Gogol

"My brain is a frozen brain, devoid of life," Gogol said.

Gogol talks funny.

"Is that true, Gogol?" I asked. It startled me to think that someone as alert and as thoughtful as Gogol would be frozen in the brain. Unthinkable, of all people.

But here he was--or she was, for that matter, since I never knew Gogol's gender--complaining that his or her brain was devoid of life.

All but impossible. But true. Perhaps.

Gogol revealed to me then that he or she was suffering from a physical ailment. And the physical ailment was what had shrouded Gogol's brain in a thick, freezing mist.

"In some people," Gogol said, "physical stress induces mental clarity and well-being."

I nodded.

"But in me, the opposite," Gogol said. "Physical stress wreaks a very adverse effect on my mentality. I don't know why."

I didn't know, either. Nonetheless, I felt bad for Gogol.

Then the conversation turned to whether it is possible to exist as a person inside books.

"Of course, it must be possible," Gogol said. But Gogol was careful to say "must be" instead of "is."

"You know," Gogol said. "Some answers are just impossible to be completely sure of. This is one of those."

I urged Gogol to go on.

Gogol obliged and said, "It is entirely natural to want to pull out hair, especially if it is sticking out by itself. But sometimes, just sometimes, you cannot pull it out. You may not even be able to tug at it."

"We are always trying to pull out hairs, in one way or another," I suggested.

Gogol thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, yes. I think ultimately, we want to get to our brains. Or get at our brains, perhaps I should say. In my case, to or at my frozen brain."

Suddenly, I didn't know what to do, and so I ran away.

The next day, Gogol had turned to ice. Impossible but true, a chilling story in the heat of summer.