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Everything (he kept saying) is something it isn't. And everybody isalways somewhere else. Maybe it was the city, being in the city,that made him feel how queer everything was and that it wassomething else. Maybe (he kept thinking) it was the names of thethings. The names were tex and frequently koid. Or they were flexand oid or they were duroid (sand) or flexsan (duro), buteverything was glass (but not quite glass) and the thing that youtouched (the surface, washable, crease-resistant) was rubber, onlyit wasn't quite rubber and you didn't quite touch it but almost.The wall, which was glass but turned out on being approached notto be a wall, it was something else, it was an opening ordoorway--and the doorway (through which he saw himself approaching)turned out to be something else, it was a wall. And what he hadeaten not having agreed with him.

He was in a washable house, but he wasn't sure. Now about thoserats, he kept saying to himself. He meant the rats that theProfessor had driven crazy by forcing them to deal with problemswhich were beyond the scope of rats, the insoluble problems. Hemeant the rats that had been trained to jump at the square cardwith the circle in the middle, and the card (because it wassomething it wasn't) would give way and let the rat into a placewhere the food was, but then one day it would be a trick played onthe rat, and the card would be changed, and the rat would jump butthe card wouldn't give way, and it was an impossible situation (fora rat) and the rat would go insane and into its eyes would come theunspeakably bright imploring look of the frustrated, and after theconvulsions were over and the frantic racing around, then thepassive stage would set in and the willingness to let anything bedone to it, even if it was something else.

He didn't know which door (or wall) or opening in the house to jumpat, to get through, because one was an opening that wasn't a door(it was a void, or kid) and the other was a wall that wasn't anopening, it was a sanitary cupboard of the same color. He caught aglimpse of his eyes staring into his eyes, in the and in them wasthe expression he had seen in the picture of the rats--weary afterconvulsions and the frantic racing around, when they were willingand did not mind having

anything done to them. More and more (he kept saying) I amconfronted by a problem which is incapable of solution (for thistime even if he chose the right door, there would be no foodbehind it) and that is what madness is, and things seemingdifferent from what they are. He heard, in the house where he was,in the city to which he had gone (as toward a door which might, ormight not, give way), a noise--not a loud noise but more of a low prefabricated humming. It came from a place in the base of the wall(or stat) where the flue carrying the filterable air was, and notfar from the Minipiano, which was made of the same materialnailbrushes are made of, and which was under the stairs. "This,too, has been tested," she said, pointing, but not at it, "andfound viable." It wasn't a loud noise, he kept thinking, sorrythat he had seen his eyes, even though it was through his own eyesthat he had seen them.

First will come the convulsions (he said), then the exhaustion,then the willingness to let anything be done. '`And you betterbelieve it will be."

All his life he had been confronted by situations which wereincapable of being solved, and there was a deliberateness behindall this, behind this changing of the card (or door), because theywould always wait until you had learned to jump at the certaincard (or door)--the one with the circle--and then they wouldchange it on you. There have been so many doors changed on me, hesaid, in the last twenty years, but it is now becoming clear thatit is an impossible situation, and the question is whether to jumpagain, even though they ruffle you in the rump with a blast ofair--to make you jump. He wished he wasn't standing by theMinipiano. First they would teach you the prayers and the Psalms,and that would be the right door(the one with the circle) and thelong sweet words with the holy sound, and that would be the one tojump at to get where the food was. Then one day you jumped and it didn't give way, so that all you got was the bump on the nose, andthe first bewilderment, the first young bewilderment.

I don't know whether to tell her about the door they substituted ornot, he said, the one with the equation on it and the picture ofthe amoeba reproducing itself by division. Or the one with thephotostatic copy of the check for thirty-two dollars and fiftycents. But the jumping was so long ago, although the bump is . .. how those old wounds hurt! Being crazy this way wouldn't be sobad if only, if only. If only when you put your foot forward totake a step, the ground wouldn't come up to meet your foot the wayit does. And the same way in the street (only I may never get backto the street unless I jump at the right door), the curb coming upto meet your foot, anticipating ever so delicately the weight ofthe body, which is somewhere else. "We could take your name," shesaid, "and send it to you." And it wouldn't be so bad if only youcould read a sentence all the way through without jumping (youreye) to something else on the same page; and then (he keptthinking) there was that man out in Jersey, the one who started tochop his trees down, one by one, the man who began talking abouthow he would take his house to pieces, brick by brick, because hefaced a problem incapable of solution, probably, so he began tohack at the trees in the yard, began to pluck with tremblingfingers at the bricks in the house. Even if a house is not washable, it is worth taking down. It is not till later that theexhaustion sets in.

