The Tanners

Winter arrived. Simon, left up to his own devices, sat dressed in a coat, writing at the table in his small room. He didn’t know what to do with all the time on his hands, and since his profession had accustomed him to writing, he now sat and wrote offhandedly, without forethought, on small strips of paper he’d cut to size with scissors. Outside the weather was damp, and the coat Simon had wrapped himself in was serving the function of a heating stove. This sitting at home in his room seemed so cozy to him, while out of doors violent winds were raging, promising snow. He felt so comfortable sitting like that, engaged in his activity and embracing the notion that he’d been utterly forgotten. He thought back on his childhood, which wasn’t yet so terribly far behind him but nonetheless appeared as distant as a dream, and wrote: