WEBVTT

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Garden of Forking Paths. On page 22 of Little Heart's history of World War I you

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will read that an attack against the Sierra Seri Montalban line by the 13

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British divisions supported by 1,400 artillery pieces planned for the 24th

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of July 1916 had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th. The

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torrential rains, Captain Little Heart comments caused this delay. An insignificant

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one to be sure. The following statement dictated, re-read, signed by Dr

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Yu Sun, former professor of English at the Hoshula at Qingdao, throws an

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unexpected light over the whole affair. The first two pages of the

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documents are missing and I hung up the receiver. Immediately afterwards I

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recognized a voice that had answered in German. It was that of Captain Richard

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Madden. Madden's presence in Victor Rumberg's apartment meant the end of

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our anxieties and but this seemed or should have seemed very secondary to

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me. Also the end of our lives. It meant that Rumberg had been arrested or

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murdered and then on the on the side of this there's an asterisk with a

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Edison's note which I'll read to you now. A hypothesis both hateful and

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odd. The Prussian spy, Hans Rabiner, alias Victor Rumberg attacked with

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drawn automatic the bearer of the warrant for his arrest. Captain

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Richard Madden. The latter in self-defense inflicted the wound which

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brought about Rumberg's death. And the story continues. Before the sun set on

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that day I would encounter the same fate. Madden was implacable or rather

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he was obliged to be so. An Irish man in the service of England. A man accused

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of laxity and perhaps of treason. How could he fail to seize and to be

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thankful for such a miraculous opportunity? The discovery, capture and

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even the death of two agents of the German Reich. I went up to my room

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absurdly. I locked the door and threw myself on the back of the narrow iron

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cut. Through the window I saw the familiar roost and the cloud shaded six

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o'clock sun. It seemed incredible to me that that day without

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premonitions or symbols should be the one of my inexorable death. In spite

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of my dead father. In spite of having been a child in a symmetrical garden of

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Haifeng I was now going to die. Then I reflected that everything happens to

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a man precisely. Precisely now. Centuries of centuries and only in the present do

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things happen. Countless men in the air on the face of the earth and the

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sea and all that really is happening. It's happening to me. The almost

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intolerable recollection of Madden's horse-like face banished these

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wanderings in my mind. In the midst of my hatred and terror it means

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nothing to me now to speak of terror. Now that I have mocked Richard Madden. Now

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that my throat yearns for the noose. It occurred to me that that tumultuous

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and doubtless happy warrior did not suspect that I possessed a secret. The

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name of the exact location of the new British artillery park on River

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Anker. A bird's street across the sky and blindly I translated it into an

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aeroplane and that aeroplane into many against the French sky. Annihilating

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the artillery station with vertical bombs. If only my mouth before a bullet

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shattered it would cry out that secret name so it could be heard in Germany. My

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human voice was very weak. How might I make it carry to the ear of the

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chief? To the ear of that sick and hateful man who knew nothing of

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Rumberg and me saved that we were in Staffordshire and who was waiting in

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vain for our reports in his arid office in Berlin endlessly examining

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newspapers. I said out loud I must flee. I sat up noiselessly in a useless

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perfection of silence as if Madden were already lying in wait for me. Something

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perhaps the mere vain ostentation of proving my resources were nil made me

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look through my pockets. I found what I knew. I found what I knew old fine. The

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American watch, the nickel chain, the square coin, the key ring with the

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incriminating useless keys to Rumberg's apartment, the notebook, a letter which

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I resolved to destroy immediately and which I did not destroy, a crown, two

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shillings, a few pence, and the red and blue pencil, the handkerchief, and finally

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the revolver with one bullet.

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absurdly I took it in my hand and weighed it in order to inspire courage

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within myself. Vaguely I thought that a pistol report can be heard at a

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great distance. In ten minutes my plan was perfected. The telephone book listed

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the name of the only person capable of transmitting the message. He lived in a

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suburb of Fenton less than half an hour away by train. I am a cowardly man. I say

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it now. Now that I have carried to its end a plan whose perilous nature no

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one can deny. I know his execution was terrible. I didn't do it for Germany, no.

