Mr Blottisham's Dictionary of Nothing

Following his celebrated discovery that Nothing is something, Mr Blottisham has undertaken a further service to scholarship. He is compiling a dictionary.

“Every respectable subject,” he explains, “requires a vocabulary. And Nothing, having been neglected for so long, deserves one of its own.”

Professor Quillibrace has declined to assist. Miss Stray has agreed to read the manuscript, on the understanding that she is not expected to endorse it.

The following entries are taken from the first edition.

ABSENCE, noun. A thing that is not present.

Professor Quillibrace's note: This definition is circular only if one assumes that every noun must denote an entity. Mr Blottisham has not explained why we should make that assumption.

NOTHING, noun. The thing that remains when there is nothing left.

Miss Stray's note: The definition appears to preserve the very thing it claims to remove. What remains, and in what sense does it remain?

NOTHINGNESS, noun. The condition of Nothing.

Professor Quillibrace's note: Mr Blottisham has promoted Nothing from a thing to a condition, presumably in the hope that the change of grammatical category will improve its prospects.

NON-EXISTENCE, noun. The state in which a thing does not exist.

Miss Stray's note: This may be useful when discussing a particular thing, but it does not establish that non-existence itself is an entity or a state that must exist independently.

VOID, noun. A space containing nothing.

Professor Quillibrace's note: A space is already something. The definition may be perfectly serviceable in ordinary contexts, but it will not describe the absence of space itself.

NOTHING AT ALL, emphatic noun. Nothing, with all possible qualifications removed.

Miss Stray's note: Which qualifications? The phrase intensifies the denial, but it does not guarantee that we have succeeded in conceiving an absence of everything.

SOMETHING, noun. The opposite of Nothing.

Professor Quillibrace's note: This entry appears to depend on the assumption that Something and Nothing name two entities standing opposite one another. Mr Blottisham has yet to establish that they do.

The dictionary ends with a note from its compiler:

“I trust that these definitions will put an end to the confusion surrounding Nothing. It is now clear that Nothing is a thing, Nothingness is its condition, Non-Existence is its state, and the Void is its habitat.”

Miss Stray has written beneath this:

“Mr Blottisham has given Nothing a name, a condition, a state, and a habitat. He has not yet established that it needs any of them.”

Professor Quillibrace has added a final observation:

“The dictionary is a considerable achievement. It has made Nothing easier to discuss, harder to understand, and almost impossible to find.”

Mr Blottisham has taken this as a compliment.

He is already preparing a second edition.

A Museum of Things That Never Were

Imagine a museum devoted to things that never existed.

Its galleries contain no unicorns, no dragons, no perfect circles drawn by hand, and no cities that were planned but never built. There are no exhibits, only labels. Each label describes something that is not there.

The curator is immensely proud of the collection.

“Here,” she says, “we have the finest example of a dragon that never existed.”

A visitor peers into the display case.

“But there is nothing in it.”

“Precisely,” says the curator. “The dragon never existed.”

“Then how can it be an exhibit?”

“Because we can think about it.”

The visitor considers this. “But if we can think about it, surely something exists?”

“Certainly,” says the curator. “The thought exists. The description exists. The possibility of imagining a dragon exists. Whether the dragon itself exists is another question.”

The visitor looks relieved. “So the museum is not really full of things that never existed. It is full of thoughts about things that never existed.”

“An excellent distinction,” says the curator. “Though I would ask you not to put it on the catalogue. We have already printed ten thousand copies.”

The museum presents a familiar difficulty. We can think about things that do not exist, but it does not follow that the things themselves have somehow acquired existence merely by becoming objects of thought.

A dragon may exist in a story, in an illustration, or in someone's imagination. These are different ways in which the dragon is present to us. None of them requires a dragon to exist as a living creature outside the story or imagination.

But what of Nothing?

The museum might reserve a gallery for it. There would be no exhibit, of course, and no label if the curator wished to be absolutely consistent. Yet the moment a visitor was told that this was the gallery devoted to Nothing, the absence would acquire a place in the museum's arrangement.

The gallery would be empty of its exhibit, but not of its walls, its air, its lights, or its visitors. It would be a place where something expected was absent, not a place where absolutely nothing existed.

The curator might insist that the gallery represented Nothing.

The visitor might ask whether a representation of Nothing was itself nothing.

And the curator, who had spent years cataloguing the non-existent, might finally admit that the museum could not display what its own description required it to exclude.

Perhaps that is the museum's real collection: not things that never existed, but the many ways in which we can think about what does not exist.

It is a remarkable collection.

And, as the curator insists, there is nothing else quite like it.

Nothing to Declare

At the border, a traveller is asked whether there is anything to declare.

“Nothing,” she replies.

The official looks at her luggage. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all.”

The official considers this answer. It is not the same as saying that the luggage contains a small quantity of nothing, carefully packed between the socks and the books. Nor is the traveller claiming to have brought a peculiar substance called Nothing across the border.

She is saying that there is nothing among her possessions that she is required to declare.

The distinction seems obvious. Yet it is worth noticing what the word nothing is doing.

The question establishes a field of relevance: goods that must be declared. The answer denies that anything belonging to that field is present. The traveller has not made a general claim about the contents of the universe. She has answered a particular question in a particular context.

If the official asks whether there is anything in the suitcase, “Nothing” is a different sort of answer. If the traveller says that nothing exists, we have a much larger problem. And if she claims to have discovered Nothing and brought it home, the official may reasonably request a fuller explanation.

The word has not changed. The circumstances in which it is used have changed what it means.

This is one reason we should be cautious about treating every occurrence of nothing as a reference to the same mysterious entity. Sometimes it denies the presence of relevant things. Sometimes it draws attention to an absence. Sometimes it occurs in a philosophical claim whose meaning requires careful examination.

The grammar alone does not settle which is happening.

We might even ask the traveller whether she has declared everything.

“Everything?” she asks.

“Everything you have.”

“But you asked whether I had anything to declare.”

“Quite so.”

“And I have nothing.”

The official looks down at the form.

There is, perhaps, a philosophical problem here. But there is also a practical one: the question has a purpose, the answer satisfies it, and neither party needs to establish the ontological status of Nothing.

The traveller proceeds through the border.

Nothing has crossed it, apparently.

But no one has had to decide what Nothing is.

The Empty Chair

There is an empty chair beside the fireplace.

We can see that it is empty. We can sit in it, move it, or place a book upon it. But the emptiness is not quite so easy to handle.

If someone asks what is absent from the chair, we might answer that nobody is sitting in it. If we have been expecting a visitor, we might say that the visitor is missing. If the visitor has died, we might say that the chair reminds us of someone who is no longer here.

The chair has not changed. What changes is the significance of its emptiness.

