He turned around to wend his way to the New Tower of Babel. He set off with the obstinacy of one possessed, with screwed up lips, sharp lines between the eyebrows, clenched fists on his weak, dangling arms. He set off as though he wanted to pound the stone beneath his feet. It seemed as though every drop of blood in his face had collected in his eyes alone. He ran, and, on the interminable way, at every step, he had the feeling: I am not he who is running...I am running, a spirit, by the side of my own self...I, the spirit, am forcing my body to run onwards, although it is tired to death...
Those who stared at him when he arrived at the New Tower of Babel seemed to be seeing, not him, but a spirit...
He was about to enter the Pater-noster, which was pumping its way, a scoop-wheel for hum