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I care nothing for a barbarous country which imposed upon me the objection of

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being a spy. Besides, I know of a man from England, a modest man who for me is

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no less great than girth. I talked with him for scarcely an hour but during

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that hour he was girth. I did it because I sensed that the chief somehow feared

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people of my race for the innumerable ancestors who merged within me. I wanted

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to prove to him that a yellow man could save his armies. Besides, I had to flee

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from Captain Madden. His hands and his voice could call at my door at any

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moment. I dressed silently, made farewell to myself in the mirror, went

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downstairs, scrutinised the peaceful street and went out. The station was not

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far from my home but I judged it was wise to take a cab. I argued that in this

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way I ran less of a risk of being recognised. The fact is that in the

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deserted street I felt myself visible and vulnerable, infinitely so. I remember

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that I told the cab driver to stop a short distance before the main entrance.

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I got out with voluntary, almost painful slowness. I was going to the village

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of Ashgrove but I bought a ticket for a more distant station. The train left

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within a very few minutes. At 8.15pm I hurried. The next one would leave at 9.30pm.

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There was hardly a soul on the platform. I went through the cultures. I remember

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a few farmers, a woman dressed in mourning, a young boy who was reading

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with fervour the annals of Tacitus, a wounded and happy soldier. The

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cultures jumped forward at last. A man whom I recognised ran in vain to the

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end of the platform. It was Captain Richard Madden. Shattered, trembling,

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I shrank into the far corner of the seat, away from the dreaded window.

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From this broken state I passed into an almost abject felicity. I told

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myself that the duel had already begun and that I had won the first encounter

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by frustrating earings for 40 minutes, even if by a stroke of fate, the

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attack on my adversary. I argued that the slightest of victories foreshadowed

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a total victory. I argued no less feliciously that my cowardly

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felicity proved that I was a man capable of carrying out the

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adventure. Successfully, from this weakness I took strength that did not

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abandon me. I foreseen that man would resign himself each day to more

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atrocious undertakings. Soon there will be no one but warriors and

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brigands. I gave them this counsel. The author of an atrocious

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undertaking ought to imagine that he has already accomplished it, ought to

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impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past. Thus, I proceeded

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as my eyes of a man already dead registered the elapsing of that day,

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which was perhaps the last and the diffusion of the night. The train ran

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gently along amid ash trees. It stopped almost in the middle of the

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fields. No one announced the name of the station.

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Ashgrove, I asked a few lads on the platform.

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Ashgrove, they replied. I cut off. A lamp enlightened the platform, but

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the faces of the boys were in shadow. One questioned me,

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are you going to Dr. Stefan Albert's house? Without waiting for my

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answer, another said, the house is a long way from here, but you won't get

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lost if you take this road to the left and that every crossroad

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turned again to your left. I tossed them a coin. My last descended

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a few stone steps and started down the solitary road. It went

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downhill slowly. It was of elemental earth. Overhead, the branches

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were tangled. The low full moon seemed to accompany me. For an instant,

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I thought that Richard Madden in some way had penetrated my desperate plan.

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Very quickly though, I understood that was impossible. The instruction

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to turn always to the left reminded me that such was the common

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procedure for discovering the central points of certain labyrinths.