An empty chair in an unoccupied room may mean very little. The same chair, left empty at a family gathering, may matter enormously. Its emptiness is understood in relation to someone who might have been there, someone expected, remembered, or missed.

Absence, it seems, is not always simply the lack of something. Sometimes it is a relation between what is present and what is expected, remembered, or desired.

But suppose we remove the expectation. Suppose nobody has ever sat in the chair, nobody is expected to sit in it, and nobody has any particular interest in whether it is occupied.

Is it still empty?

Of course. The chair has space available for someone to sit in it. Yet the absence no longer carries the same significance. We have distinguished the physical condition from what that condition means to someone.

Now suppose we remove the chair as well. We are left with no empty chair, no place where someone might have sat, no particular person who is missing.

Have we arrived at Nothing?

Not necessarily. We have merely removed one example of absence. The room may still exist, the world continues, and there may be innumerable things elsewhere.

To remove the chair is not to remove everything. To remove everything we can think of is not obviously the same as to conceive of the absence of everything.

The empty chair helps us understand absence because it gives us something against which to recognise it. We know what is absent, or at least what might have been present.

Absolute Nothingness, if that expression makes sense, offers no such assistance. There is no chair, no room, no expectation, and no standpoint from which to compare what is with what is not.

Perhaps that is why we find it so difficult to imagine.

We begin with an absence that makes sense because of what remains, and then attempt to extend that understanding to a condition in which nothing remains.

The empty chair is easy to understand.

It is the disappearance of the chair, the room, the world, and every possible standpoint from which their absence might be understood that leaves us wondering.

The Trouble with Being Afraid of Nothing

“I am afraid of nothing.”

It is a splendid declaration of courage. The speaker fears no danger, shrinks from no adversary, and faces the world without apprehension.

Until someone asks whether he is afraid of Nothing.

Suddenly, Nothing has acquired a rather alarming status. It appears to be something one might encounter, something that might lurk in a dark corner, something that might inspire fear.

The joke is simple, but it reveals an interesting property of language. The same word can participate in different meanings, and a change in how we interpret it can transform a declaration of fearlessness into evidence of a peculiar phobia.

In the original declaration, nothing denies that there is anything the speaker fears. In the teasing reinterpretation, Nothing becomes the apparent name of something to fear.

The speaker has not changed his meaning. His tormentors have changed theirs.

We can imagine his indignation. He has made a perfectly intelligible statement, only to find that his words have been turned against him. He is now expected to defend himself against a charge that would never have arisen if everyone had continued to understand his sentence in the same way.

Yet the joke depends on something more than a grammatical ambiguity. It depends on our readiness to imagine that whatever can be named can also be treated as a thing.

Once Nothing becomes the object of fear, we can ask where it lives, what it looks like, and how it might be defeated. We can even ask whether it is more frightening than something.

The questions are absurd, but the absurdity is instructive. The word has made an absence available for thought, and our imagination has supplied the rest.

Perhaps the most interesting feature of the joke is that Nothing has not actually done anything. It has acquired no powers, made no threats, and appeared nowhere. Everything has happened in the way the words are interpreted.

And the man who declared himself afraid of nothing is left wondering how a statement that meant he feared nothing could possibly mean that he feared Nothing.

We might reassure him that he has nothing to fear.

But perhaps we should leave that until he has recovered.

Mr Blottisham Explains Everything

Mr Blottisham arrived at the Senior Common Room with the air of a man who had settled a matter that had troubled humanity for millennia.

“I have solved it,” he announced.

Professor Quillibrace lowered his newspaper.

“Have you?”

“The meaning of the myth. Both parts. The whole business about Nothing. It is really quite straightforward once one sees the point.”

Miss Stray put down her teacup.

“And what, precisely, is the point, Mr Blottisham?”

“That Nothing is something.”

Professor Quillibrace folded his newspaper.

“I see. And how long did this discovery take you?”

“Almost no time at all. The moment I reached the end of the second part, the answer was obvious. The author tells us that Nothing acquired a name, that it acquired a history, and that people could ask whether it existed. Therefore, Nothing is something. QED.”

“An impressive abbreviation,” said Quillibrace. “It saves you having to explain the argument.”

Blottisham drew himself up.

“You may mock, Quillibrace, but the logic is impeccable. If Nothing were not something, we could not speak of it. We do speak of it. Therefore, it is something.”

“Then,” said Miss Stray, “the word unicorn establishes the existence of unicorns?”

Blottisham paused.

“Not physical existence, naturally. We mustn't confuse categories.”

“Indeed,” said Quillibrace. “And what category does Nothing belong to?”

“The category of things that are not things, obviously.”

Quillibrace looked at him for a moment.

“Obviously.”

“Now you're being difficult.”

“I should hate to make your discovery too easy.”

Miss Stray intervened.

“Perhaps we should return to the myth. It seems to me that the second part describes something quite definite. People learn to distinguish what is present from what is absent. Eventually, they give a name to absence. They can then talk about it. But the story doesn't say that the naming makes the absence exist.”

“Precisely!” cried Blottisham. “The name makes it exist as an object of thought. That is my point.”

“Is it?” asked Quillibrace.

“Of course. Before the name, Nothing could not be thought about. After the name, it could. Therefore, the name creates Nothing.”

“Creates what?” asked Miss Stray.

Blottisham frowned.

“Nothing.”

“Do you mean that the name creates the absence itself, or that it creates something we can think and speak about?”

Blottisham considered this distinction.

“The difference is academic.”

“We are academics,” said Quillibrace. “It is rather difficult to avoid.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Suppose I tell you that the chair beside the fireplace is empty. The absence of a person in that chair is something we can think about. But I haven't created the absence by talking about it. Nor have I necessarily created a new object in the room.”

“Quite so,” said Quillibrace. “The absence is intelligible because we know what might have occupied the chair. We do not need to install an entity called Absence beside the fireplace.”

“But Nothing is different,” Blottisham protested. “It means the absence of everything. There can be no question of what might have occupied the space, because there is no space, and nothing to occupy it.”

“Then why,” asked Miss Stray, “do you speak of Nothing as though it were somewhere?”

“I don't!”

“You said that Nothing existed before the universe.”

“I said that Nothing must have existed before the universe, because otherwise there would have been something.”

“Then you have already given Nothing a relation to the universe, and a position in time.”

“Not necessarily. I merely mean that there must have been a state of affairs in which the universe did not exist.”

“And what makes you call that state Nothing?” asked Quillibrace.

Blottisham opened his mouth, then closed it.

Miss Stray waited.

“Surely,” Blottisham said at last, “we can distinguish the existence of Nothing from the existence of things.”

“Can we?” asked Quillibrace. “Or have you simply turned the absence of things into a thing whose existence you then propose to distinguish from theirs?”

