All The Names - Jose Saramago

night's sleep, That's what I hope to do, as I do every night, the tone of his reply was conciliatory, but
Senhor José had one more thing to add, As for the metaphysical thoughts, my dear sir, allow me to say that
any brain is capable of producing them, it's just that we cannot always find the words.
Contrary to his desire, Senhor José did not have his customary, relatively peaceful night's sleep. He
was pursuing through the confused labyrinth of his unmetaphysical head the trail of motives that had led
him to copy out the details from the unknown woman's card, and he could not find a single one that could
consciously have determined that unexpected action. He could only remember the movement of his left
hand picking up a blank card, then his right hand writing, his eyes going from one card to the other, as if,
in reality, they were the ones carrying the words from there to here. He also remembered how, to his
surprise, he had walked calmly into the Central Registry, the flashlight grasped firmly in his hand, feeling
not the least bit nervous or anxious, how he had put the six cards back in their places, how the last had
been that of the unknown woman, lit until the last moment by the flashlight beam, then sliding down,
disappearing, vanishing between the card bearing the previous letter and the card bearing the subsequent
letter, a name on a card, that's all. In the middle of the night, worn out from not sleeping, he turned on the
light. Then he got up, put his raincoat on over his underclothes and went and sat at the table. He fell
asleep much later, his head resting on his right forearm and his left hand on the copy he had made of the
record card.