What reams of discourse I could elicit from this
seemingly
so legitimate preoccupation!
Samuel Beckett
(And no doubt others still, invisible so far.
) I repeat they do not disturb me.
But in the long run it might become wearisome.
(I don't see how.
But the posssibility must be taken into account.
) One starts things moving without a thought of how to stop them.
In order to speak.
One starts speaking as if it were possible to stop at will.
It is better so.
The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.
No, I must not try to think, simply utter.
Method or no method I shall have to banish them in the end - the beings, things, shapes, sounds and lights with which my haste to speak has encumbered this place.
(In the frenzy of utterance, the concern with truth.
) Hence the interest of a possible deliverance by means of encounter.
But not so fast.
First dirty, then make clean.
Perhaps it is time I paid a little attention to myself, for a change. (I shall be reduced to it sooner or later. ) At first sight it seems impossible. Me? Utter me? In the same foul breath as my creatures? Say of me that I see this, feel that? Fear, hope? Know and do not know? Yes, I will say it, and of me alone. Impassive, still and mute, Malone revolves, a stranger forever to my infirmities: one who is not as I can never not be. I am motionless in vain, he is the god. And the other? I have assigned him eyes that implore me, offerings for me, need of succour. He does not look at me, does not know of me, wants for nothing. I alone am man and all the rest divine.
Air. The air. Is there anything to be squeezed from that old chestnut? Close to me it is grey, dimly transparent, and beyond that charmed circle deepens and spreads its fine
impenetrable veils. Is it I who cast the faint light that enables me to see what goes on under my nose? There is nothing to be gained, for the moment, by supposing so. There is no night so deep (so I have heard tell) that it may not be pierced in the end, with the help of no other light than that of the blackened sky, or of the earth itself. Nothing nocturnal here. This grey, first murky, then frankly opaque, is luminous none the less. But may not this screen which my eyes probe in vain, and see as denser air, in reality be the enclosure wall, as compact as lead? To elucidate this point I would need a stick or pole, and the means of plying it (the former being of little avail without the latter, and vice versa). (I could also do, incidentally, with future and conditional participles. ) Then I would dart it, like a javelin, straight before me and know (by the sound made) whether that which hems me round, and blots out my world, is the old void, or a plenum. Or else (without letting it go) I would wield it like a sword and thrust it through empty air - or against the barrier. But the days of sticks are over. Here I can count on my body alone: my body incapable of the smallest movement, and whose very eyes can no longer close as they once could (according to Basil and his crew) to rest me from seeing, to rest me from waking, to darken me to sleep; and no longer look away, or down, or up open to heaven: but must remain forever fixed and staring on the narrow space before them where there is nothing to be seen (99 per cent of the time). They must be as red as live coals. I sometimes wonder if the two retinae are not facing each other. And come to think of it this grey is shot with rose (like the plumage of certain birds, among which I seem to remember the cockatoo).
Whether all grow black, or all grow bright, or all remain grey, it is grey we need, to begin with, because of what it is, and of what it can do, made of bright and black: able to shed the former, or the latter, and be the latter or the former alone. (But perhaps I am the prey - on the subject of grey, in the grey - to delusions. )
How, in such conditions, can I write (to consider only the manual aspect of that bitter folly)? I don't know. I could know. But I shall not know. Not this time. It is I who write, who cannot raise my hand from my knee. It is I who think (just enough to write), whose head is far. I am Matthew and I am the angel - I who came before the cross, before the sinning: came into the world, came here.