“That is a distinction without a difference!”

“Perhaps. But you have yet to show us where the distinction lies.”

Blottisham reached for his tea.

“I begin to see the difficulty. You are both treating Nothing as though it were an ordinary object. I am not. I am speaking of Nothing as a special kind of entity, one that exists precisely by not being anything.”

Miss Stray tilted her head.

“But if it is an entity, it is something. And if it is not anything, in what sense is it an entity?”

“It is a paradox.”

“Or,” said Quillibrace, “it is a word doing two jobs, and you have mistaken the confusion for a profound discovery.”

Blottisham looked wounded.

“You cannot dismiss the entire problem as a linguistic trick.”

“I haven't. I am asking whether your proposed solution depends on one.”

For a while, the three sat quietly. Outside, the afternoon light shifted across the lawn.

Then Miss Stray spoke.

“I wonder whether the myth is asking us to solve the problem at all. It begins by trying to speak of what precedes every distinction. But the moment the story speaks, we are given distinctions: presence and absence, existence and non-existence, something and nothing. The narrator cannot simply step outside these distinctions and report what lies beyond them.”

“An authorial limitation,” said Blottisham. “A technical problem.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Stray. “But it may also be the point. We can ask whether there was Nothing before the world began. We can examine what we mean by before, by world, and by Nothing. Yet our ability to formulate the question doesn't guarantee that it describes a possible state of affairs.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Nor does the fact that a question is difficult make every answer equally profound.”

Blottisham brightened.

“Exactly! Which is why my answer is so valuable.”

Quillibrace picked up his newspaper again.

“I wondered how long it would take you.”

“But I have made a genuine discovery,” Blottisham insisted. “Nothing can be an object of thought without becoming something in thought.”

Miss Stray considered this.

“That may be true, depending on what we mean by something in thought. But does it follow that what we think about must exist independently of our thinking?”

“Certainly not. I have already conceded that unicorns need not exist physically.”

“Then you have conceded the very distinction you need to preserve.”

Blottisham looked from one to the other.

“I see. You are saying that Nothing exists conceptually, but not necessarily otherwise.”

“Not quite,” said Miss Stray. “I am saying that we can think and speak about absence. Whether the expression Nothing exists conceptually clarifies that fact or turns it into another entity is precisely what we should examine.”

Blottisham leaned back.

“Then the myth has no answer.”

“Not the answer you wanted,” said Quillibrace.

“But surely a myth must mean something!”

Miss Stray lifted her teacup.

“Of course. The question is whether its meaning consists in a proposition we can extract from it, or whether it also lies in the distinctions it invites us to make, the assumptions it unsettles, and the questions it leaves us unable to dismiss.”

Blottisham was silent for several seconds.

Then he smiled.

“I have it!”

Quillibrace did not lower his newspaper.

“Nothing is not the absence of something. It is the something that absence becomes when we think about it.”

Miss Stray looked at him.

“And what have you called that something?”

“Nothing.”

Quillibrace resumed reading.

Miss Stray returned to her tea.

Mr Blottisham, satisfied that he had at last made himself understood, began explaining his discovery to the empty chair beside the fireplace.

II. When Nothing Was Named

In time, there were things that could be distinguished from other things.

The first distinctions were not made by anyone. A creature turned towards warmth and away from cold. A seedling grew towards the light. One thing encountered another, and what had been undifferentiated became different.

With difference came the possibility of absence.

Where warmth had been, there was cold. Where food had been, there was hunger. Where a familiar voice had sounded, there was silence. What had once been present could be gone, and what had been expected might never arrive.

The living learned these absences long before they could speak of them. They searched where food had been found before. They waited for voices they knew. They turned towards the places where those they loved had last been seen.

An absence was not yet nothing. It was the absence of something, and the something mattered.

Then came those who could remember what was gone and anticipate what might be. They could hold in mind what was no longer before them, and imagine what had never been there at all. They could compare what was with what might have been, and find a difference between the two.

And eventually, they began to speak.

They gave names to the things around them, and to the things that had vanished. They spoke of the missing, the lost, the forgotten. They spoke of what had not happened, of what could not be found, of what was no longer there.

Then one day, someone asked what remained when nothing remained.

The question passed from one speaker to another. Each tried to answer, and each answer seemed to leave something over.

One spoke of an empty vessel. Another asked what had once filled it. One spoke of a deserted house. Another asked who had departed. One spoke of a silent world. Another asked what silence could be without something that might make a sound.

At last, someone gave the absence a name.

They called it Nothing.

The name was received with relief. At last, they thought, they could speak of what remained when everything else was gone. Nothing could be discussed, described, and considered. They could ask where Nothing had been before the world began, whether it had lasted for ever, and how it had given way to everything that followed.

They could even ask whether Nothing existed.

And because they could ask these questions, they began to speak as though Nothing were something that had been there all along.

Yet the name had not filled an absence. It had made the absence available for thought and speech. It had gathered many different absences beneath a single word, and in doing so had made them seem more alike than they were.

The absence of food was not the absence of a loved one. The absence of an expected event was not the absence of a world. And none of these was necessarily the absence of everything.

But the name concealed these differences as readily as it revealed them.

Those who spoke of Nothing did not all mean the same thing. Some meant that nothing of a particular kind was present. Some meant that nothing remained of what had been. Some meant that there was no world at all. And some meant to speak of what could not be spoken of without becoming the subject of speech.

Still, they continued to ask what Nothing was.

They sought it at the beginning of the world, at the end of all things, and in the spaces between what existed. Some feared it, some welcomed it, and some believed that understanding it would reveal the secret of existence itself.

But the name offered no answer to their questions. It merely made the questions possible.

And so the name endured, passed from speaker to speaker, gathering meanings that no single speaker could entirely control.

Much later, when people asked what had existed before everything began, they would say that there had been Nothing.

And when others asked how Nothing could have existed, they would reply that Nothing must have existed, because otherwise there would have been something.

They would not notice that the name had carried them back to the very question from which it had arisen.

For they had named an absence, and then wondered what kind of thing it was.

And Nothing, having acquired a name, had acquired a history.

Whether it had ever had anything else was left for those who came after to decide.

I. Before There Was Nothing

Before the beginning, there was no darkness, for darkness had not yet been distinguished from light.

There was no silence, for no sound had been heard and no ear existed to hear it. There was no emptiness, for nothing had yet been surrounded by something else. And there was no time, for nothing had yet passed away or come to be.

We cannot say that nothing existed, for existence had not yet been distinguished from its absence. Nor can we say that nothing did not exist, for there was not yet anything from which it could be absent.

There was no world, but neither was there a place where a world might have been.

There was no waiting, no expectation, no possibility waiting to be fulfilled. Nothing was missing, for nothing had yet been anticipated.

And there was no one to wonder.

Yet much later, when there were worlds and those who inhabited them, the inhabitants would ask what had been there before everything began.

Some would say that there had been nothing.

Others would ask how nothing could have been there, or how it could have remained there until something appeared. They would imagine an immense emptiness, stretching without limit, and call it nothing. They would imagine a silence before the first sound, a darkness before the first light, a stillness before the first movement.

And they would not notice that they had already given their nothing a place, a duration, and a condition in which to remain.

For how could they imagine the absence of everything without imagining that absence as something?

The question would trouble them, though they would not agree on why.

Some would insist that nothing must have existed before the world, because otherwise the world must always have been there. Others would insist that there could have been no nothing, because even to speak of it was to make it something that could be spoken of.

And so they would argue about nothing as though it had been waiting all along to be discovered.

But nothing had waited for no one.

For waiting had not yet begun.

And whether this was the truth about the beginning, or merely the limit of what could be said about it, no one could tell.

The Dream Blottisham Had Before He Understood It

The next morning, Mr Blottisham arrived in the Senior Common Room looking unusually thoughtful.

Professor Quillibrace looked up from his newspaper.

“You look troubled.”

“I had a dream.”

“Who this time?”

“I don't know.”

Miss Stray looked interested.

“That is unusual.”

“I don't remember meeting anyone famous.”

“What happened?”

Blottisham frowned.

“I was at a railway station.”

“Which station?”

“I don't know. It had a clock, but the clock wasn't working.”

“Then how did you know it was a railway station?”

“It had trains.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Proceed.”

“I was waiting for a train. There were two platforms. One was marked PLATFORM ONE. The other was marked PLATFORM ONE.”

“Were they the same platform?”

“No.”

“Were they different?”

“Yes.”

Quillibrace put down his newspaper.

“How?”

“I don't know.”

Blottisham paused.

“But I knew which one to use.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“How?”

“I just did.”

He continued.

“I went towards the left-hand platform. Then a porter stopped me.

‘Your train is on the other platform,’ he said.

“So I turned around.

“Then I stopped.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because your train is leaving from this platform.’

“I looked at the two platforms.

“They were both marked PLATFORM ONE.

“So I asked him which one was mine.

“He said, ‘The one you're not standing on.’

“I stepped back.

‘That's the wrong one.’

“So I stepped forward.

‘That's the right one.’

“I asked him how he knew.

“He doesn't.

“No,” said Blottisham, suddenly looking irritated. “I don't.”

There was a silence.

“I knew which platform was right,” he continued, “but I couldn't explain why.”

“What did you do?”

“I boarded the train.”

“Why?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

Quillibrace looked at Miss Stray.

Miss Stray was smiling.

“The train began to move.

“Then I noticed that I was still standing on the platform.

“I looked through the window.

“There I was, sitting inside the train.

“The other me looked back at me.

‘Are you coming?’ he asked.

‘ I can't.’

‘Why not?’

‘I'm already here.’

“The other me nodded.

‘That's all right.’

“Then the train left.

“I turned to the porter.

‘Which train was that?’

‘The one you were waiting for.’

‘But I didn't get on it.’

‘You did.’

‘No, I didn't.’

“The porter pointed towards the tracks.

‘You're standing on the wrong platform.’”

Blottisham paused.

“I looked down.

“I was no longer at the station.

“I was in a library.

“A librarian approached me carrying a book.

‘Which book are you looking for?’

‘I don't know.’

‘Then how will you recognise it?’

‘I’ll know when I see it.’

“The librarian handed me a book.

“I looked at it.

‘That isn't it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don't know.’

“I handed it back.

“She gave me another.

‘That one isn't it either.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

“The librarian nodded.

‘You seem to be doing rather well.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You know what not to do.’

“I thought about this.

“Then I put the book back on the shelf.

“The librarian looked surprised.

‘Why did you put it there?’

‘Because that's where it belongs.’

‘Why?’

‘I don't know.’

“She smiled.

‘Good.’”

Blottisham paused again.

“The library disappeared.

“I was standing in a street.

“There was a door in front of me.

“It had two handles.

“One was marked OPEN.

“The other was marked CLOSE.

“A man was standing beside it.

‘Which handle should I use?’ I asked.

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On what you want to do.’

‘I want to go through the door.’

‘Then?’

“I reached for the handle marked OPEN.

“The man shook his head.

‘Not that one.’

“I stopped.

“I looked at the other handle.

“Then I laughed.

‘Of course.’

“I turned the handle marked CLOSE.

“The door opened.

“The man looked pleased.

‘How did you know?’

‘I don't know.’

‘You didn't think about it.’

‘No.’

‘You didn't calculate it.’

‘No.’

‘You simply knew.’

“I became annoyed.

‘Are you going to explain this?’

“He shook his head.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you already know.’

‘I don't!’

“He pointed through the doorway.

“Beyond it was the railway station.

“But it wasn't the same station.

“There was only one platform.

“It was marked PLATFORM ONE.

“I walked towards it.

“The porter was waiting.

‘You're late.’

‘For what?’

‘The train.’

‘Which train?’

‘The one you didn't take.’

“I looked at the tracks.

“There was no train.

“Then I heard one approaching.

“I stepped towards the edge.

“The porter caught my arm.

‘Not yet.’

“I stopped.

“A moment later, the train passed.

‘You see?’ said the porter.

‘What?’

‘You knew.’

‘Knew what?’

“The porter smiled.

‘That.’”

Blottisham stopped speaking.

For several seconds nobody said anything.

Then Quillibrace asked:

“And you woke?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think the dream meant?”

“I decided it was probably about railway safety.”

Quillibrace closed his eyes briefly.

Miss Stray laughed.

Quillibrace opened them again.

“You said you knew which platform to use.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“You knew which book wasn't the right book.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“You opened the door using the handle marked CLOSE.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Blottisham hesitated.

“I knew it was the right one.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Miss Stray was looking at him carefully.

“What did you do when you didn't know?”

“I acted.”

“On what basis?”

“I don't know.”

She nodded.

“You acquired the distinction.”

Blottisham stared at her.

“What distinction?”

“That is what you don't yet know.”

Professor Quillibrace folded his newspaper.

“You appear to have understood something without first formulating it.”

Blottisham looked offended.

“Impossible.”

“You have done it before.”

“When?”

“You learned to walk before you understood balance.”

“That's different.”

“You learned to use words before you could explain grammar.”

“That's different too.”

“You learned which side of the road to walk on without deriving a theory of traffic.”

Blottisham thought about this.

“That,” he said, “is rather irritating.”

“Why?” asked Miss Stray.

“Because I think I understand what you're saying.”

“Do you?”

“I don't know.”

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

“That may be progress.”

