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thought).
    Something is doing that to me this very moment, a sentence. My mind, again, is occupied with thoughts on the sentence, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.” The sentence, presented by a language philosopher, is holding me captive like a charm, and I float around on it as if it’s a raft floating on an open sea. The sentence, cited by the language philosopher as an example of a grammatically correct sentence, or in other words, a sentence that has a logical form but makes no semantic sense and thus has no intelligible meaning, and can be discussed at different levels, feels to me, at least, like something that navigates the sea of language with infinite freedom. What I thought of as I watched a dolphin-shaped tube floating down a river in a little town in France, too, was a play of ideas using words.
    For the past several days I’ve been spending time reading mostly works by linguistically experimental poets, thus allowing passages from the American poet John Hollander’s poem, “Coiled Alizarin a a ” such as the following, dominate my everyday life.
    A red pigment extracted from the root of madder, or produced by synthesizing anthracene — Author’s note
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Curiously deep, the slumber of crimson thoughts:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  While breathless, in stodgy viridian, b b
    Turquoise pigment, or the color thereof — Author’s note
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
    But wasn’t it possible that the large dolphin-shaped tube I saw by a riverside one winter day, floating down the river, wasn’t something that someone had thrown out? That perhaps the person sent something floating down the river every winter around that time, at that place, as if performing a sort of private ritual, and happened to set a dolphin tube afloat on the water that year? Wasn’t it possible that he didn’t wish for anything as he let go of something that floated down the river—I hope he didn’t wish for anything—and merely wanted to see something float down before his eyes and fade away and disappear? And that no one knew he did such a thing every year, that it was his secret, his greatest secret?Yet as a result of his secret act, someone ends up thinking about plays of ideas as he walks side by side with a big dolphin-shaped tube that’s floating down a winter river, wondering how it’s come to float down like that.
    Amusing ideas and games of ideas. Games using ideas, and languages, which are carriers of ideas. A story that’s a puzzling game, a game that becomes puzzling. Games using words, just for fun, not just for fun, not necessarily for fun, for fun only, not just for fun only, simply for fun, in the spirit of fun, as if for fun, not possibly for fun, and in the end, for fun only. (Games using words are really the only games you can enjoy until you get tired of them, or enjoy forever without getting tired of them.)
    Again, I feel that my craving for amusement is relentless, which isn’t because my heart is heavy, both when I’m alone and when I’m with someone, or when I’m doing something or doing nothing, and seek to lighten my heavy heart. It would be more correct to say that it springs from the idea that life itself is a chaotic wandering state in which you roam around the edge of blindness, or make your way to the center of blindness, without any aim or will, and end up playing the writing game, having no other choice, and by so doing turn your life into fiction, fiction that resembles a riddle.
    Perhaps the fact that the ideas that play around in my head often turn into something preposterous and bear and breed extravagant daydreams, or delusions almost, delusions that take up a great portion of my thoughts, when I think about it, could work to my