable resignation, as if he had thorough conscience of how terrible his crime had been. This unexpected behavior did not, not at all, please the warden. As stated before, he enjoyed being inconvenient, and the last thing he wanted was a satisfied prisoner, as the prisoner seemed to be. He, then, again asked for his advisor’s help. Firstly, he could not let people notice that there were content prisoners in his prison, which would obviously ruin its reputation. Furthermore, it started to become a personal issue, for the warden could not stand the prisoner’s unshakable conformity. He tried, through every possible way, to urge him for freedom, but the prisoner seemed, each day, more comfortable where he was. According to him, the prison was a “… terrific place to live. Where else could you have different rooms everyday? Not to mention the architecture, which is utterly magnificent. The lights, reason for unending complaints, aren’t really necessary. You can always use the flashlights they have in here.” No one really knows whether he was speaking the truth or not, after all, he was a writer; a good one, many insist on saying, although I haven’t read a single line from him, either. One thing is acknowledged: he had an incomparable ability to persuade people through his writings, and this ability was the main responsible for the success of his revenge plan against the warden. Some would say that he was capable of convincing people, with no more than a few words, that a clock was showing another time instead of the time everyone saw. He said: “It is all a matter of choosing the right words.”
The warden proposed his death. It was not an easy decision, for he thought that “… the prisoners ought to suffer, and then they die. This is how one pays for one’s crimes.” He, then, tried to find something that would bring the prisoner’s deserved suffering. He told the prisoner: “It is in deep sorrow that I find myself obliged to bring you the news of your wife’s death.” The prisoner replied: “Did my lovely wife indeed die, sir?” The warden replied: “I wish I could tell otherwise, but yes.” The prisoner replied: “I am tremendously sad to hear it, but I am not worried. I am sure that you, generous as you are, will take care of the funeral’s expenses, considering I cannot do so.” His second attempt was equally frustrating. He told the prisoner: “I myself looked over and over and there seem to be no mail for you since you arrived here.” The prisoner replied, a little embarrassed: “Oh, it is true. I think I should try giving them the prison’s address first.” Once he realized that his efforts were completely innocuous, he decided to kill the prisoner.
The third advisor objected: “This would be, undoubtedly, a harmful thing to do. Once you begin with this sort of extreme attitude, you will rapidly lose all the respect you have in this town.” The warden replied, again, impatiently (he never seemed to be in a good mood): “Don’t be silly. It will surely cause some impression, but I have many merits to compensate for it. It is undeniable that Napoleon, for instance, is mostly remembered not because of the many, so to speak, lives he slaughtered, but because of his outstanding military genius. This is what, if everything goes as I plan, will happen to me: I will not be remembered because of the worthless lives I tortured, but because I so efficiently handled the crime situation in this town. As a Russian philosopher used to say, removing an unimportant obstacle is a part of the process of achieving something bigger, and it should, therefore, be accepted. And it will be accepted. People forget things easily.” The fourth advisor asked, doubtfully: “Wasn’t this Russian guy a writer?” And the fifth advisor replied, triumphantly: “He was a writer-philosopher.” It is needless to say that this kind of digression irritated the warden tremendously, and it irritated me, too.
His plans could not be consummated, though. When he voiced his idea of killing the prisoner, he also assigned one of the security guards to do the job, that is, to actually kill him. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, the first assigned security guard was not able to kill him. Nor was the second one. Claiming the most absurd reasons, such as sudden stomachaches and not previously announced wedding parties, none of them were able to do it, leaving the warden no other choice other than doing it himself. The warden tried, he sincerely did, but the slightest sight of blood frightened him beyond comprehension.
III. The diaries
The warden, instead of insisting on doing something he knew he could not do, changed his strategy completely. The prisoner’s influence spread momentarily in the prison: no one seemed to be interested in escaping or simply being liberated. He, then, thought that, by providing an entertainment to the prisoners, they would recover, at least, a minimal interest for life and, consequently, they would, once again, seek freedom, as they used to do when they first arrived. The warden’s idea, then, would favor him in two ways. One: he would be able to regain his powerful position, considering all the prisoners would be again dissatisfied and he was the one to keep them where they were. Two: he needed documents that could testify to his efficiency for the posterity. He assumed that all the diaries – this was his idea, to let the prisoners write diaries about whatever they wanted – would frequently mention his name as an arbitrary and devilish man. He explained why this was what he wanted: “Arbitrary and devilish for prisoners mean severe and efficient for honored citizens. Those who read the diaries will realize that this is the suitable behavior when dealing with unlawful people. My name will be praised, and they will wish they had a man like me to manage their local prison.”