There was a pause.

Blottisham looked towards the door.

“There's something else.”

“What?”

“In the dream, I kept knowing what to do.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn't know that I knew.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“Until afterwards.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps that is what the dream was about.”

Blottisham frowned.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because if that's what it was about, I would have known.”

Nobody said anything.

Blottisham looked from one to the other.

Then he smiled.

“Oh.”

The door to the Senior Common Room opened.

Nobody had touched it.

Beyond it was the railway station.

There was only one platform.

It was marked PLATFORM ONE.

Blottisham stood up.

Quillibrace said, “Don't.”

Blottisham stopped.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Blottisham looked at the platform.

Then at Quillibrace.

Then at Miss Stray.

“I think,” he said slowly, “we're already on the right one.”

Miss Stray smiled.

Quillibrace said nothing.

The train arrived.

Nobody moved.

After a moment, Blottisham sat down again.

The door closed.

And for once, nobody asked him how he knew.

The Dream Blottisham Had About Einstein and Newton

The next morning, Mr Blottisham arrived at the Senior Common Room carrying an apple.

Professor Quillibrace looked at it.

“No.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“You have an apple.”

“I had a dream.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Who was in it?”

“Einstein and Newton.”

Quillibrace put down his newspaper.

“And the apple?”

“It was important.”

“Of course it was.”

Blottisham sat down.

“I was standing in a garden.”

---

I was standing in a garden.

There was an apple tree.

Newton was sitting beneath it.

He was holding a book.

I looked up at the tree.

“Did the apple fall?”

Newton looked at me.

“Not yet.”

I waited.

The apple fell.

Newton caught it.

“There.”

I looked at him.

“What did it demonstrate?”

“Gravity.”

“Where is gravity?”

Newton pointed at the ground.

“Here.”

I looked at the ground.

It seemed ordinary.

Then another man appeared.

He had wild hair.

“Einstein,” he said.

Newton looked annoyed.

“I know who you are.”

Einstein looked at the apple.

“Why did it fall?”

“Gravity.”

Einstein shook his head.

“That tells us what it does.”

Newton frowned.

“It tells us why.”

“Does it?”

Newton stood up.

“The Earth attracts the apple.”

Einstein pointed at the ground.

“Then why does the Earth move?”

Newton looked at him.

“Because it is acted upon by other bodies.”

Einstein nodded.

“And what does it move through?”

“Space.”

“What kind?”

Newton looked puzzled.

“Space.”

“Whose?”

Newton stared at him.

“Space.”

Einstein smiled.

“Exactly.”

The garden disappeared.

We were standing in an enormous empty room.

There was no floor.

No ceiling.

No walls.

Newton stood in the middle.

Einstein stood beside him.

I was floating.

“This,” said Newton, “is space.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Everywhere.”

I looked around.

“There is nothing here.”

“That is the point.”

Einstein smiled.

“Not quite.”

Newton looked at him.

“What?”

“Space isn't a container.”

Newton frowned.

“Then what is it?”

Einstein pointed at me.

“Where is he?”

Newton answered immediately.

“Here.”

Einstein asked:

“Relative to what?”

Newton pointed to the room.

“Space.”

Einstein shook his head.

“The room is gone.”

I looked around.

It was true.

There was no room.

I was still there.

Einstein said:

“Now where are you?”

“I don't know.”

Newton said:

“Exactly where you were.”

“But where is that?”

“In space.”

Einstein smiled.

“Which space?”

Newton looked irritated.

“The same space.”

Einstein pointed at me.

“Can you prove it?”

Newton opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The room returned.

There was a table.

On it was a small ball.

Newton picked it up.

“This is a body.”

Einstein nodded.

“Where is it?”

“On the table.”

“Moving?”

“No.”

“Relative to what?”

Newton sighed.

“The table.”

Einstein smiled.

“Good.”

Newton looked at him suspiciously.

“You agree?”

“Of course.”

Newton put the ball down.

The table began moving.

The ball stayed where it was.

Then the table stopped.

The ball moved.

Newton looked at me.

“Which one moved?”

“The table.”

Einstein shook his head.

“Relative to what?”

I looked at the ball.

Then the table.

Then Einstein.

“I don't know.”

Einstein smiled.

“Good.”

Newton said:

“Don't encourage him.”

The table disappeared.

The ball remained.

It began moving through empty space.

Newton watched.

“Straight line.”

Einstein said:

“According to whom?”

Newton looked at him.

“According to the laws of motion.”

Einstein nodded.

“Then change the frame.”

The ball began moving in a curve.

Newton frowned.

“That's impossible.”

Einstein smiled.

“No. It is another description.”

Newton looked at the ball.

Then the ball stopped.

Einstein pointed at it.

“Now?”

“Stationary.”

“Relative to what?”

Newton closed his eyes.

“I dislike this dream.”

“So do I,” I said.

Einstein laughed.

The apple appeared again.

It was falling.

Newton reached for it.

It passed through his hand.

He tried again.

It passed through his hand again.

“What is happening?” I asked.

Einstein pointed upward.

“Look.”

The tree was moving.

Not falling.

The entire garden was moving.

The Earth was moving.

The Sun was moving.

The galaxy was moving.

Everything was moving.

Newton looked around.

“Relative to what?”

Einstein smiled.

“Now you are asking the question.”

Newton looked at him.

“But surely something is still.”

Einstein pointed at the stars.

“Are they?”

Newton looked up.

The stars began moving.

Then the sky itself curved.

The apple fell sideways.

Then upward.

Then back towards the tree.

Newton caught it.

He stared at it.

“That isn't gravity.”

Einstein shook his head.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Spacetime.”

Newton looked at the garden.

“Where is space?”

Einstein pointed at the apple.

“Here.”

“Where is time?”

Einstein pointed at Newton.

“Here.”

Newton frowned.

“You are making a category mistake.”

Einstein smiled.

“Perhaps.”

The garden stretched.

The tree bent.

The ground curved beneath our feet.

I felt myself falling.

Newton grabbed my arm.

“Stand still.”

“I am.”

Einstein looked at the ground.

“Are you?”

I looked down.

There was no ground.

Newton was holding my arm.

But Newton was falling too.

We were all falling.

Einstein was smiling.

“What are we falling towards?”

Newton asked.

Einstein said:

“Nothing.”

Newton looked horrified.

“Then why are we falling?”

“Because the geometry is doing something.”

Newton stared at him.

“Geometry does not make things fall.”

Einstein said nothing.

The garden vanished.

We were standing on a planet.

There was a small house.

A person walked out.

They dropped a stone.

The stone fell.

They looked up.

Nothing was there.

No tree.

No apple.

No visible force.

Only the ground.

Newton pointed.

“Gravity.”

Einstein pointed.

“Curvature.”

