At this time, Nagel was at the height of his fame, and, with the nasty alertness of a rival secretly arming himself, I studied his lean style, which was itself learned from Hemingway. Next to it, anything I wrote seemed like Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia next to a utilitarian building by Adolf Loos. I was green with envy. I would tell myself, every morning, noon, and evening, “Save! Pinch! Scrape! Be picky, like an old maid. From all you’ve imagined, envisioned, the same as from all you’ve lived, experienced, select only what contains and renders the essential. Nothing superfluous! A book is a masterpiece if it contains not one syllable more than its table of contents!” However, I probably had a different notion of the contents of a book than did Nagel. Which was what I told Schwab. I said, “One has to make up one’s mind; you too have to make up your mind, dammit; after all, you too are thinking about writing a book. Don’t deny it! I planted the idea in you, just as you planted the idea in me: like a parasitic ichneumon wasp’s egg that hatches and eats up its host. Well, stick to business. No more excuses. Don’t be an alarmist—especially with yourself. Even if you tell yourself that everything around us is totally chaotic and that chaos can’t be turned into form, your heart is still tormented by a nagging feeling: the feeling that it would be your human duty to arrange chaos in your way. Didn’t the notes of a flute build the walls of Thebes? Or was it singing? Words? . . . My cousin Wolfgang would know. He was a humanist like yourself—and you don’t remember? Regrettable, but of no importance, for the moment. What I want to say is that even if your pride commands you to claim that only silence is possible against the wealth of absurdity around us, your noble insatiability will demand that you find the word to name such a stance. It will force you to do so—the IT that also urges Nagel to express himself. Even though his banalities, puffed up as literature, do not quite express what it urges him toward. Do not try to hide how greatly it urges you, dear friend; one can tell by the tip of your nose. Of course, not to tell some trivial story artistically, as Nagel does, but to create a reality out of existence, a reality reflecting the reality we live in and through—to a frightening degree—that’s what it urges you to. You do understand me, don’t you, as a humanist? Perseus had to look at a reflection of the Gorgon in order to slice off her head; the direct sight of her would have turned him to stone . . . and isn’t it wonderful that Pegasus sprang forth from her dripping blood? Climb on, friend! Undaunted! Do tricks on horseback! You are of the fearless breed who never hesitate to keep their eyes open. Staring into nothingness, like my aunt Selma. You are not of the bluffers and barkers who lull us to sleep with fairy tales, as nannies do to little tots. And do not be discouraged if you can wrest the word from yourself only in tortured efforts: your stammering will be all the more poignant . . .”