You're probably wondering why I've got my own page. Most people do. A room, with it's own page? Hmmmm... I suppose you're expecting me to describe myself. Numbers of chairs, number of tables, that sort of thing. Well, I'm not going to do any of that. Instead, I'm going to dwell on my own greatness. Yes, you heard, you scum. My own greatness!
At this point, you're probably thinking, "Oho! He's just a room! He can't be as great as a human being like me!" But that's where you're wrong. Consider for a moment what a room actually IS.
In a nutshell, a room is four walls and a ceiling enclosing a space. Now, obviously it's the SPACE that makes a room a room. It's the space that's got to be there before anything. Four walls that don't enclose anything - that's not a ROOM. (Indeed, it's doubtful whether it's anything at all - the so-called "walls" would just be one solid mass, since there would be no space to separate them).
So the essential feature of a room is the space. That's what we call the NECESSARY feature of being a room. The walls are CONTINGENT - they could be big or small, built out of bricks or cardboard, you name it.
Now let's have a look at MY space. The space inside room 36. Firstly, space is eternal. So I'm older than any of you humans.
Next, however, I've travelled. This planet that we now call Earth is hurtling through space at incredible speeds. Where the Orion Nebula is, now - I've been there. The space where I am today - that was another Galaxy two billion years ago.
So what are you humans in comparison to me? Nothing! Ha! ha! ha! You'll eventually knock down Bishop Luffa School, then you'll think you've triumphed over me. But you won't have! My space will live on, and inevitably, sooner or later, it will inhabit a new outer shell. You humans can't resist building.
In the past, I've been (or rather, my space has been) the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, Charlemagne's Palace, the reading room of the great library at Nag Hamadi and a public lavatory in Islington. And those are only my most impressive incarnations.
Come to think of it, being room 36 is a bit of a come-down in the World. Still, c'est la vie.
Reprinted from Les Temps Moderns, June 1956
Interviewer: I'd like to say how pleased I am that you've finally consented to give an interview, in what was always going to be a difficult year for you. One of the first questions you're usually asked, and which many of our readers are bound to want answered, is this. I understand that you consider that your essential self is in fact, nothing more than space?
Room 36: Correct.
Int: Can you in fact, justify that without a separate account of space?
Room 36: Do I need an account of space? Explanations must come to an end somewhere. You say this table is made of wood, but I don't suppose you can give a separate account of the meaning of the word "wood". Your inability doesn't affect the truth or falsity of your statement, which must be assessed on independent grounds.
Int: Yes, but surely you're saying the essential fact of your Being is ... nothingness.
Room 36: Yeah, 'sright, yeah.
Int: But how can Being be composed of nothingness?
Room 36: It all depends on how one defines nothingness.
Int: Clearly not an adequate answer. How would you define nothingness?
Room 36: I see, yes. Well, there can be many answers to that one. To the extent that we're all in space, we must be in something, mustn't we?
Int: Granted.
Room 36: But space is composed of dimensionless points. No matter how many of those you add together, you're always going to get nothingness.
Int: Indeed.