The person looked at us.

“What are you arguing about?”

Newton said:

“Why the stone falls.”

The person shrugged.

“It falls.”

They walked away.

Einstein laughed.

Newton looked annoyed.

“You find this amusing?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Because the stone doesn't care which description we use.”

Newton looked at the stone.

It had stopped moving.

Einstein looked at the ground.

Then at the sky.

“Perhaps we should ask what the description lets us understand.”

Newton nodded slowly.

“That,” he said, “is a better question.”

The stone rose from the ground.

Newton stared.

Einstein looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps not.”

The stone rose higher.

Then disappeared.

Newton looked at me.

“Where did it go?”

Einstein answered:

“Somewhere else.”

Newton looked at him.

“Where?”

Einstein smiled.

“Relative to what?”

I woke.

---

Blottisham finished.

Professor Quillibrace was silent.

Miss Stray looked at the apple.

Finally she said:

“What do you think the dream was about?”

Blottisham considered this.

“Newton gives us space and time as the framework within which bodies move. Einstein makes the framework itself part of the physical description.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And the repeated question?”

“Relative to what?”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Yes.”

Blottisham continued.

“The dream kept making me ask where something was, whether something was moving, whether something was falling. But each answer depended on the frame from which it was described.”

“And gravity?”

“It changed.”

“How?”

“In Newton's description, gravity is a force acting between masses. In Einstein's, gravity is understood through the geometry of spacetime.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And the stone?”

Blottisham looked at the apple he had brought.

“It didn't care.”

Miss Stray laughed.

“That's probably the most sensible thing anyone has said this morning.”

Blottisham looked pleased.

“So Einstein proved Newton wrong.”

Quillibrace sighed.

“No.”

“But—”

“Newton's theory remains extraordinarily successful within its domain. Einstein's theory provides a deeper description in regimes where Newtonian mechanics is insufficient.”

Blottisham thought about this.

“So Newton wasn't wrong.”

“Not simply.”

“He was approximately right.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham looked at Einstein's imaginary empty chair.

“And Einstein wasn't simply replacing Newton.”

“No.”

“He was changing what counted as the stage on which Newton's mechanics operated.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“That is much closer.”

Blottisham stood up.

He put the apple on the table.

Then he walked around it.

“I'm moving.”

Quillibrace looked at him.

“Relative to what?”

“The table.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Good.”

Blottisham stopped.

“The table is moving too.”

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

“Relative to what?”

Blottisham looked at the three of them.

Then he picked up the apple.

“I refuse to answer.”

At that moment, the apple fell upwards.

Everyone stared.

Blottisham looked at Quillibrace.

“Einstein?”

“No.”

“Newton?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Miss Stray looked at the apple.

“Perhaps the frame has changed.”

The apple continued upwards.

The ceiling disappeared.

Then the floor.

The Senior Common Room became very large.

Quillibrace looked around.

“Where are we?”

Blottisham opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Then smiled.

“I know better than to answer that.”

From somewhere above them came Einstein's voice:

“Good.”

From somewhere below came Newton's:

“Not necessarily.”

The apple vanished.

Nobody saw where it went.

The Dream Blottisham Had About Bergson and Einstein

The next morning, Mr Blottisham arrived at the Senior Common Room carrying a watch.

Professor Quillibrace looked up.

“Another dream?”

“Yes.”

“Who this time?”

“Bergson and Einstein.”

Miss Stray looked at the watch.

“Is that relevant?”

“I think so.”

Quillibrace folded his newspaper.

“What happened?”

Blottisham sat down.

“I was standing in a railway station.”

---

I was standing in a railway station.

There was a large clock above the platform.

It said twelve o'clock.

I looked at my watch.

It said eleven.

I looked at the clock again.

It said twelve.

I looked at my watch.

It said eleven.

A man beside me said:

“They are both correct.”

I turned around.

He had a moustache.

“Henri Bergson,” he said.

I nodded.

“Why are the clocks different?”

“Because time is not a clock.”

Before I could ask what that meant, another man appeared.

He had wild hair.

“Albert Einstein,” he said.

I looked at the two of them.

“Are you going to disagree?”

Einstein smiled.

“Probably.”

Bergson smiled.

“Certainly.”

Einstein pointed at the station clock.

“A clock measures time.”

Bergson shook his head.

“No. A clock measures what a clock measures.”

Einstein laughed.

“That is not very helpful.”

“It is if you have confused the measurement with the thing measured.”

Einstein looked at me.

“Clocks measure intervals according to physical processes.”

Bergson pointed at me.

“And what does he experience?”

I looked at the station.

“Waiting.”

Einstein said:

“Waiting is not a unit of time.”

Bergson said:

“No. It is duration.”

The station clock moved forward one minute.

My watch moved forward one minute.

I waited.

It felt much longer.

Then the clock jumped forward an hour.

My watch did the same.

I looked at Bergson.

“That didn't feel like an hour.”

He smiled.

“Exactly.”

Einstein shook his head.

“The feeling of duration is not the same thing as the physical interval.”

Bergson nodded.

“I agree.”

Einstein looked surprised.

“Then what are we arguing about?”

Bergson looked at him.

“That is what I have been wondering.”

The train arrived.

It stopped.

The doors opened.

A conductor shouted:

“All aboard!”

I stepped forward.

Einstein stopped me.

“Wait.”

“For what?”

“The train is moving.”

“It isn't.”

Einstein pointed at the platform.

“Look at the train.”

I looked.

It was stationary.

Then I looked at the clock.

The second hand was moving.

Then I looked back.

The train was moving.

But I was still standing on the platform.

Bergson laughed.

“You see?”

“What?”

“You are trying to decide whether the train is moving.”

“It either is or isn't.”

Einstein shook his head.

“Not quite.”

The platform began moving.

The train remained still.

Then the platform stopped.

The train moved.

Then both moved.

Then neither moved.

I felt dizzy.

“Which one is actually moving?”

Einstein said:

“That depends on the reference frame.”

Bergson said:

“And on what you are doing with the movement.”

Einstein looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

“If you are trying to catch the train, movement matters differently than if you are watching it.”

Einstein nodded.

“That is fair.”

The station disappeared.

We were now sitting in a train.

Einstein was beside the window.

Bergson sat opposite him.

I sat between them.

Outside the window was another train.

It was moving past us.

Or we were moving past it.

I couldn't tell.

Einstein looked at his watch.

Bergson looked out the window.

“How long have we been here?” I asked.

Einstein looked at the watch.

“Seven minutes.”

Bergson said:

“Long enough.”

I looked at Bergson.

“For what?”

“To have happened.”

The train slowed.

Then stopped.

Outside was a station.

A clock said twelve o'clock.

I looked at Einstein.

He looked at his watch.