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I have some understanding of labyrinths. Not for nothing. I am the great

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grandson of that soy peng who was governor of Yunnan and who

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renounced worldly power in order to write a novel that might be

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even more popular than the Hongliu Men, which is the dreams of

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Red Chamber, which is one of the four classic Chinese fictional

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novels like Journey to the West, Water Margin, Outdoors of the

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Water Marsh, Hongliu Meng, who renounced worldly power in order to

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write a novel that might be even more popular than the Hongliu

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Meng and to construct a labyrinth in which all men would become

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lost. Thirteen years he dedicated to these heterogeneous tasks

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but the hand of a stranger murdered him and his novel was

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incoherent and no one found the labyrinth. Beneath English trees

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I meditated on that lost maze. I imagined it infinite and perfect

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at the secret crest of a mountain. I imagined it erased by rice fields

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or beneath the water. I imagined it infinite, no longer composed

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of octagonal kiosks and returning paths but of rivers and provinces

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and kingdoms. I thought of labyrinths, I thought of a labyrinth

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of labyrinths of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would

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encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the

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stars. Absorbed in these illusory images I forgot my destiny

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of one pursuit. I felt myself to be for an unknown period of time

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an abstract perceiver of the world. The vague living conscious side,

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the moon, the remains of the day worked on me as well as the

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slope of the road which eliminated any possibility of

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weariness. The afternoon was intimate, infinite. The road

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descended and forks among the now confused meadows. I high pitched

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almost syllabic music approached and receded in the shifting of

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the wind, dimmed by leaves and distance. I thought that a man

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can be an enemy of other men, of the moments of other men

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but not of a country, not of fireflies, words, gardens,

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streams of water, sunsets. Thus I arrived before a tall rusty gate

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between the iron bars and made out a popular grove and a pavilion.

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I understood suddenly two things, the first, trivial, the second

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almost unbelievable. The music came from the pavilion and the music

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was Chinese. I wait for you to return. For precisely that reason I

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had openly accepted it without paying it any heed. I do not

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remember whether there was a bell or whether I knocked with my

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hand the sparkling of the music continued. From the rear of the

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house within a lantern approached a lantern that the trees

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sometimes striped and sometimes eclipsed. A paper lantern that

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had the form of a drum and the colour of the moon. A tall man

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bore it. I didn't see his face, for the light blinded me. He

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opened the door and said slowly in my own language. I see that

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the Pai Sui Peng persists in correcting my solitude. You know

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that wish to see the garden? I recognised the name of our

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consoles and I replied, disconcerted. The garden, the garden

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of forking paths. Something stirred in my memory and I uttered

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with incomprehensible certainty the garden of my ancestor

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Sui Peng. Your ancestor, your illustrious ancestor, come in,

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come in. The damp paffet zigzagged like those of my

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childhood. We came to a library of eastern and western

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books. I recognised, bound in yellow silk, several volumes of

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the Lost Encyclopedia edited by the Third Emperor of the

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Luminous Dynasty, but never printed. I guess the Luminous

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Dynasty would be the Ming Dynasty. Ming means life in

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Chinese, so Luminous Ming Dynasty. Good Dynasty. The

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record on the photograph revolved next to our bronze

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phoenix. I also record a familiar rose vase and another

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many centuries older of that shade of blue, which our

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craftsmen copied from the Potters of Persia. Stephen

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Albert observed me with a smile. He was, as I have said,

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very tall, sharp, featured with grey eyes and a grey

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beard. He told me that he had been a missionary in Tianjin

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before aspiring to become a synologist. We sat down, I, on a

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long low divan, he, with his back to the window and a tall

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circular clock. I calculated that my pursuer Richard Madden

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could not arrive for at least an hour. My irrevocable

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determination could wait. An astounding fate that of

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Sui Peng, Stephen Albert said, governor of his native

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province, learned in astronomy, in astrology, and in the

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tireless interpretation of the canonical books, chess

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player, famous poet, and calligrapher. He abandoned

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all this in order to compose a book and amaze. He renounced

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the pleasures of both tyranny and justice, of his

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populous couch, of his banquets, and even of

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erudition, all to close himself up for thirteen years

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in the pavilion of the limpid solitude. When he

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died, his heirs found nothing save chaotic manual

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scripts. His family, as you may be aware, wished to be

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condemned. His family, as you may be aware, wished to

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condemn them to the fire. His executor, a Taoist or

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Buddhist monk, insisted on their publication.

