Page Title

Everything (he kept saying) is something it isn't. And everybody is
always somewhere else. Maybe it was the city, being in the city, that
made him feel how queer everything was and that it was something
else. Maybe (he kept thinking) it was the names of the things. The
names were tex and frequently koid. Or they were flex and oid or
they were duroid (sand) or flexsan (duro), but everything was glass
(but not quite glass) and the thing that you touched (the surface,
washable, crease-resistant) was rubber, only it wasn't quite rubber
and you didn't quite touch it but almost. The wall, which was glass
but turned out on being approached not to be a wall, it was
something else, it was an opening or doorway--and the doorway
(through which he saw himself approaching) turned out to be
something else, it was a wall. And what he had eaten not having
agreed with him.

He was in a washable house, but he wasn't sure. Now about those
rats, he kept saying to himself. He meant the rats that the Professor
had driven crazy by forcing them to deal with problems which were
beyond the scope of rats, the insoluble problems. He meant the
rats that had been trained to jump at the square card with the circle
in the middle, and the card (because it was something it wasn't)
would give way and let the rat into a place where the food was, but
then one day it would be a trick played on the rat, and the card
would be changed, and the rat would jump but the card wouldn't
give way, and it was an impossible situation (for a rat) and the rat
would go insane and into its eyes would come the unspeakably
bright imploring look of the frustrated, and after the convulsions
were over and the frantic racing around, then the passive stage
would set in and the willingness to let anything be done to it, even if
it was something else.

He didn't know which door (or wall) or opening in the house to jump
at, to get through, because one was an opening that wasn't a door
(it was a void, or kid) and the other was a wall that wasn't an
opening, it was a sanitary cupboard of the same color. He caught a
glimpse of his eyes staring into his eyes, in the and in them was the
expression he had seen in the picture of the rats--weary after
convulsions and the frantic racing around, when they were willing
and did not mind having

anything done to them. More and more (he kept saying) I am
confronted by a problem which is incapable of solution (for this time
even if he chose the right door, there would be no food behind it)
and that is what madness is, and things seeming different from
what they are. He heard, in the house where he was, in the city to
which he had gone (as toward a door which might, or might not,
give way), a noise--not a loud noise but more of a low prefabricated
humming. It came from a place in the base of the wall (or stat)
where the flue carrying the filterable air was, and not far from the
Minipiano, which was made of the same material nailbrushes are
made of, and which was under the stairs. "This, too, has been
tested," she said, pointing, but not at it, "and found viable." It wasn't
a loud noise, he kept thinking, sorry that he had seen his eyes,
even though it was through his own eyes that he had seen them.

First will come the convulsions (he said), then the exhaustion, then
the willingness to let anything be done. '`And you better believe it
will be."

All his life he had been confronted by situations which were
incapable of being solved, and there was a deliberateness behind
all this, behind this changing of the card (or door), because they
would always wait until you had learned to jump at the certain card
(or door)--the one with the circle--and then they would change it on
you. There have been so many doors changed on me, he said, in
the last twenty years, but it is now becoming clear that it is an
impossible situation, and the question is whether to jump again,
even though they ruffle you in the rump with a blast of air--to make
you jump. He wished he wasn't standing by the Minipiano. First they
would teach you the prayers and the Psalms, and that would be the
right door(the one with the circle) and the long sweet words with the
holy sound, and that would be the one to jump at to get where the
food was. Then one day you jumped and it didn't give way, so that
all you got was the bump on the nose, and the first bewilderment,
the first young bewilderment.

I don't know whether to tell her about the door they substituted or
not, he said, the one with the equation on it and the picture of the
amoeba reproducing itself by division. Or the one with the
photostatic copy of the check for thirty-two dollars and fifty cents.
But the jumping was so long ago, although the bump is . . . how
those old wounds hurt! Being crazy this way wouldn't be so bad if
only, if only. If only when you put your foot forward to take a step,
the ground wouldn't come up to meet your foot the way it does. And
the same way in the street (only I may never get back to the street
unless I jump at the right door), the curb coming up to meet your
foot, anticipating ever so delicately the weight of the body, which is
somewhere else. "We could take your name," she said, "and send it
to you." And it wouldn't be so bad if only you could read a sentence
all the way through without jumping (your eye) to something else on
the same page; and then (he kept thinking) there was that man out
in Jersey, the one who started to chop his trees down, one by one,
the man who began talking about how he would take his house to
pieces, brick by brick, because he faced a problem incapable of
solution, probably, so he began to hack at the trees in the yard,
began to pluck with trembling fingers at the bricks in the house.
Even if a house is not washable, it is worth taking down. It is not till
later that the exhaustion sets in.