It said eleven.

Bergson looked at both clocks.

“Again.”

Einstein smiled.

“Different frames.”

Bergson shook his head.

“Different times.”

Einstein looked at him.

“That's the same problem.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are still treating time as though it were a thing.”

Einstein was silent.

Then he said:

“Time is part of the structure of spacetime.”

Bergson looked thoughtful.

“And yet you experience it.”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps the disagreement is not between physics and experience.”

Einstein raised an eyebrow.

“What is it between?”

“Different ways of construing what time is.”

The station clock began running backwards.

Einstein watched it.

“That is impossible.”

Bergson smiled.

“Perhaps.”

My watch began running backwards too.

Einstein looked at it.

“That is also impossible.”

The second hand stopped.

Everything stopped.

The train.

The station.

The clocks.

Einstein.

Bergson.

Me.

Nothing moved.

I tried to move my hand.

It would not move.

I tried to speak.

I could not.

Then, somehow, I was aware that time had stopped.

I thought:

“How can I know that time has stopped if I am still experiencing something?”

Bergson looked at me.

I could move again.

Einstein looked at me.

“What happened?”

“I don't know.”

Bergson smiled.

“You noticed duration.”

“But nothing was happening.”

“Something was happening.”

“What?”

“You were waiting.”

Einstein looked thoughtful.

“That is an interesting case.”

“What case?”

“A physical interval with no external change.”

Bergson shook his head.

“No.”

“What?”

“There was change.”

“Where?”

“In him.”

I looked at myself.

Nothing seemed different.

But I knew I had been waiting.

Einstein nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

The station began changing.

The platform became longer.

The clock moved higher.

The train became smaller.

Then the whole station was inside the watch I was holding.

I looked at the watch.

There was a tiny railway station inside it.

The tiny Einstein was standing on the tiny platform.

The tiny Bergson was waiting beside him.

I looked up.

The real Einstein and Bergson were gone.

I looked back at the watch.

The tiny Einstein looked up at me.

He said:

“Which time is real?”

I answered:

“Both.”

The tiny Bergson shook his head.

“Too quick.”

I thought again.

“Neither?”

He smiled.

“Better.”

The watch opened.

Inside was a room.

Inside the room was a clock.

Inside the clock was the station.

Inside the station was me.

I was standing beside a large clock.

It said twelve o'clock.

I looked at my watch.

It said eleven.

A man beside me said:

“They are both correct.”

I turned around.

It was me.

I woke.

---

Blottisham stopped.

Professor Quillibrace looked at him.

Miss Stray was smiling.

“What do you think the dream was doing?” she asked.

Blottisham thought.

“I think it was playing with the difference between time as measured and time as experienced.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And Einstein?”

“He kept insisting that we can't talk about time without specifying the physical relations involved — clocks, motion, reference frames.”

“And Bergson?”

“He kept reminding me that lived duration isn't simply a sequence of measurements.”

Miss Stray said:

“So the dream wasn't simply asking which conception of time is correct.”

“No.”

“What was it asking?”

Blottisham looked at his watch.

“Whether the time measured by a clock and the time experienced by someone waiting are the same kind of thing.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And are they?”

“I don't know.”

“Good.”

Blottisham frowned.

“That's what everyone keeps saying.”

“Perhaps you are beginning to understand dreams.”

Blottisham looked at the clock.

It said ten past three.

He looked at his watch.

It said ten past three.

He smiled.

“Finally.”

Miss Stray looked at the clock.

“Wait.”

The clock said ten past three.

His watch said ten past four.

Blottisham stared at it.

“But they were the same a moment ago.”

Einstein's voice came from somewhere behind the wall.

“Which moment?”

Blottisham turned.

There was no one there.

Bergson's voice followed.

“Was there a moment?”

Quillibrace closed his eyes.

“Don't answer.”

Blottisham looked at him.

“Why not?”

“Because then we'll have to find out.”

The clock struck ten.

His watch struck eleven.

Then both struck twelve.

Nobody moved.

Miss Stray looked at the door.

It was open.

Beyond it was the railway station.

A train was waiting.

Blottisham stood up.

“I think I'm going.”

Quillibrace looked at him.

“Where?”

Blottisham considered the question.

“I don't know.”

Bergson's voice came softly from the corridor.

“Good.”

Einstein's voice followed.

“Check the clock.”

Blottisham looked at the clock.

It had no hands.

He looked at his watch.

It had no face.

He laughed.

“That's not very helpful.”

The train whistle sounded.

Nobody could say whether it was arriving or leaving.

The Dream Blottisham Had About William James and Husserl

The next morning, Mr Blottisham arrived at the Senior Common Room carrying no notebook.

Professor Quillibrace looked up.

“Another dream?”

“Yes.”

“Who this time?”

“William James and Husserl.”

Miss Stray looked interested.

“What happened?”

Blottisham sat down.

“I was walking along a street.”

---

I was walking along a street I had never seen before.

Or perhaps I had seen it before but had forgotten.

There were people everywhere.

They were talking, walking, waiting, looking at their watches, carrying bags, opening doors.

Everything seemed ordinary.

Then I noticed that I was noticing it.

I stopped.

A man standing beside me stopped too.

He had a large beard.

“William James,” he said.

“How did you know I was going to ask?”

“I didn't.”

“Then why did you answer?”

“You looked as though you were about to.”

I wasn't sure whether this was an answer.

A second man appeared.

He was standing very straight.

He looked at the street.

Then at me.

Then at the street again.

“Edmund Husserl,” he said.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

James laughed.

Husserl did not.

James pointed down the street.

“What do you see?”

“A street.”

“What else?”

“People.”

“What else?”

“Buildings.”

“What else?”

I looked more carefully.

“Light.”

“Good.”

Husserl interrupted.

“Do not merely list what is there.”

James looked at him.

“What should he do?”

“Attend to the experience itself.”

James smiled.

“Excellent. And then?”

Husserl looked at me.

“Describe it.”

I looked around.

“The street appears.”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

“Then begin there.”

James nodded.

“Now ask what the experience is doing.”

Husserl frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“What does it lead to?”

“What does that have to do with what it is?”

James pointed at a man crossing the street.

“He sees the traffic. He waits. He crosses. The experience makes a difference.”

Husserl looked at the man.

“Perhaps. But you have already moved beyond the experience.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Husserl pointed.

James looked.

There was a door.

It had appeared in the middle of the street.

I opened it.

Inside was another street.

Everything looked exactly the same.

James walked through.

Husserl followed.

I followed them.

James said:

“Now what is your experience?”

“The same street.”

Husserl said:

“Is it?”

I looked again.

The people were different.

The buildings were different.

But I hadn't noticed at first.

“How did you miss that?” asked James.

“I thought it was the same.”