Theoretically, it was a noteworthy idea, I must admit. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, things didn’t work quite as well as he had planned. Indeed, all the prisoners were very excited with the possibility of writing diaries, but, instead of beginning a process that would lead them to the need for redemption, they preferred to remain imprisoned, so that they could keep writing their diaries. And, to worsen the warden’s situation, they decided not to write about the latter (in almost one hundred thousand pages, his name was mentioned three times), but to write about themselves. One of the prisoners said, visibly excited: “I am thrilled. I never thought that, as a prisoner, I would have the opportunity to write anything relevant. Now that I know that the posterity will read this, I’ll flatter myself as much as I can, and, who knows, in some years, there will be a school named after me.” Many thought the same. After not long, when the diaries were available for the public to read, I was told that, if all the prisoners were truthful when they wrote the papers, there were, among them, mathematicians, runners, physicians, geologists, pediatricians, orthodontists, geographers, biologists, cardiologists, paleoanthropologists, paleontologists, dominoes players, psychiatrists, psychologists, gynecologists, urologists, chess players, pilots, writers, philosophers and some other occupations which I cannot remember right now.
The warden could not know that, for no one was allowed to read someone else’s diary. He thought of simply ignoring it and of requiring all the prisoners to show him their diaries, but the sixth advisor warned him: “Wouldn’t it be better, then, to hire fake prisoners and write them their diaries with the exact content you desire? Besides, all the prisoners here, all but one, are ignorant; no one will believe in what they write.” The warden finally agreed: “It makes sense. Moreover, my reputation is considerably solid, already. And, I read, the other day, by accident, a page of a poor fellow’s diary who claimed himself a writer, but I could find a handful of childish spelling mistakes. Their diaries are not the problem. My only concern is the prisoner’s diary. I heard his words can be as convincing as a picture.” The seventh advisor, after considering the matter for a second, replied: “Let us say, then, that the prisoner is not allowed to have a diary.” And thus it was agreed.
The prisoner, as it was expected, was not disappointed with this decision. Although he knew that his revenge would be accomplished through his diary, he knew, too, that there was no need to worry. Instead of complaining, he accepted and even conjectured the opinion that he was privileged for not being able to write a diary, because, this way, he would have more time left to enjoy the other commodities the prison had to offer. He spent a great deal of his time trying to figure out the working method of the lights, even though he still thought this was irrelevant. Nevertheless, he enjoyed doing so, for he believed, vehemently, that the times the lights were turned off weren’t arbitrary: they certainly followed some sort of logic. He had a hard time to prove it, for the prison had no clocks (there actually was a clock available to the prisoners, but it was located so far away from their sight that it was impossible for them to see the time; and, the ones who claimed it possible to see (which was probably a lie), affirmed that it showed the wrong time), making it difficult for him to develop a tentative schedule for the lights. He tried using the sun as a time referential, but, as I believe I stated before, the prison had no windows.
IV. The prisoner’s diary
But he was right, there was no need to worry. He somehow found a way to have a diary, even though he could not and he did not write a diary. The prison’s security guards, I was their supervisor, watched him closely. He did not, I can say this for sure, write a single line while he was in that prison, but, by the time he died, he had a two-hundred-page diary, that was sent, along with the other prisoner’s writings, to the library for the people to read. The warden could not stop this from happening because I assured him, after the prisoner’s death, that he hadn’t written anything, and that that month’s package of papers could safely go to the local public library.
My first guess is that he dictated it to the prisoners with whom he shared cells during the thirteen years between the implementation of the diaries idea and his death. Although it sounds simple, it certainly wasn’t, for, as I think I stated before, the prisoners changed cells everyday and, therefore, shared cells with different prisoners everyday. He had, then, in one day, to meet and convince his new mate to write him his diary. I don’t even have to mention that this was a herculean task, for two basic reasons. One: for the other prisoners to write the prisoner’s diary, they had to give up, at least for a day, writing their own, which was almost impossible, for they avidly wanted to add as much as possible to their writings (they only had until their death to finish it). Two: as the sixth advisor and the warden themselves noticed, all the prisoners there were ignorant. The prisoner must have spent an incredible amount of time spelling the words to his helpers, considering I could not find a single spelling mistake in his diary. These are probably the reasons that better explain why he took thirteen years to have only two hundred pages written.
As it is probably known by now, if not, my apologies, once a prisoner died, his writings were immediately remitted to the local public library, where they had a space dedicated to the diaries. It is beyond human comprehension how the prisoner managed to organize his scattered papers. The only rational conjecture, although it would be rational to repute it irrational, is that he convinced the two hundred prisoners who had helped him to, after his death, organize them for him. That is, possibly, the reason why, when he happened to share a cell with someone older, he would sleep the entire day: only younger prisoners could him help because he needed them to be alive on the day of his death. The handwriting was inexplicably homogeneous, though.
Accidents may have happened, for there are two pages missing on his diary; unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, they don’t deprive the text of its general meaning, which is the last thing left for me to report.
V. The wooden door
The sixth advisor was absolutely right: no one would ever believe in those extravagancies, as I noticed while I was reading some of the diaries in the local public library. When I found a volume entitled The prisoner, I obviously did not relate this denomination to the town’s old writer; I was the one responsible for watching him, I knew he had no diary. As I began to read, though, there was no doubt that it was indeed the prisoner’s writings, and I knew it because of two basic reasons. One: there were no spelling mistakes. Two: it was so convincing that, by the time I finished the reading, I was completely sure that it said the truth and nothing but the truth.
In two hundred pages, the prisoner, eloquently and, according to the many that dedicated their lives to the analysis of the writings, irrefutably, proved that the prison’s warden was the fairest of all wardens.
I took a copy of the diary (the originals were to remain there forever: orders from the librarian) to the prison and placed it on the warden’s desk. I saw as he went in his office and closed the door. After two hours or so, enough time to read a considerable part of the volume, I heard a scream of agony coming from his room. I heard it rather clearly, even though his wooden door was relatively thick.
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The Prison
I. The prison and its warden
There is a prison that was once well known because of the unusual working method of its lights. The warden of the prison, responsible for the creation of this method, explained with his own words how it used to function: “The lights are turned off, with no previous warning, whenever I decide they should be turned off. It is obvious that I never use predictable schedules, which means that a prisoner is never able to tell at what time the lights will be turned off on the following day.” This was an overwhelming inconvenience to the prisoners, for they needed light to accomplish some very basic necessities, such as going to the bathroom. One may argue that after not much time, they were able to learn their way to the bathroom, being possible to get there even in the dark. But the warden, having thought of this detail, decided to assign different cells for each prisoner everyday, leaving them no time to memorize their way, for all the cells were enormous and had the bathroom in different locations. The prisoners’ families were astonished when they first learned the prison’s eccentric routine, but, it must be said, they hardly ever visited the unfortunate prisoners; not because they couldn’t or didn’t want to, but because they never knew when to do it. The warden told us why: “When they were free, they had all the time in the world to be with their loving families, but, instead, they chose to spend their time with unlawful behaviors such as robbing, killing, raping, shouting in libraries and so forth. Now, their loving families have to be lucky enough to get here on a day the prison happens to be open for visits, such as yesterday, when, fortunately, no one appeared.”
It is fairly noticeable that the warden enjoyed being arbitrary. Except for reading and writing about the universal classics of literature, practicing incomprehensible despotism was his favorite pastime. The foreigners who read about this prison never seem to understand how a mere warden could have had such power and influence, since nobody dared question his rather questionable methods. But the truth is, because of his work, the crime rates in the town decreased dramatically, and thus he started to become a respected figure. Many criminals simply stopped being criminals, and the rest moved out of town, which is perfectly understandable. Moreover, the ones who spent any time in the prison would rather commit suicide than allow themselves back again in that terrifying gaol, which is also perfectly understandable.
