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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 08 | volume II | April-May, 1999



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 08April-May, 1999
Prose

The Typewriter

/9
p. 1
Bogomil Gjuzel

    “Take one of the typewriters,” they told him. “Nobody minds if you borrow one for a couple of days. After all, if you already knew in your mind what you want to say, then you just have to sit down at the typewriter and knock it off. Come on! Courage, man! You've got it all straightened out upstairs, haven't you? Well then, the rest is a pushover.”
    He spent a long time going from one office to another in search of a suitable typewriter, but none of them was to his liking. They were either too cumbersome, or too heavy to the touch, or of an appearance he was sure would never harmonize with his personality. At all events, not one of these typewriters suited him, not one of them was appropriate to the quality of the ideas which were to be typed upon it. He was aware that the choice of typewriter might turn out to be of vital importance from the very moment he began to type; every part of the machine with which he failed to familiarize himself beforehand might easily spring a surprise on him when he began typing, and this might stop the movement of the words that darted through his mind with the speed of meteors, bearing the ideas he was about to set down.
    This did not mean that the concept, the idea he wished to set down on paper, was weak simply because it was weak simply because it was liable to vanish at the slightest shock; far from it. For some time now this idea had been growing inside him with undiminishing vigor; he had felt it rising within him like an unborn child inside its mother's womb. There were moments when it would overwhelm him completely, breaking out in every word, in every look, in every movement of his hands. At such times he was unable to keep his hands still, and would nervously fumble with the buttons on his coat or thrust his hands in and out of his pockets. When these fits of nervousness overtook him, he would sometimes be driven to ask his hands, “Where, for Heaven's sake, where d'you want to go?” Even when he was not doing anything with his hands, that is, when he was not buttoning and unbuttoning his coat or thrusting them in his pockets, he would gaze at them; his fingers would be






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