I add this, to be on the safe side: these things I say (and shall say, if I can) are no longer, or are not yet, or never were, or never will be - or (if they were, if they are, if they will be) were not here, are not here, will not be here, but elsewhere. But I am
here. So I am obliged to add this: I who am here, who cannot speak, cannot think, and who must speak (and therefore perhaps think a little), cannot in relation only to me who am here, to here where I am; but can a little, sufficiently (I don't know how, unimportant), in relation to me who was elsewhere (who shall be elsewhere) and to those places where I was (where I shall be). But I have never been elsewhere (however uncertain the future). And the simplest therefore is to say that what I say (what I shall say, if I can) relates to the place where I am, to me who am there (in spite of my inability to think of these, or to speak of them), because of the compulsion I am under to speak of them (and therefore perhaps think of them a little). Another thing: what I say (what I may say) on this subject (the subject of me and my abode) has already been said - since, having always been here, I am here still. (At last a piece of reasoning that pleases me, and worthy of my situation! ) So I have no cause for anxiety. And yet I am anxious. So I am not heading for disaster: I am not heading anywhere. My adventures are over, my say said. (I call that my adventures! ) And yet I feel not. And indeed I greatly fear, since my speech can only be of me and here, that I am once more engaged in putting an end to both. Which would not matter (far from it) but for the obligation, once rid of them, to begin again: to start again (from nowhere, from no one and from nothing) and win to me again, to me here again. (By fresh ways to be sure. Or by the ancient ways, unrecognizable at each fresh faring). Whence a certain confusion in the exordia - long enough to situate the condemned and prepare him for execution. And yet I do not despair of one day sparing me, without going silent. And that day (I don't know why) I shall be able to go silent, and make an end: I know it. Yes, the hope is there, once again, of not making me, not losing me, of staying here (where I said I have always been, but I had to say something quick), of ending here: it would be wonderful. But is it to be wished? Yes, it is to be wished: to end would be wonderful - no matter who I am, no matter where I am.
I hope this preamble will soon come to an end and the statement begin that will dispose of me. Unfortunately I am afraid (as always) of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again (a stranger first, then little by little the same as always) in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing (being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking) but of which little by little - in spite of these handicaps - I shall begin to know something: just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want (take your choice), which spews me out or swallows me up (I'll
never know), which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess (or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back), and ever murmuring my old stories (my old story), as if it were the first time. So there is nothing to be afraid of. And yet I am afraid: afraid of what my words will do to me, to my refuge, yet again. Is there really nothing new to try? (I mentioned my hope, but it is not serious. ) If I could speak and yet say nothing, really nothing? Then I might escape being gnawed to death as by an old satiated rat (and my little tester-bed along with me, a cradle) - or be gnawed to death not so fast, in my old cradle, and the torn flesh have time to knit (as in the Caucasus) before being torn again. But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing. You think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something: a little "yes", a little "no" - enough to exterminate a regiment of dragoons. And yet I do not despair, this time (while saying who I am, where I am), of not losing me, of not going from here, of ending here. What prevents the miracle is the spirit of method to which I have perhaps been a little too addicted. The fact that Prometheus was delivered twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy years after having purged his offence leaves me naturally as cold as camphor. For between me and that miscreant who mocked the gods, invented fire, denatured clay and domesticated the horse (in a word, obliged humanity), I trust there is nothing in common. (But the thing is worth mentioning. ) In a word: shall I be able to speak of me and of this place without putting an end to us? Shall I ever be able to go silent? Is there any connection between these two questions? Nothing like issues. There are a few to be going on with (perhaps one only).
All these Murphys, Molloys and Malones do not fool me. They have made me waste my time, suffer for nothing, speak of them when (in order to stop speaking) I should have spoken of me and of me alone. But I just said I have spoken of me, am speaking of me. I don't care a curse what I just said. It is now I shall speak of me, for the first time. I thought I was right in enlisting these sufferers of my pains. I was wrong. They never suffered my pains. Their pains are nothing, compared to mine, a mere tittle of mine - the tittle I thought I could put from me, in order to witness it. Let them be gone now, them and all the others (those I have used and those I have not used), give me back the pains I lent them and vanish (from my life, my memory, my terrors and shames). There! Now there is no one here but me. No one wheels about me, no one comes towards me, no one has ever met anyone before my eyes. These creatures have never been: only I and this black void have ever been. And the sounds? No, all is
silent. And the lights, on which I had set such store - must they too go out? Yes, out with them: there is no light here. No grey either: black is what I should have said. Nothing then but me (of which I know nothing, except that I have never uttered) and this black (of which I know nothing either, except that it is black, and empty). That then is what (since I have to speak) I shall speak of, until I need speak no more. And Basil and his gang? Inexistent. Invented to explain I forget what. Ah yes, all lies. God and man, nature and the light of day, the heart's outpourings and the means of understanding: all invented, basely, by me alone (with the help of no one, since there is no one), to put off the hour when I must speak of me. There will be no more about them.