But it is inevitable that they will keep changing the doors on you, he
said, because that is what they are for; and the thing is to get used
to it and not let it unsettle the mind. But that would mean not
jumping, and you can't. Nobody can not jump. There will be no
not-jumping. Among rats, perhaps, but among people never.
Everybody has to keep jumping at a door (the one with the circle on
it) because that is the way everybody is, especially some people.
You wouldn't want me, standing here, to tell you, would you, about
my friend the poet (deceased) who said, "My heart has followed all
my days something I cannot name"? (It had the circle on it.) And
like many poets, although few so beloved, he is gone. It killed him,
the jumping. First, of course, there were the preliminary bouts, the
convulsions, and the calm and the willingness.

I remember the door with the picture of the girl on it (only it was
spring), her arms outstretched in loveliness, her dress (it was the
one with the circle on it) uncaught, beginning the slow, clear,
blinding cascade-and I guess we would all like to try that door
again, for it seemed like the way and for a while it was the way, the
door would open and you would go through winged and exalted
(like any rat) and the food would be there, the way the Professor
had it arranged, everything O.K., and you had chosen the right
door for the world was young. The time they changed that door on
me, my nose bled for a hundred hours--how do you like that,
Madam? Or would you prefer to show me further through this so
strange house, or you could take my name and send it to me, for
although my heart has followed all my days something I cannot
name, I am tired of the jumping and I do not know which way to go,
Madam, and I am not even sure that I am not tired beyond the
endurance of man (rat, if you will) and have taken leave of sanity.
What are you following these days, old friend, after your recovery
from the last bump? What is the name, or is it something you
cannot name? The rats have a name for it by this time, perhaps,
but I don't know what they call it. I call it and it comes in sheets,
something like insulating board, unattainable and ugli-proof.

And there was the man out in Jersey, because I keep thinking
about his terrible necessity and the passion and trouble he had
gone to all those years in the indescribable abundance of a
householder's detail, building the estate and the planting of the
trees and in spring the lawn-dressing and in fall the bulbs for the
spring burgeoning, and the watering of the

grass on the long light evenings in summer and the gravel for the
driveway (all had to be thought out, planned) and the decorative
borders, probably, the perennials and the bug spray, and the
building of the house from plans of the architect, first the sills, then
the studs, then the full corn in the ear, the floors laid on the floor
timbers, smoothed, and then the carpets upon the smooth floors
and the curtains and the rods therefor. And then, almost without
warning, he would be jumping at the same old door and it wouldn't
give: they had changed it on him, making life no longer supportable
under the elms in the elm shade, under the maples in the maple
shade.

"Here you have the maximum of openness in a small room."

It was impossible to say (maybe it was the city) what made him feel
the way he did, and I am not the only one either, he kept
thinking--ask any doctor if I am. The doctors, they know how many
there are, they even know where the trouble is only they don't like
to tell you about the prefrontal lobe because that means making a
hole in your skull and removing the work of centuries. It took so
long coming, this lobe, so many, many years. (Is it something you
read in the paper, perhaps?) And now, the strain being so great,
the door having been changed by the Professor once too often . . .
but it only means a whiff of ether, a few deft strokes, and the higher
animal becomes a little easier in his mind and more like the lower
one. From now on, you see, that's the way it will be, the ones with
the small prefrontal lobes will win because the other ones are hurt
too much by this incessant bumping. They can stand just so much,
em, Doctor? (And what is that, pray, that you have in your hand?)
Still, you never can tell, em, Madam?

He crossed (carefully) the room, the thick carpet under him softly,
and went toward the door carefully, which was glass and he could
see himself in it, and which, at his approach, opened to allow him to
pass through; and beyond he half expected to find one of the old
doors that he had known, perhaps the one with the circle, the one
with the girl her arms outstretched in loveliness and beauty before
him. But he saw instead a moving stairway, and descended in light
(he kept thinking) to the street below and to the other people. As
he stepped off, the ground came up slightly, to meet his foot.

The Door by E. B. White