The bedside table & co

On the eighth of October, nineteen-twelve, in a hotel room, 1 was leaning against this pillar when 1 was overcome by a feeling of unparalleled awareness so intense it inspired me to write what became my famous Requiem.
lt was only on my return to that same hotel (room> a few years later that the real source of information was revealed: the noises made in the water and gas pipes which ran alongside the pillar echoed mutely heard on the inside, and must have given me the impression, when 1 had leaned against it the very first time, that they were emanating spontaneously from my own person.In recognition of the role he had played in the composition of the Requiem, 1 wanted to find the guest on the floor above whose actions had led to the activity in the pipes. But 1 was told that, unfortunately, on that memorable day, the eighth of October, nineteen twelve, that same person had forgotten to turn off a tap, and that that lapse had had serious consequences.

On the twenty-seventh of January, nineteen hundred and ten, in the Imperial Museum of Budapest, 1 just happened to be boking at my right hand, which was casually resting on this sockel, when 1 had the strange impression that it no longer belonged to me.
Fortunately, this feeling disappeared as soon as an attendant put a marble bust back in its rightful position in so mechanical a fashion that he failed to see the five fingers of a visitor lost in thought.

On the seventh of February, nineteen twenty-one, as 1 was leaning on this window-sill, gazing out of the window at nothing in particular, 1 happened to notice, opposite me, a crow perched on the balcony fence. 1 then had the strange impression, undoubtedly because of the glass pane between us, of having my own likeness in front of me. Suddenly it turned its head to one side, as birds do in order to get a better look at those they are communicating with, and, in a kind of unconscious mimicry, 1 did exactly the same. The result was that 1 fell so abruptly onto the mirror hanging in the corner of the room that for a moment 1 felt that 1 was the one perched on the balcony, observed by myself.

During the night of the fourth and fifth of May, nineteen thirtythree, 1 awoke with a start, panic-stricken at the thought of having suddenly been struck blind. 1 immediately switched on the bedside lamp but, in my hurry, banged my head so hard against this bedside table that 1 put the return of my vision down to the thump 1 had given myself.

On the sixth of November, nineteen fifty-six, locked away in this wooden box, 1 fled from Budapest. But the smell given off by the sap which oozed from the still fresh planks brought back such memories of my childhood that 1 was overcome by an inconsolable homesickness
Once over the border, when my friends wanted to free me, they saw that 1 was stuck to the box so firmly that they were going to need knives to free the soles of my shoes, which had become glued to the resin.

On the fifteenth of December, nineteen twenty-eight, at the end of a particularly lively discussion, 1 sat on this stool to think about nothing.

In an attempt to keep in check the vertigo of which 1 was a chronic sufferer, 1 forced myself to remain standing for as long as possible on this trapdoor, at the time used to gain access to the house cellars.
1 ended up feeling so at ease that 1 had it dismantled in order to use it as a rostrum during the numerous lectures which 1 was called upon to give on dangerously ancient stages.
1 kept it until the twenty-fifth of March, nineteen-fifty, the morning after the spectacular loss of memory which spoiled my opening address at the Academy of Arts in Budapest.