The warden’s power reached a point that allowed him to decide whether a person should go to prison or not. Often times, he himself would write an order of imprisonment (he was particularly fond of writing those, for he believed he had an innate talent for written composition, especially when the latter was based on disagreeable news) stating all the reasons why he reputed this or that man a threat to society. He would, then, picture, with abundance of details, while lasciviously licking his lips, the circumstances under which his new victim would receive the news. He told us, with his usual sincerity: “I can never help imagining their faces. Maybe while having dinner, or playing with their kids, or engaged in any other pleasant activity, they would, then, receive the fateful order and stop whatever they were doing momentarily. The kids would wonder why their parents were so suddenly uneasy, but they would soon find out, for a member of the family would invariably be missing for a while.” With all this ritual in mind, the warden decided to send an order of imprisonment to the town’s one and only writer. After everything that happened because of this decision, he realized he had made a big mistake.
At any rate, he did so, but not before consulting the opinion of his group of loyal advisors. The impression I have is that he had advisors not to make sure he was making the right decision, but to assure himself that he was being as despotic as possible. The first advisor said, reluctantly: “You can’t simply throw this poor fellow in jail just because you don’t agree with his writings.” The second advisor said, thoughtfully: “The first advisor is right. Besides, you, as an admirer of good literature, should know that people have different ideas and therefore write about different things.” The warden responded, impatiently: “You two big idiots. I don’t intend to do what I intend to do because I don’t agree with his writings. I have never read a single line from him. What I can’t accept is to know that he writes fictional stories. We don’t need new literature: there’s still a lot to be said and written about the classics. Writing new material is the same as implying that what we already have is not sufficient, and that I cannot bear.” The advisors consented instantly, which does not mean they truly agreed: they just knew how to secure their jobs, and so did I.
II. The prisoner and the possibility of his death
The town’s one and only writer, having no other choice other than following the warden’s orders, became the prison’s most celebrated prisoner. He was the most celebrated because of his behavior, which was scrupulously flawless, in spite of the false idea that many had of him: a disquiet and revolutionary man full of ideas. Because his name was inexplicably unknown, and because this denomination was perfectly suitable, he was known as the prisoner.
He was a peaceful man. One would think he was a hideous criminal, for he seemed to accept his punishment with remarkable resignation, as if he had thorough conscience of how terrible his crime had been. This unexpected behavior did not, not at all, please the warden. As stated before, he enjoyed being inconvenient, and the last thing he wanted was a satisfied prisoner, as the prisoner seemed to be. He, then, again asked for his advisor’s help. Firstly, he could not let people notice that there were content prisoners in his prison, which would obviously ruin its reputation. Furthermore, it started to become a personal issue, for the warden could not stand the prisoner’s unshakable conformity. He tried, through every possible way, to urge him for freedom, but the prisoner seemed, each day, more comfortable where he was. According to him, the prison was a “… terrific place to live. Where else could you have different rooms everyday? Not to mention the architecture, which is utterly magnificent. The lights, reason for unending complaints, aren’t really necessary. You can always use the flashlights they have in here.” No one really knows whether he was speaking the truth or not, after all, he was a writer; a good one, many insist on saying, although I haven’t read a single line from him, either. One thing is acknowledged: he had an incomparable ability to persuade people through his writings, and this ability was the main responsible for the success of his revenge plan against the warden. Some would say that he was capable of convincing people, with no more than a few words, that a clock was showing another time instead of the time everyone saw. He said: “It is all a matter of choosing the right words.”
The warden proposed his death. It was not an easy decision, for he thought that “… the prisoners ought to suffer, and then they die. This is how one pays for one’s crimes.” He, then, tried to find something that would bring the prisoner’s deserved suffering. He told the prisoner: “It is in deep sorrow that I find myself obliged to bring you the news of your wife’s death.” The prisoner replied: “Did my lovely wife indeed die, sir?” The warden replied: “I wish I could tell otherwise, but yes.” The prisoner replied: “I am tremendously sad to hear it, but I am not worried. I am sure that you, generous as you are, will take care of the funeral’s expenses, considering I cannot do so.” His second attempt was equally frustrating. He told the prisoner: “I myself looked over and over and there seem to be no mail for you since you arrived here.” The prisoner replied, a little embarrassed: “Oh, it is true. I think I should try giving them the prison’s address first.” Once he realized that his efforts were completely innocuous, he decided to kill the prisoner.