“Exactly.”

Husserl looked pleased.

“What changed?”

“I did.”

James shook his head.

“The situation changed too.”

Husserl looked at him.

“How do you know?”

“Because he's responding differently.”

Husserl turned to me.

“What are you doing now?”

“Looking.”

“At what?”

“The street.”

“What does the street mean to you?”

James interrupted.

“Careful.”

Husserl looked at him.

“Why?”

“You're making him answer a different question.”

I looked at James.

“What question should I answer?”

James smiled.

“Whatever question your experience makes relevant.”

Husserl sighed.

“Experience is not a questionnaire.”

The street changed.

Now there was a cup on the pavement.

I picked it up.

It was warm.

James looked at it.

“What do you do with it?”

“I don't know.”

“Then wait.”

Husserl said:

“Describe.”

“The cup is warm.”

“What else?”

“It has a handle.”

“What else?”

“I can hold it.”

James nodded.

“Now we're getting somewhere.”

Husserl looked at the cup.

“What is given?”

“The cup.”

“No. What is given in the experience?”

I looked at the cup.

“It appears as something I can hold.”

Husserl nodded.

James said:

“And then you decide whether to hold it.”

“I already am.”

“Exactly.”

The cup disappeared.

I was still holding it.

I looked at my hand.

James laughed.

Husserl looked annoyed.

“This is precisely the sort of confusion we must avoid.”

“How?” I asked.

“Attend to what is actually experienced.”

“But I am holding the cup.”

“Are you?”

I looked at my hand.

The cup was gone.

James pointed to the pavement.

“It seems the cup has become a question.”

Husserl nodded.

“Precisely.”

James shook his head.

“No. The question is what he does next.”

The cup reappeared.

I dropped it.

It broke.

James looked at the pieces.

“What happened?”

“The cup broke.”

“What did you do?”

“I dropped it.”

“What will you do now?”

“Pick it up.”

I bent down.

The pieces became whole.

Husserl looked at them.

James looked at me.

“Interesting.”

The cup disappeared again.

The street disappeared.

There was nothing around us.

No buildings.

No people.

No pavement.

Nothing.

I could still see James.

I could still see Husserl.

James asked:

“What is your experience now?”

“Nothing.”

Husserl said:

“Do not say nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are experiencing the absence of what you expected.”

James nodded.

“And that absence is doing something.”

“What?”

“You noticed it.”

I looked around.

There was still nothing.

Then I noticed that I was expecting the street to return.

The street appeared.

James smiled.

“There.”

Husserl looked at him.

“What?”

“The world.”

Husserl looked at the street.

“No.”

James waited.

Husserl continued.

“Not the world.”

“What, then?”

“The world as experienced.”

James smiled.

“That's rather close.”

Husserl looked at me.

“What did you learn?”

I thought about it.

“That I can't separate the experience from what I'm experiencing.”

Husserl nodded.

James said:

“And you can't understand an experience without asking what it makes possible.”

The street began to move.

People walked backwards.

Cars drove backwards.

A man who had been leaving a shop returned inside.

The cup reassembled itself on the pavement.

Husserl watched carefully.

James laughed.

“Now that's useful.”

“How?”

“We know what happened because we know what happened next.”

Husserl shook his head.

“Temporal sequence is not sufficient.”

James looked at him.

“No.”

“What matters is the experience of succession.”

James nodded.

“Fair enough.”

The street stopped.

Everything was still.

I looked at James.

Then Husserl.

“Are you two arguing?”

“Yes,” said James.

“No,” said Husserl.

They looked at each other.

James laughed.

Husserl almost smiled.

Then the street divided into two streets.

James went left.

Husserl went right.

I stood between them.

James called back:

“Come along.”

Husserl called from the other direction:

“Stay.”

I didn't move.

James called again.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don't know.”

Husserl said:

“Good.”

James said:

“That's all right.”

The two streets began moving towards one another.

They became one street.

James and Husserl were standing beside me again.

James looked pleased.

Husserl looked thoughtful.

“What happened?” I asked.

James said:

“We found out.”

Husserl said:

“We attended.”

I looked at them.

“Is that the same thing?”

James laughed.

Husserl considered the question.

Neither answered.

I woke.

---

Blottisham stopped.

Professor Quillibrace waited.

Miss Stray said nothing.

Finally Quillibrace asked:

“What do you think the dream was about?”

Blottisham thought for a moment.

“I think James was concerned with what experience does in a life.”

“And Husserl?”

“How experience is given. What it is like for something to appear as something.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“So the dream kept moving between the content of experience and the activity of experiencing it.”

“Yes.”

Quillibrace looked at him.

“And what did the cup demonstrate?”

Blottisham frowned.

“I don't know.”

“You experienced it.”

“I know.”

“But what was it?”

“A cup.”

“Before it broke?”

“Yes.”

“After it broke?”

“Pieces.”

“And after it reappeared?”

“A cup again.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Perhaps the interesting thing wasn't the cup.”

Blottisham looked at her.

“What, then?”

“The way it appeared differently depending on what was happening.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And yet you didn't invent the cup each time.”

“No.”

“So experience isn't simply a private picture imposed upon an otherwise meaningless world.”

Blottisham thought about this.

“Nor is the world simply a collection of objects waiting to be described.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“You've been listening.”

“I had a dream.”

“That helps.”

Blottisham looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps James and Husserl weren't really disagreeing.”

“They weren't entirely agreeing either,” said Quillibrace.

“What were they doing?”

Miss Stray answered.

“Looking at experience from different directions.”

Blottisham considered this.

“So one asked what experience does, and the other asked how things are experienced.”

“Roughly.”

“Which means—”

He stopped.

The three of them waited.

“Which means I don't think I understand the dream.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because you may finally be attending to it.”

Blottisham looked at him suspiciously.

“That sounds like Husserl.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you should ask James what to do with it.”

Blottisham thought about this.

“What would he say?”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Probably that you have already done something with it.”

There was a pause.

Blottisham looked at the door.

“What happens if I open that?”

Quillibrace glanced at it.

“It opens.”

Blottisham stood.

He opened the door.

Beyond it was another Senior Common Room.

Another Quillibrace was sitting at the table.

Another Miss Stray was reading.

And another Blottisham was standing by the door.

The other Blottisham looked at him.

“What did you dream?”

Blottisham stared at him.

“I've just told you.”

The other Blottisham nodded.

“Yes.”

He closed the door.

Nobody moved.

After a moment, Quillibrace said:

“I don't think that was Husserl.”

Miss Stray looked at him.

“Why not?”

Quillibrace considered this.

“Because he asked the wrong question.”

Blottisham looked at the closed door.

“What was the right one?”

Miss Stray smiled.

“What were you doing when you asked it?”