(not to say morbidity), events can no longer succeed each other: whatever
happens, while it may happen in connection with some other perfectly
distinct happenings, does not happen in a scale of temporal
priorities--each happening is self-sufficient, irrespective of minutes,
months and the other treasures of freedom.

It is for this reason that I do not purpose to inflict upon the reader a
diary of my alternative aliveness and non-existence at La Ferte--not
because such a diary would unutterably bore him, but because the diary or
time method is a technique which cannot possibly do justice to
timelessness. I shall (on the contrary) lift from their grey box at
random certain (to me) more or less astonishing toys; which may or may
not please the reader, but whose colours and shapes and textures are a
part of that actual Present--without future and past--whereof they alone
are cognizant who--so to speak--have submitted to an amputation of the
world.

I have already stated that La Ferte was a Porte de Triage--that is to
say, a place where suspects of all varieties were herded by _le
gouvernement francais_ preparatory to their being judged as to their
guilt by a Commission. If the Commission found that they were wicked
persons or dangerous persons, or undesirable persons, or puzzling
persons, or persons in some way insusceptible of analysis, they were sent
from La Ferte to a "regular" prison, called Precigne, in the province of
Sarthe. About Precigne the most awful rumors were spread. It was
whispered that it had a huge moat about it, with an infinity of barbed
wire fences thirty-feet high, and lights trained on the walls all night
to discourage the escape of prisoners. Once in Precigne you were "in" for
good and all, _pour la duree de la guerre_, which _duree_ was a subject
of occasional and dismal speculation--occasional for reasons, as I have