When I’d inspected everything, I sat down on one of the chairs, and then in an armchair. I began to laugh. It had taken more than two hours for my amazement and emotion to turn to joy.

There was so much to investigate and taking it all in was so thrilling that I hadn’t yet realised that one of the ornaments on the wall was a shelf laden with books. My head started spinning again, and I stood staring across the room at them for ages. I had read and reread my gardening manual and knew it by heart. I could feel my eyes widening before this gift, and, to get over the shock, I began to count: there were nineteen books, eight of which were very fat, about three fingers wide. I went over to them: their titles were printed on the spines. At first, I was so intimidated that I tried to decipher them from a distance and thought I’d forgotten how to read. I raised my hand and took one—it felt surprisingly heavy—then I sat down and stood it up on its edge. On it was written: Elementary Treatise on Astronautics. I opened it. The pages were full of words and strange signs among which I recognised the few symbols that Anthea had taught me: plus, minus, multiply by, divide by and equals. I think it was only fatigue that made me wise enough not to go any further that evening. Afterwards, I discovered that some of the others were more in-depth studies on the same subject. I have read them all, every single word. I didn’t understand a thing.

Do I understand Shakespeare’s plays any better, or the story of Don Quixote de la Mancha, or what is going on in Dostoevsky’s novels? I think not. They all speak of experiences that I have not known. I think I do better with objects—it took me hours to work out how to use a corkscrew and open a bottle of wine, but I managed it. Feelings remain a mystery to me, perhaps because the sensations associated with them are foreign to me, or because they repel me as did physical contact, which seems to be so important in love. Whenever I think of Anthea’s death and the effort it took to hold her in my arms, tears come into my eyes. I try to imagine myself being warm: there’s always a point when the whip cracks. A lot of things the women used to tell me about still puzzle me: I know that there used to be such a thing as money, that everything had to be bought and that they always found it strange to go and stock up from the cold stores without having to pay anyone, but it all remained rather abstract and I can’t really understand why people kill for money like poor old Raskolnikov. True, I have killed, but I did so to relieve my companions’ suffering, and I always had the impression that they were grateful to me. But perhaps I shouldn’t be so certain: my ignorance of human feelings is so vast that they might have hated me without my being aware of it. Nor do I understand why it is humiliating to wear second-hand clothing—I have rarely worn anything else! I loved Rose’s songs and I expect I’d have appreciated music more than literature. If there are recordings in this place and the equipment to play them, I haven’t identified them.