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We descendants of Sui Peng, I replied, continued to

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curse that monk. Their publication was senseless. The

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book is an indeterminate heap of contradictory drafts.

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I examined it once. In the third chapter, the hero

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dies. In the fourth, he's alive. As for the other

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undertakings of Sui Peng, his labyrinth, here is

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Sui Peng's labyrinth, he said, indicating a tall

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lacquered desk. An ivory labyrinth, I exclaimed,

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a minimum labyrinth. A labyrinth of symbols, he

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corrected. An invisible labyrinth of time. To me, a

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barbarist Englishman has been entrusted the

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revelation of this diaphanous mystery. After more

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than a hundred years, the details are

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irretrievable, but it is not hard to conjecture

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what happened. Sui Peng must have said once,

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I am withdrawing to write a book. And another

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time, I am withdrawing to construct a labyrinth.

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Everyone imagined two works, but to no one did

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it occur that the book and the maze were one

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and the same thing. The pavilion of the

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Limpid Solitude stood in the centre of a garden

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that was perhaps intricate, that circumstance

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could have suggested to the heirs of a physical

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labyrinth. Sui Peng died. No one in the vast

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territories that were his came upon the

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labyrinth. The confusion of the novel

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suggested to me that it was the maze. Two

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circumstances gave me the correct solution

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of the problem. One, the curious legend

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that Sui Peng had planned to create a

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labyrinth, which would be strictly infinite.

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The other, a fragment of a letter I

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discovered. Albert Rose, he turned his back

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on me for a moment. He opened the drawer

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of the black and gold desk. He faced me

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and in his hands he held a sheet of paper

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that had once been crimson, but was now

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pink and tenuous and cross-section.

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The fame of Sui Peng as a calligrapher

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had been justly won. I read

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uncomprehendingly and would further these

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words written with a minute brush by a

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man of my blood. I leave to the various

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futures, not to all, my garden of

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forking paths. Wordlessly, I returned

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the sheet. Albert continued. Before

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unearthing this letter, I had questioned

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myself about the ways in which a book

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can be infinite. I could think of

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nothing more than a civic volume, a

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circular one, a book whose last page was

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identical with the first, a book which

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had the possibility of continuing

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indefinitely. I remember too that night

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which is at the middle of the thousand

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on one night when Scheherazade

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through a magical oversight of the

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copyist begins to relate word for word

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the story of the thousand on one

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nights, establishing the risk of coming

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once again to the night when she must

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repeat it, thus onto infinity. I

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imagined as well a platonic hereditary

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work transmitted from father to son

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in which each new individual adds a

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chapter or corrects with pious care

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the pages of his elders. These

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conjectures diverted me but none seem

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to correspond, not even remotely to the

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contradictory chapters of Sui Peng. In

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the midst of this perplexity I

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received from Oxford the manual

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scripts you have examined. I lingered

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naturally on the sentence, I leave to

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the various futures, not to all, my garden

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are forking paths. Almost

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instantly I understood the garden

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are forking paths was the chaotic

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novel, the phrase, the various futures

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not to all suggested to me the forking

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in time, not in space, a broad

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rereading of the work confirmed the

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theory. In all fictional works each

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time a man is confronted with several

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alternatives he chooses one and

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eliminates the others. In the fiction

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of Sui Peng he chooses simultaneously

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all of them. He creates in this way

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diverse futures, diverse times which

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themselves also proliferate and fork.

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Here then is the explanation of the

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novel's contradictions. Fang let