The third advisor objected: “This would be, undoubtedly, a harmful thing to do. Once you begin with this sort of extreme attitude, you will rapidly lose all the respect you have in this town.” The warden replied, again, impatiently (he never seemed to be in a good mood): “Don’t be silly. It will surely cause some impression, but I have many merits to compensate for it. It is undeniable that Napoleon, for instance, is mostly remembered not because of the many, so to speak, lives he slaughtered, but because of his outstanding military genius. This is what, if everything goes as I plan, will happen to me: I will not be remembered because of the worthless lives I tortured, but because I so efficiently handled the crime situation in this town. As a Russian philosopher used to say, removing an unimportant obstacle is a part of the process of achieving something bigger, and it should, therefore, be accepted. And it will be accepted. People forget things easily.” The fourth advisor asked, doubtfully: “Wasn’t this Russian guy a writer?” And the fifth advisor replied, triumphantly: “He was a writer-philosopher.” It is needless to say that this kind of digression irritated the warden tremendously, and it irritated me, too.
His plans could not be consummated, though. When he voiced his idea of killing the prisoner, he also assigned one of the security guards to do the job, that is, to actually kill him. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, the first assigned security guard was not able to kill him. Nor was the second one. Claiming the most absurd reasons, such as sudden stomachaches and not previously announced wedding parties, none of them were able to do it, leaving the warden no other choice other than doing it himself. The warden tried, he sincerely did, but the slightest sight of blood frightened him beyond comprehension.
III. The diaries
The warden, instead of insisting on doing something he knew he could not do, changed his strategy completely. The prisoner’s influence spread momentarily in the prison: no one seemed to be interested in escaping or simply being liberated. He, then, thought that, by providing an entertainment to the prisoners, they would recover, at least, a minimal interest for life and, consequently, they would, once again, seek freedom, as they used to do when they first arrived. The warden’s idea, then, would favor him in two ways. One: he would be able to regain his powerful position, considering all the prisoners would be again dissatisfied and he was the one to keep them where they were. Two: he needed documents that could testify to his efficiency for the posterity. He assumed that all the diaries – this was his idea, to let the prisoners write diaries about whatever they wanted – would frequently mention his name as an arbitrary and devilish man. He explained why this was what he wanted: “Arbitrary and devilish for prisoners mean severe and efficient for honored citizens. Those who read the diaries will realize that this is the suitable behavior when dealing with unlawful people. My name will be praised, and they will wish they had a man like me to manage their local prison.”
Theoretically, it was a noteworthy idea, I must admit. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, things didn’t work quite as well as he had planned. Indeed, all the prisoners were very excited with the possibility of writing diaries, but, instead of beginning a process that would lead them to the need for redemption, they preferred to remain imprisoned, so that they could keep writing their diaries. And, to worsen the warden’s situation, they decided not to write about the latter (in almost one hundred thousand pages, his name was mentioned three times), but to write about themselves. One of the prisoners said, visibly excited: “I am thrilled. I never thought that, as a prisoner, I would have the opportunity to write anything relevant. Now that I know that the posterity will read this, I’ll flatter myself as much as I can, and, who knows, in some years, there will be a school named after me.” Many thought the same. After not long, when the diaries were available for the public to read, I was told that, if all the prisoners were truthful when they wrote the papers, there were, among them, mathematicians, runners, physicians, geologists, pediatricians, orthodontists, geographers, biologists, cardiologists, paleoanthropologists, paleontologists, dominoes players, psychiatrists, psychologists, gynecologists, urologists, chess players, pilots, writers, philosophers and some other occupations which I cannot remember right now.
The warden could not know that, for no one was allowed to read someone else’s diary. He thought of simply ignoring it and of requiring all the prisoners to show him their diaries, but the sixth advisor warned him: “Wouldn’t it be better, then, to hire fake prisoners and write them their diaries with the exact content you desire? Besides, all the prisoners here, all but one, are ignorant; no one will believe in what they write.” The warden finally agreed: “It makes sense. Moreover, my reputation is considerably solid, already. And, I read, the other day, by accident, a page of a poor fellow’s diary who claimed himself a writer, but I could find a handful of childish spelling mistakes. Their diaries are not the problem. My only concern is the prisoner’s diary. I heard his words can be as convincing as a picture.” The seventh advisor, after considering the matter for a second, replied: “Let us say, then, that the prisoner is not allowed to have a diary.” And thus it was agreed.