But it is inevitable that they will keep changing the doors on you,he said, because that is what they are for; and the thing is toget used to it and not let it unsettle the mind. But that wouldmean not jumping, and you can't. Nobody can not jump. There willbe no not-jumping. Among rats, perhaps, but among people never.Everybody has to keep jumping at a door (the one with the circleon it) because that is the way everybody is, especially some people. You wouldn't want me, standing here, to tell you, wouldyou, about my friend the poet (deceased) who said, "My heart hasfollowed all my days something I cannot name"? (It had the circleon it.) And like many poets, although few so beloved, he is gone.It killed him, the jumping. First, of course, there were thepreliminary bouts, the convulsions, and the calm and thewillingness.

I remember the door with the picture of the girl on it (only it wasspring), her arms outstretched in loveliness, her dress (it wasthe one with the circle on it) uncaught, beginning the slow,clear, blinding cascade-and I guess we would all like to try thatdoor again, for it seemed like the way and for a while it was theway, the door would open and you would go through winged andexalted (like any rat) and the food would be there, the way the Professor had it arranged, everything O.K., and you had chosen theright door for the world was young. The time they changed thatdoor on me, my nose bled for a hundred hours--how do you likethat, Madam? Or would you prefer to show me further through thisso strange house, or you could take my name and send it to me, foralthough my heart has followed all my days something I cannotname, I am tired of the jumping and I do not know which way to go,Madam, and I am not even sure that I am not tired beyond the endurance of man (rat, if you will) and have taken leave of sanity.What are you following these days, old friend, after your recoveryfrom the last bump? What is the name, or is it something youcannot name? The rats have a name for it by this time, perhaps,but I don't know what they call it. I call it and it comes insheets, something like insulating board, unattainable and ugli-proof.

And there was the man out in Jersey, because I keep thinking abouthis terrible necessity and the passion and trouble he had gone toall those years in the indescribable abundance of a householder'sdetail, building the estate and the planting of the trees and inspring the lawn-dressing and in fall the bulbs for the springburgeoning, and the watering of the

grass on the long light evenings in summer and the gravel for thedriveway (all had to be thought out, planned) and the decorativeborders, probably, the perennials and the bug spray, and thebuilding of the house from plans of the architect, first the sills,then the studs, then the full corn in the ear, the floors laid onthe floor timbers, smoothed, and then the carpets upon the smoothfloors and the curtains and the rods therefor. And then, almostwithout warning, he would be jumping at the same old door and itwouldn't give: they had changed it on him, making life no longersupportable under the elms in the elm shade, under the maples inthe maple shade.

"Here you have the maximum of openness in a small room."

It was impossible to say (maybe it was the city) what made him feelthe way he did, and I am not the only one either, he keptthinking--ask any doctor if I am. The doctors, they know how manythere are, they even know where the trouble is only they don't liketo tell you about the prefrontal lobe because that means making ahole in your skull and removing the work of centuries. It took solong coming, this lobe, so many, many years. (Is it something youread in the paper, perhaps?) And now, the strain being so great,the door having been changed by the Professor once too often . . .but it only means a whiff of ether, a few deft strokes, and thehigher animal becomes a little easier in his mind and more like thelower one. From now on, you see, that's the way it will be, theones with the small prefrontal lobes will win because the otherones are hurt too much by this incessant bumping. They can standjust so much, em, Doctor? (And what is that, pray, that you have inyour hand?) Still, you never can tell, em, Madam?

He crossed (carefully) the room, the thick carpet under him softly,and went toward the door carefully, which was glass and he couldsee himself in it, and which, at his approach, opened to allow himto pass through; and beyond he half expected to find one of the olddoors that he had known, perhaps the one with the circle, the onewith the girl her arms outstretched in loveliness and beauty beforehim. But he saw instead a moving stairway, and descended in light(he kept thinking) to the street below and to the other people. Ashe stepped off, the ground came up slightly, to meet his foot.