And left again. And with every regime came cannons and stamping devices.

That’s when it happened, on the eve of another regime change, as I was sifting through a heap of old and new “identity cards,” I noticed that something was missing: my identity.

Of the cards there were quantities. But my identity had disappeared. Not a copy anywhere. I must have overlooked it: That was my first thought.

But after sorting through all that stamporated junk a second time, paper by paper, I still could not find my “identity.” I had expected this. The more they made certain of my identity, the less certain I became of it myself: My old half-forgotten illness, psychorrhea, jogged by the blows of the stamping devices, was returning. The more often the ragged Remington lines assured me with a number, ornate signatures, and a seal that I really was so-and-so, the more suspicious I became of my “reality,” the more keenly I sensed in myself both this person and that. Little by little I developed a passion, a craving for more and more stamporated forms. But no matter how many I amassed, I still felt uncertain. The nearly staunched process had recommenced; the caverns in my “I” had again begun to yawn. With each new stamp my sense of myself grew weaker. I—and I—half I—barely I—slightly I: it was melting away.

The feeling experienced by me then, poring over that pile of my stamporated names, was not one of despair or grief. Rather it was a sort of bitter joy. “Here lies,” the thought occurred, “my cold and dead name. It was alive. But now, lo and behold, it is riddled with stamp holes. So be it.”

As you, the person in room 24, can see, your predecessor has nothing against a good joke. Even the thought of my impending manipulation of hook and noose cannot keep me from smiling. Yes, I’m smiling and, who knows, perhaps not for the last time. But this is only a sketch: from—to. The material about the war will, of course, require a more detailed and serious exposition. I’ll begin:

One July night in 1914 I was working on an article about “The Axiomatism Crisis” when I suddenly heard a clattering of carts. Our side street, as you’ll soon see, is quiet and deserted. The sound bothered me: I put my manuscript aside, preferring to wait out the noise. But it would not cease. A train of empty wagons, wheels banging against the cobbles, was rattling past below and preventing the silence from closing in. My nerves were slightly ajangle from writing. I didn’t want to sleep. But I couldn’t work. I put on my coat and went out.