The prisoner, as it was expected, was not disappointed with this decision. Although he knew that his revenge would be accomplished through his diary, he knew, too, that there was no need to worry. Instead of complaining, he accepted and even conjectured the opinion that he was privileged for not being able to write a diary, because, this way, he would have more time left to enjoy the other commodities the prison had to offer. He spent a great deal of his time trying to figure out the working method of the lights, even though he still thought this was irrelevant. Nevertheless, he enjoyed doing so, for he believed, vehemently, that the times the lights were turned off weren’t arbitrary: they certainly followed some sort of logic. He had a hard time to prove it, for the prison had no clocks (there actually was a clock available to the prisoners, but it was located so far away from their sight that it was impossible for them to see the time; and, the ones who claimed it possible to see (which was probably a lie), affirmed that it showed the wrong time), making it difficult for him to develop a tentative schedule for the lights. He tried using the sun as a time referential, but, as I believe I stated before, the prison had no windows.
IV. The prisoner’s diary
But he was right, there was no need to worry. He somehow found a way to have a diary, even though he could not and he did not write a diary. The prison’s security guards, I was their supervisor, watched him closely. He did not, I can say this for sure, write a single line while he was in that prison, but, by the time he died, he had a two-hundred-page diary, that was sent, along with the other prisoner’s writings, to the library for the people to read. The warden could not stop this from happening because I assured him, after the prisoner’s death, that he hadn’t written anything, and that that month’s package of papers could safely go to the local public library.
My first guess is that he dictated it to the prisoners with whom he shared cells during the thirteen years between the implementation of the diaries idea and his death. Although it sounds simple, it certainly wasn’t, for, as I think I stated before, the prisoners changed cells everyday and, therefore, shared cells with different prisoners everyday. He had, then, in one day, to meet and convince his new mate to write him his diary. I don’t even have to mention that this was a herculean task, for two basic reasons. One: for the other prisoners to write the prisoner’s diary, they had to give up, at least for a day, writing their own, which was almost impossible, for they avidly wanted to add as much as possible to their writings (they only had until their death to finish it). Two: as the sixth advisor and the warden themselves noticed, all the prisoners there were ignorant. The prisoner must have spent an incredible amount of time spelling the words to his helpers, considering I could not find a single spelling mistake in his diary. These are probably the reasons that better explain why he took thirteen years to have only two hundred pages written.
As it is probably known by now, if not, my apologies, once a prisoner died, his writings were immediately remitted to the local public library, where they had a space dedicated to the diaries. It is beyond human comprehension how the prisoner managed to organize his scattered papers. The only rational conjecture, although it would be rational to repute it irrational, is that he convinced the two hundred prisoners who had helped him to, after his death, organize them for him. That is, possibly, the reason why, when he happened to share a cell with someone older, he would sleep the entire day: only younger prisoners could him help because he needed them to be alive on the day of his death. The handwriting was inexplicably homogeneous, though.
Accidents may have happened, for there are two pages missing on his diary; unfortunately, or fortunately, I don’t know, they don’t deprive the text of its general meaning, which is the last thing left for me to report.
V. The wooden door
The sixth advisor was absolutely right: no one would ever believe in those extravagancies, as I noticed while I was reading some of the diaries in the local public library. When I found a volume entitled The prisoner, I obviously did not relate this denomination to the town’s old writer; I was the one responsible for watching him, I knew he had no diary. As I began to read, though, there was no doubt that it was indeed the prisoner’s writings, and I knew it because of two basic reasons. One: there were no spelling mistakes. Two: it was so convincing that, by the time I finished the reading, I was completely sure that it said the truth and nothing but the truth.
In two hundred pages, the prisoner, eloquently and, according to the many that dedicated their lives to the analysis of the writings, irrefutably, proved that the prison’s warden was the fairest of all wardens.
I took a copy of the diary (the originals were to remain there forever: orders from the librarian) to the prison and placed it on the warden’s desk. I saw as he went in his office and closed the door. After two hours or so, enough time to read a considerable part of the volume, I heard a scream of agony coming from his room. I heard it rather clearly, even though his wooden door was relatively thick.
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