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Abstract
You walk up to a stranger and say: "Ah fee-fah fee-ke," "Fah-fah fah-foo," he replies. You walk away satisfied. The ingenuous spectator thinks: oh, two Germans. No. It is just that you and the stranger are free—of one another and, most important, yourselves. You have no desire to tell him anything, and he doesn't want to hear anything. Minimal unfreedom has been reduced to the need to commit an act of hanging out. Hanging out—the Tower of Babel after the Almighty mixed the tongues. At first it is awful. Then it's not so bad, it's even amusing. Let's ditch the pickaxe. Let's kick back. Then we'll part in silent hope—and silently reproduce a tribe just like us, inculcate not-so-bright infants with our lonely tongue. "You tsar: live alone?" No, after all, the reason for this freedom isn't the free mind, or exactingness, or exactitude, but Divine punishment, the minus-device of the head Author.