25:45.080 --> 25:48.420
us say has a secret, a stranger

25:48.420 --> 25:51.520
calls at his door. Fang resolves to

25:51.520 --> 25:54.720
kill him. Naturally there are several

25:54.720 --> 25:58.000
possible outcomes. Fang can kill the

25:58.000 --> 26:00.660
intruder, the intruder can kill Fang,

26:01.520 --> 26:03.940
they can both escape, they both can

26:03.940 --> 26:07.080
die and so forth. In the work of

26:07.080 --> 26:09.600
Sui Peng all possible outcomes occur

26:09.600 --> 26:12.620
each one is the point of departure

26:12.620 --> 26:16.440
for other forkings. Sometimes the

26:16.440 --> 26:19.420
paths of this labyrinth converge for

26:19.420 --> 26:22.160
example you arrive at this house but in

26:22.160 --> 26:23.980
one of the possible paths you are my

26:23.980 --> 26:29.000
enemy in another my friend. If you

26:29.000 --> 26:30.660
would resign yourself to my incurable

26:31.380 --> 26:33.960
pronunciations we shall read a few

26:33.960 --> 27:01.060
pages. His face within the vivid

27:01.060 --> 27:03.620
circle of the lamp light was

27:03.620 --> 27:06.140
unquestionably that of an old man

27:06.140 --> 27:10.320
or with something unalterable about it

27:10.320 --> 27:14.320
even immortal. He read with slow

27:14.320 --> 27:17.100
precision two versions of the same epic

27:17.100 --> 27:21.480
chapter. In the first an army marches

27:21.480 --> 27:23.360
to a battle across a lonely mountain.

27:24.260 --> 27:26.200
The horror of the rocks and the

27:26.200 --> 27:28.140
shadows make the men undervalue their

27:28.140 --> 27:30.740
lives and they gain an easy victory.

27:32.080 --> 27:35.300
In the second the same army traverses

27:35.300 --> 27:37.740
a palace where a great festival is

27:37.740 --> 27:41.880
taking place. The resplendent battle

27:41.880 --> 27:44.280
seems to them a continuation of the

27:44.280 --> 27:48.900
celebration and they win the victory. I

27:48.900 --> 27:50.860
listened with proper veneration to these

27:50.860 --> 27:53.420
ancient narratives perhaps less

27:53.980 --> 27:56.300
admirable in themselves than the fact

27:56.300 --> 27:57.680
that they have been created by my

27:57.680 --> 27:59.880
blood and were being restored to me

27:59.880 --> 28:02.300
by a man of remote empire in the

28:02.300 --> 28:04.720
course of a desperate adventure on the

28:04.720 --> 28:08.800
western Isle. I remember the last words

28:08.800 --> 28:11.200
repeated in each version like a secret

28:11.200 --> 28:14.480
commandment. Thus fought the heroes

28:14.480 --> 28:17.040
tranquil in their admirable hearts

28:17.040 --> 28:20.800
violent in their swords resigned to

28:20.800 --> 28:26.120
kill and to die. From that moment

28:26.120 --> 28:28.980
on I felt about me within my dark body

28:28.980 --> 28:32.000
an invisible intangible swarming

28:32.000 --> 28:35.440
not the swarming of the divergent

28:35.440 --> 28:38.180
parallel and finally coalescent armies

28:38.180 --> 28:41.500
but a more inaccessible more intimate

28:41.500 --> 28:44.840
agitation that they in some manner

28:44.840 --> 28:48.340
prefigured. Stephen Albert continued

28:49.000 --> 28:51.300
I don't believe that your illustrious

28:51.300 --> 28:53.520
ancestor played idly with these

28:53.520 --> 28:56.780
variations. I don't consider it

28:56.780 --> 28:58.040
credible that he would sacrifice

28:58.040 --> 29:00.320
13 years to the infinite execution

29:00.320 --> 29:03.680
of a rhetorical experiment. In your

29:03.680 --> 29:06.900
country the novel is a subsidiary form

29:06.900 --> 29:10.180
of literature. In Sui Peng's time

29:10.180 --> 29:14.440
it was a despicable form. Sui Peng was

29:14.940 --> 29:17.680
a brilliant novelist but he was also

29:17.680 --> 29:20.220
a man of letters who doubtless did not

29:20.220 --> 29:23.460
consider himself a mere novelist. The

29:23.840 --> 29:25.480
testimony of his contemporaries

29:25.480 --> 29:28.060
proclaimed and his life fully

29:28.060 --> 29:30.900
confirms his metaphysical and mystical

29:30.900 --> 29:34.340
interests. Philosophic controversies

29:34.720 --> 29:38.380
usurped a good part of the novel. I know

29:38.380 --> 29:41.280
that of all problems none disturbed

29:41.280 --> 29:44.040
him more so greatly nor worked upon him

29:44.040 --> 29:46.960
so much as the abysmal problem of time.

29:48.380 --> 29:51.280
Now then the latter is the only problem

29:51.280 --> 29:53.100
that does not come does not figure in

29:53.100 --> 29:55.940
the pages of the garden. It does not

29:55.940 --> 29:58.280
even use the word that signifies time.

29:59.360 --> 30:01.240
How do you explain this voluntary

30:01.240 --> 30:04.960
omission? I propose several solutions

30:04.960 --> 30:08.680
or unsatisfactory. We discuss them

30:09.640 --> 30:13.860
finally. Stephen Albert certainly. In

30:13.860 --> 30:15.820
the riddle whose answer is chess

30:15.820 --> 30:18.500
what is the only prohibited word?

30:22.360 --> 30:25.040
I thought for a moment and replied

30:26.000 --> 30:32.440
the word chess. Precisely said Albert

30:32.440 --> 30:36.120
the garden of forking paths is an

30:36.120 --> 30:39.480
enormous riddle or parable whose theme is

30:39.480 --> 30:43.360
time. This recondite cause prohibits

30:43.360 --> 30:47.080
its mention to omit a word always

30:47.080 --> 30:52.540
resort to omit a word always to

30:52.540 --> 30:54.980
resort to inept metaphors and obvious

30:54.980 --> 30:57.540
paraphrases is perhaps the most

30:57.540 --> 31:01.900
emphatic way of stressing it. That is

31:01.900 --> 31:05.540
the torturous method preferred in each

31:05.540 --> 31:08.220
of the meanderings of his indefatigable

31:08.220 --> 31:13.200
novel by the oblique Soy Peng. I have

31:13.200 --> 31:16.100
compared hundreds of manuscripts. I

31:16.100 --> 31:17.900
have corrected the errors that the

31:17.900 --> 31:19.980
negligence of the copyists had

31:19.980 --> 31:23.020
introduced. I have guessed the plan of

31:23.020 --> 31:26.300
this chaos. I have reestablished. I

31:26.580 --> 31:28.540
believe that I have reestablished the

31:28.540 --> 31:31.900
primordial organization. I have

31:31.900 --> 31:35.440
translated the entire work. It is

31:35.440 --> 31:37.900
clear to me that not once does he

31:37.900 --> 31:41.300
employ the word time. The explanation

31:41.300 --> 31:44.420
is obvious. The garden of forking

31:44.420 --> 31:47.920
path is an incomplete but not false

31:47.920 --> 31:50.960
image of the universe as Soy Peng

31:50.960 --> 31:53.960
conceived it. In contrast to Newton

31:53.960 --> 31:56.440
and Schopenhauer your ancestor did not

31:56.440 --> 32:00.440
believe in a uniform absolute time. He

32:00.440 --> 32:03.220
believed in an infinite series of times

32:03.220 --> 32:06.340
in a growing dizzy net of divergent

32:06.340 --> 32:10.220
convergent and parallel times. This

32:10.220 --> 32:12.160
network of times which approached

32:12.500 --> 32:16.800
one another forked broke off or were

32:16.800 --> 32:18.700
unaware of one another for centuries

32:18.700 --> 32:23.780
embraces all possibilities of time. We

32:23.780 --> 32:26.060
do not exist in the majority of these

32:26.060 --> 32:30.360
times. In some you exist and I not.

