That was probably the right word. And there was also something indecent in the impression of dislocation that his body produced. In a sense it only appeared to collect in his hands, and it seemed to radiate from them like the presentiment of a touch, which sent a twinge of nausea over Törless’s skin. He himself was amazed by this idea, and a little shocked. Because this was the second time that day that something sexual had forced its way, unsuspected and without any real relevance, between his thoughts.

Beineberg had picked up a newspaper, and Törless was now able to take a good look at him.

In fact he could hardly find anything that might have served even partly as an excuse for the sudden appearance of such a stream of thoughts.

And yet his discomfort, unfounded though it was, became increasingly vivid. Not ten minutes of silence had passed between the two of them, and yet Törless felt that his disgust had already intensified to an extreme. It seemed for the first time to express an underlying mood, an underlying relationship between himself and Beineberg; a suspicion which had always been present, lying in wait, seemed all of a sudden to have risen to the surface and become a conscious sensation.

The situation between them became ever more intense. Insults for which he knew no words sprang into Törless’s mind. He was unsettled by a kind of shame, as though something had actually happened between him and Beineberg. His fingers began to drum uneasily on the tabletop.

 

Finally, to rid himself of that strange state of mind, he looked out of the window again.

Now Beineberg looked up from the newspaper; then he read out some passage or other, set the paper aside and yawned.

Once the silence was broken, the compulsion that had been weighing upon Törless was broken as well. Now casual words swept that moment away and erased it. It had been a sudden moment of alertness, which now made way for the old indifference ...

‘How much time do we have left?’ asked Törless.

‘Two and a half hours.’

Then, with a shiver, he hunched his shoulders. Once again he felt the paralysing force of the confinement that awaited him. The timetable, daily association with his friends. Even that disgust for Beineberg, which seemed for a moment to have created a new situation, would cease to be.

‘... What’s for dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What subjects do we have tomorrow?’

‘Maths.’

‘Oh? Did we have any homework?’

‘Yes, a few new theorems in trigonometry; but you’ll manage, they’re nothing special.’

‘And then?’

‘Divinity.’

‘Divinity? Oh yes. That’s going to be interesting again ... When I get into my stride I think I could just as easily prove that twice two is five as that there can be only one God ...’

Beineberg looked mockingly up at Törless. ‘You’re really funny about that; it almost seems to me that it even gives you pleasure. Anyway, there’s a flash of eagerness shining in your eyes -’

‘Why not? Isn’t it great? There always comes a point where you don’t know whether you’re lying, or whether what you’ve invented is more truthful than you are yourself.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, I don’t really mean it literally. Of course you always know when you’re fibbing; but at the same time what you’re saying strikes you as so believable that in a sense you’re standing still, imprisoned by your own thoughts.’

‘Yes, but what is it that gives you pleasure?’

‘Just this. Something like a jolt runs through your head, dizziness, shock — ’

‘Oh come on, that’s so much nonsense.’

‘I didn’t say it wasn’t. But for me at least it’s the most interesting thing in the whole school.’

‘It’s like a way of doing gymnastics with your brain; but there’s no real point to it.’

‘No,’ said Törless, and looked back out into the garden. Behind him - in the distance - he heard the gas flames humming. He pursued a feeling that was rising up in him, mournfully, like a mist.

‘There’s no point to it. You’re right. But you shouldn’t say that. All the things we do all day long in school — what of any of it has a point? What do we get from any of it? I mean, anything for ourselves - do you see what I mean? In the evening you know you’ve been through another day, that you’ve learned so and so much, you’ve fulfilled your timetable, but you’ve remained empty — inside, I mean, you have what you might call an inner hunger ...’

Beineberg growled something about exercise, preparing one’s mind — can’t do much about it yet - later ...

‘Preparing? Exercise? What for? Do you know something special? Perhaps you’re hoping for something, it’s very vague to you as well. This is what it’s like: waiting eternally for something and the only thing you know about it is that you’re waiting for it ... That’s so boring ...’

‘Boring...’ Beineberg drawled in imitation, and swayed his head from side to side.

Törless was still looking into the garden.