Van Der Graaf, taj neuravnoteženi čudak, napiše posljednju stranicu svog novog filozofskog romana, debele knjige koja nikada neće biti objavljena; a i što bi bila kad ju je za sebe napisao.

Tajnovito djelo to odluči nazvati Nedovršena priča.

Van Der Graaf, samouki pisac koji kao takav nikada ništa nije čitao. Istina, probao je doduše, davno je već tome, nešto pročitati, ali došavši do logičke spoznaje kako je književnost tek podmukli način rastezanja nekoliko suvislih rečenica na masu besmislenih stranica teksta, on odustade od daljnjeg naprezanja. Svatko piše za sebe, jer svatko najbolje zna što mu je u glavi, stoga čitanje tuđih mudrolija predstavlja uzaludan trud.

Uzevši tu misao kao zvijezdu vodilju, Van Der Graaf se pretvori u strastvenog grafomana i zatvoren u polumraku svoje sobe, stane slagati teške riječi, ispisivati puste knjige u koje konačno može vjerovati, i kojima si je htio objasniti nešto više o životu, pojavama koje ga okružuju itd…

Svatko piše za sebe, jer svatko najbolje zna što mu je u glavi, stoga čitanje tuđih mudrolija predstavlja uzaludan trud.

Tomove i tomove takvih knjiga.

Svojih uradaka, naravno nije autor pokazivao nikome, a i kome kad nije mu stalo ni do čijeg mišljenja, jer pisac je sam sebi najbolji kritičar i najzahvalniji čitatelj.

On dakle dovrši stranicu, odloži olovku koju je napravio, skine klompe koje je izdubio i sjede na, od otpadnog stakla načinjen krevet.

Van Der Graaf je oduvijek sve radio sam. Mogao je kupiti, država svima daje socijalnu pomoć, koju je, usput budi rečeno, cijelu poklanjao prosjacima, mogao je kupiti, ali što kad u izlozima prodavaonica taj čudni čovjek, još nikada nije ugledao proizvod ili stvar koju bi poželio posjedovati. Takvo nešto nije izmišljeno!

Sve što je upotrebljavao, oblačio, jeo, sve bi sam samcat napravio, kreirao, uzgojio… Recimo da je ponekad njegova odjeća ljudima mogla izgledati odurno; komadi odbačenih najlonskih vreća, kartoni dovučeni sa smetlišta, limovi bijele tehnike…, no važno je reći da se Van Der Graaf u tome osjećao udobno. Hranu je nalazio u kantama za smeće oko Mac Donaldsovih restorana, a nešto je i uzgajao u vrtu iza kuće, na nekoliko četvornih metara zemljišta gdje su susjedi odlagali smeće, isti oni susjedi koji bi okretali glave kada bi ga ugledali kako sjedi pod nekim od mostova i trijebi uši ili prolazi Kraljičinim trgom vukući za sobom crknutog psa. Na tih je nekoliko četvornih metara Van Der Graaf uzgajao kupus, mrkvu i nešto malo krumpira, a kruh je pekao u kamenom ognjištu kojeg je sazidao u kutu svoje samačke sobice.

Van Der Graaf, that unbalanced weirdo, wrote down the very last page of his new philosophical novel, a huge book which was never meant to be published and why would it be, when he wrote it just for himself?

This mysterious work he decided to name Unfinished story.

Van Der Graaf, a self-taught writer, had never read anything; truly and honestly, long ago he tried to read something, but reaching the logical conclusion that literature was just a devious way of stretching out a couple of sensible sentences over a pile of meaningless pages of a text, he had given up any further effort. Everybody writes just for one’s own sake, knowing best what actually lies within their minds, therefore reading someone else’s wisdom represents just a vain vexation.

Everybody writes just for one’s own sake, knowing best what actually lies within their minds, therefore reading someone else’s wisdom represents just a vain vexation.

Taking this thought as his guiding star, Van Der Graaf turned himself into a passionate scribbler, and being secluded in the darkness of his room, he started to compose heavy words, writing numerous books which he could finally trust, and by which he attempted to explain strictly to himself, something more about life, about the phenomena surrounding him, and so on, and so forth…

Volumes and volumes of such kinds of books.

Those masterpieces, the author, of course, showed not to a soul — why would he and to whom? Why would I care for anyone’s opinion, he said, being absolutely aware that the author was his own best critic and the most grateful reader.

So, he finished the page, put down the pencil made by himself, took off the wooden shoes he carved by himself, too, and sat down on his bed made of glass refuse.

As strange as it could appear, Van Der Graaf had always been making all of his things by himself. He could have bought them, that’d be what government welfare was for! Anyhow, he always gave his paycheck to beggars. He could’ve bought everything he needed, but why would he do it anyway? This little strange man had never found a product or merchandise that he wanted to possess. Such a thing had not been not invented yet.

Whatever he used, wore, or ate… was exclusively made by himself. To give an example: sometimes his clothes would look rather appalling to people; they were actually pieces of discarded nylon bags, cardboard dug out from rubbish dumps, tin sheets of discarded white goods — saving devices… But needless to say, Van Der Graaf felt comfortable dressed like that. While scavenging around McDonald’s restaurants he found some food, but he also tended his own garden in the backyard of his house, on a small block of land used by his neighbours as a garbage-dumping place, the very same neighbors who used to turn their heads away each and every time they would see him sitting under any of the bridges pulling lice out of his hair, or while he walked across the Queen’s Square, dragging a dead dog behind him. On this tiny block of land Van Der Graaf grew cabbage, carrots, and some potatoes. He baked his own bread in a stone oven which he had built in a corner of a solitary little room.

He took off his wooden shoes, blew the candle out, and the darkness grew amid those teary walls. He was already drifting away with a first touch of a dream, when he heard banging on his door. It shook him out of his bed. Who could that be…? He never had any visitors…