32:31.300 --> 32:35.800
In others I and not you. In others

32:35.800 --> 32:38.840
both of us. In the present one which

32:38.840 --> 32:41.640
is a favorable fate has granted me

32:41.640 --> 32:45.000
you have arrived at my house. In

32:45.000 --> 32:46.960
another while crossing the garden you

32:46.960 --> 32:50.140
found me dead. In still another I are to

32:50.140 --> 32:52.700
these same words but I am a mistake

32:53.380 --> 32:59.160
a ghost. In everyone I pronounced not

32:59.160 --> 33:02.280
without a tremble to my voice. I am

33:02.280 --> 33:04.560
grateful to you and reveal you for

33:04.560 --> 33:06.320
your recreation of the garden of

33:06.320 --> 33:10.340
Soy Peng. Not in all as you remember

33:10.340 --> 33:14.140
with a smile. Time forks perpetually

33:14.140 --> 33:18.240
forward in new time forks perpetually

33:18.240 --> 33:22.180
towards innumerable futures and in one

33:22.180 --> 33:33.490
of them I am your enemy. Once again I

33:33.490 --> 33:36.530
felt the swarming sensation of which

33:36.530 --> 33:39.870
I have spoken. It seemed to me that the

33:39.870 --> 33:41.950
humid garden that surrounded the house

33:41.950 --> 33:44.390
was infinitely saturated with

33:44.390 --> 33:47.950
invisible persons. Those persons were

33:47.950 --> 33:53.190
Albert and I. Secret, busy and

33:53.190 --> 33:57.290
multi-form in other dimensions of time. I

33:57.290 --> 34:00.250
raised my eyes and the tenuous

34:00.250 --> 34:03.610
nightmare dissolved. In the yellow and

34:03.610 --> 34:05.990
black garden there was only one man but

34:06.850 --> 34:10.810
this man was as strong as a statue. This

34:10.810 --> 34:12.870
man was approaching along the path

34:13.610 --> 34:15.930
and he was Captain Richard Madden.

34:18.090 --> 34:21.930
The future already exists I replied but

34:22.470 --> 34:26.110
I am your friend. Could I see this

34:26.110 --> 34:31.030
letter again? Albert rose standing

34:31.030 --> 34:32.890
tall. He opened the drawer of the

34:32.890 --> 34:36.750
tall desk. For a moment his back was

34:36.750 --> 34:42.070
to me. I had read the revolver. I

34:42.070 --> 34:47.050
fired with extreme caution. Albert fell

34:48.250 --> 34:52.850
uncomplainly immediately. I swear his

34:52.850 --> 34:55.250
death was instantaneous. A lightning

34:55.250 --> 35:00.310
stroke. The rest is unreal,

35:00.770 --> 35:04.190
insignificant. Madden broke in,

35:05.010 --> 35:08.030
arrested me. I had been condemned to

35:08.030 --> 35:10.730
the gallows. I have won out

35:10.730 --> 35:14.130
abominably. I have communicated to

35:14.130 --> 35:16.010
Berlin the secret name of the city

35:16.010 --> 35:18.710
they must attack. They bombed it

35:18.710 --> 35:21.550
yesterday. I read it in the same

35:21.550 --> 35:23.710
papers that offered to England the

35:23.710 --> 35:26.050
mystery of the learned synologist

35:26.050 --> 35:28.990
Stefan Albert who was murdered by a

35:28.990 --> 35:33.450
stranger, one named Yu Sun. The chief

35:33.450 --> 35:36.350
had deciphered this mystery. He knew

35:36.350 --> 35:38.970
my problem was to indicate through

35:38.970 --> 35:41.130
the uproar of the wall. The city

35:41.130 --> 35:44.030
called Albert and that I had found no

35:44.030 --> 35:46.070
other means to do so than to kill a man

35:46.070 --> 35:51.430
of that name. He does not know. No one

35:51.430 --> 35:53.590
can know. My innumerable

35:55.570 --> 36:05.160
contrition and weariness. Some of

36:05.160 --> 36:06.220
these words are hard to pronounce.

36:07.480 --> 36:10.520
As I said English is not my first

36:10.520 --> 36:13.680
language. Hope you enjoy.

