At that time I was wondering what would stop Demian killing me. I did not understand it. I was going back home after meeting Gatsby and the road was full of cars. Suddenly some loud noises were heard. One car avoided some others and came directly towards me at high speed. Everything happened very fast. Another car, a red one, left its lane and got in the path of the first one. They crashed. The car that was coming towards me skidded and rolled over. It was coming towards me, bouncing, it was incredible. It bounced again a few feet away from my car and flew over me, falling upside down on the asphalt. Miraculously no one was hurt.

That was a method of assassination that I attributed to Demian, very appropriate for his level of intelligence. Though I can't be sure that that accident was intentional, since I did not even mention it to Gatsby, I can't deny that I had the sensation of being protected.

Everything that I was going through made me feel curious about Demian and about the people that supported him. I wanted to know more about them. One evening we were walking, and I asked Gatsby what they were like. With a jump, he leapt on some stones and extended the palm of his hand, face down, parallel to the ground. Underneath it, three feet away, a black cat squeezed against the ground as if an invisible force was squashing it.

"They are like cats, cats-men", he said, looking towards the horizon lit by the moon. "Self-sufficient".

I had already heard him talk at other times about self-sufficiency. It's not an attribute that is appropriate to sane human beings who need each other.

After looking at the ground, he withdrew his hand towards himself, setting the cat free. With a petrified yowl, it jumped vertically to considerable height and then ran like the shadow of the wind between the stones.

"And what does Demian feel towards someone like me?" I asked him.

"Tremendous disgust", he smiled at me.


I can't remember why, but that day Gatsby gave me a present. It was a superb fountain pen.

"Use it all you can. Continuously. It's a pen from heaven, from the spiritual world", my friend said. "Always carry it with you and use it now and then".

I thanked him. It was really lovely. "What exactly did he mean, saying that it was from heaven?" I asked myself while shaking my head. Deep inside my tendency was not to believe anything that I could not prove for myself one way or another. That doesn't mean that I was not open to all the new things that happened in my life. But there were so many of them that I tried to adopt a very judgmental attitude, precisely not to lose my sense of judgment.

I looked at the pen more calmly. It looked very sturdy. I liked that. From my experience things should be like that. I took the cap off as if I were unsheathing a sword and the golden sheen of the nib dazzled me. It was a beautiful pen! And now it seemed so delicate! Everything in the pen appeared to say that without its protective cap it was nothing. I worried about it from the very first moment. I took it with me everywhere and was very careful when I used it. It was a pleasure to write with it, it made me relax. That was very good for me.

That day, soon after receiving the present, I was doing something that Jimmy had asked me to do. I was pacing up and down. I felt nervous as if I were being followed. I stopped and wondered if the pen had some type of power." Why had Gatsby asked me to use it so frequently?" I did not understand. I took it out of my jacket pocket and opened it. Suddenly, someone made a noise, coming from a car parked on my right. A person was jumping around in the car though I could have sworn that no one had been there before. Extremely nervously he started the car and in a matter of seconds left the parking spot as if he were being chased by the devil. Imitating the movements of the hidden driver, my friend laughed heartily.

"I told you it came from heaven. Go on using it", he said.

I was already using it all I could and the pen gave me a certain sense of security. But the more I used it, the more the pen appeared to let me know its weakness. One day when I was writing with it, I was telling myself -I remember perfectly- "you must be careful because I feel as if someone wants to destroy it". I finished writing and placed it delicately on a glass table. I was distracted, merely for a second, and I saw the pen roll without its cover. I did not manage to catch it in time and it crashed to the floor. Its delicate nib smashed. I looked at it and I sensed that it had lost all its brilliance, all its magic.