to go, and several neighbours came out on to their doorsteps to watch us limp by, but no one came down to give a helping hand, and if someone had, I would have struck that hand. Right off.
BEHIND THE MILL ⋅ 1966
‘ DO YOU THINK it’s true what they say about the cogwheel and your conscience.’
‘No, what.’
‘Well, that your conscience is like a cogwheel, or even like a circular saw, whirring round, and its sharp teeth are biting into your soul, hurting like hell and each time you do something really bad your blood is spurting, but then you do more and more bad things and the teeth are ground down and your soul becomes all calloused and then you don’t feel anything when the wheel goes round and then that’s who you are.’
‘Who.’
The one who does terrible things and doesn’t even notice.’
‘Are you talking about what you did to your dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you must notice when you do something that’s really bad.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I noticed a little when it happenend, but I don’t now. I don’t feel what I did was terrible. It doesn’t hurt anywhere, except in my eye and rib and
he
did that to me.’
‘Perhaps you’ll feel it in time.’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe I don’t have a soul.’
‘Sure you do. But then what you did wasn’t terrible. It was something you had to do. I know you.’
‘Do you think so.’
‘Sure I do. I am the most Christian of us, so I must know.’
‘I did what it says you’re supposed to do in the Bible. I turned the other cheek. Ha ha. It’s true.’
‘You did. Turn your head. Ah, that looks bad.’
‘It’s started to heal. I can touch it now.’
‘That’s fine. It didn’t do you much good, then, turning the other cheek, and there wasn’t anything you could have done than what you did.’
‘I don’t think Jesus would have done what I did.’
‘Take it easy. You’re not Jesus.’
‘No, sure I’m not. I’m not Jesus. That would have been something, right. Jesus of Mørk. Ha ha.’
JIM ⋅ TOMMY ⋅ 1966
THEY STOOD UP, brushed the soil off the back of their trousers and set off walking around the mill, which smelt of fodder and dust and something else that only mills smell of, malt perhaps, something to do with beer, and they went along the river towards the waterfall which in the olden days drove the millstones against each other and ground the wheat to flour, but today the water fell metre upon metre without rhyme or reason, the boss of the mill said. He saw only the use in everything, saw what everything could be used for, what could earn money, and the moon shining on fresh snow and the blue anemones on the hillsides and the bluebells in the meadows and the wind over the seas and the wind through the rye and the red ridges in the autumn and the birds that travelled here and left again, yes, everything that came here and left, none of this held any meaning for him, it couldn’t be added up, it couldn’t be multiplied, and a waterfall that only fell, it fell into nothing and that was a view that was shared by many. But a child could feel all of this on the palms of its hands, on its hips and legs and could be a blind child and still see it.
At the top, near the dam, the bikes were leaned against the railings and they stood by the bikes and leaned against the railing and looked down into the waterfall, and Tommy ran his fingers carefully over the eyebrow and the long gash along it, and over the scabs on his cheek and said, sometimes you feel like jumping, don’t you, just jumping over and sailing out like a bird. I know, Jim said, just climb up on to the railings and dive. My mother says it isn’t dangerous to jump off and fly, you can jump off a skyscraper if you like, and it isn’t dangerous. It’s the landing that’s a problem. I’ve heard that one before, Tommy said. I know, Jim said. Everyone’s heard it.
They mounted their bikes and pedalled round the bends along the river, a very small river, but it
BEHIND THE MILL ⋅ 1966
‘ DO YOU THINK it’s true what they say about the cogwheel and your conscience.’
‘No, what.’
‘Well, that your conscience is like a cogwheel, or even like a circular saw, whirring round, and its sharp teeth are biting into your soul, hurting like hell and each time you do something really bad your blood is spurting, but then you do more and more bad things and the teeth are ground down and your soul becomes all calloused and then you don’t feel anything when the wheel goes round and then that’s who you are.’
‘Who.’
The one who does terrible things and doesn’t even notice.’
‘Are you talking about what you did to your dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you must notice when you do something that’s really bad.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I noticed a little when it happenend, but I don’t now. I don’t feel what I did was terrible. It doesn’t hurt anywhere, except in my eye and rib and
he
did that to me.’
‘Perhaps you’ll feel it in time.’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe I don’t have a soul.’
‘Sure you do. But then what you did wasn’t terrible. It was something you had to do. I know you.’
‘Do you think so.’
‘Sure I do. I am the most Christian of us, so I must know.’
‘I did what it says you’re supposed to do in the Bible. I turned the other cheek. Ha ha. It’s true.’
‘You did. Turn your head. Ah, that looks bad.’
‘It’s started to heal. I can touch it now.’
‘That’s fine. It didn’t do you much good, then, turning the other cheek, and there wasn’t anything you could have done than what you did.’
‘I don’t think Jesus would have done what I did.’
‘Take it easy. You’re not Jesus.’
‘No, sure I’m not. I’m not Jesus. That would have been something, right. Jesus of Mørk. Ha ha.’
JIM ⋅ TOMMY ⋅ 1966
THEY STOOD UP, brushed the soil off the back of their trousers and set off walking around the mill, which smelt of fodder and dust and something else that only mills smell of, malt perhaps, something to do with beer, and they went along the river towards the waterfall which in the olden days drove the millstones against each other and ground the wheat to flour, but today the water fell metre upon metre without rhyme or reason, the boss of the mill said. He saw only the use in everything, saw what everything could be used for, what could earn money, and the moon shining on fresh snow and the blue anemones on the hillsides and the bluebells in the meadows and the wind over the seas and the wind through the rye and the red ridges in the autumn and the birds that travelled here and left again, yes, everything that came here and left, none of this held any meaning for him, it couldn’t be added up, it couldn’t be multiplied, and a waterfall that only fell, it fell into nothing and that was a view that was shared by many. But a child could feel all of this on the palms of its hands, on its hips and legs and could be a blind child and still see it.
At the top, near the dam, the bikes were leaned against the railings and they stood by the bikes and leaned against the railing and looked down into the waterfall, and Tommy ran his fingers carefully over the eyebrow and the long gash along it, and over the scabs on his cheek and said, sometimes you feel like jumping, don’t you, just jumping over and sailing out like a bird. I know, Jim said, just climb up on to the railings and dive. My mother says it isn’t dangerous to jump off and fly, you can jump off a skyscraper if you like, and it isn’t dangerous. It’s the landing that’s a problem. I’ve heard that one before, Tommy said. I know, Jim said. Everyone’s heard it.
They mounted their bikes and pedalled round the bends along the river, a very small river, but it
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