I. Of whom I know nothing. I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly. I know I am seated, my hands on my knees, because of the pressure against my rump, against the soles of my feet, against the palms of my hands, against my knees. (Against my palms the pressure is of my knees, against my knees of my palms. But what is it that presses against my rump, against the soles of my feet? I don't know. ) My spine is not supported. I mention these details to make sure I am not lying on my back, my legs raised and bent, my eyes closed. It is well to establish the position of the body from the outset, before passing on to more important matters. But what makes me say I gaze straight before me, as I have said? I feel my back straight, my neck stiff and free of twist and up on top of it the head, like the ball of the cup-and- ball in its cup at the end of the stick. (These comparisons are uncalled for. ) Then there is the way of flowing of my tears which flow all over my face, and even down along the neck, in a way it seems to me they could not do if the face were bowed, or lifted up. But I must not confuse the unbowed head with the level gaze, nor the vertical with the horizantal plane. (This question in any case is secondary, since I see nothing. ) Am I clothed? (I have often asked myself this question, then suddenly started talking about Malone's hat, or Molloy's greatcoat, or Murphy's suit. ) If I am, I am but lightly. For I feel my tears coursing over my chest, my sides, and all down my back. Ah yes, I am truly bathed in tears. They gather in my beard and from there, when it can hold no more No, no beard. No hair either. It is a great smooth ball I carry on my shoulders, featureless but for the eyes (of which only the sockets remain). And were it not for the distant testimony of my palms, my soles (which I have not yet been able to quash), I would gladly give myself the shape (if not the consistency) of an egg - with two holes no matter where to prevent it from bursting (for the consistency is more like that of mucilage). But softly, softly. Otherwise I'll never arrive. In the
matter of clothes then I can think of nothing for the moment but possibly puttees, with perhaps a few rags clinging to me here and there. No more obscenities either. Why should I have a sex, who have no longer a nose? All those things have fallen (all the things that stick out), with my eyes, my hair - without leaving a trace: fallen so far so deep, that I heard nothing (perhaps are falling still, my hair slowly like soot still): of the fall of my ears heard nothing. Mean words (and needless) from the mean old spirit: I invented love, music, the smell of flowering currant, to escape from me. Organs? Without? It's easy to imagine. A god? It's unavoidable. You imagine them, it's easy: the worst is dulled, you doze away, an instant. (Yes, God, fomentor of calm. I never believed, not a second. ) No more pauses either. Can I keep nothing then? Nothing of what has borne my poor thoughts, bent beneath my words, while I hid? I'll dry these streaming sockets too, bung them up. There: it's done. No more tears. I'm a big talking ball, talking about things that do not exist - or that exist perhaps (impossible to know, beside the point). Ah yes, quick: let me change my tune. And after all why a ball, rather than something else? And why big? Why not a cylinder? (A small cylinder. ) An egg? (A medium egg. ) No, that's the old nonsense. I always knew I was round, solid and round, without daring to say so: no asperities, no apertures. Invisible perhaps. Or as vast as Sirius in the Great Dog. Those expressions mean nothing. All that matters is that I am round and hard. (There must be reasons for that - for my being round and hard rather than of some irregular shape and subject to the dents and bulges incident to shock. But I have done with reasons. ) All the rest I renounce - including this ridiculous black which I thought for a moment worthier than grey to enfold me. (What rubbish all this stuff about light and dark! And how I have luxuriated in it! ) But do I roll, in the manner of a true ball? Or am I in equilibrium somewhere, on one of my numberless poles? I feel strongly tempted to inquire.
What reams of discourse I could elicit from this seemingly so legitimate preoccupation! But which would not be credited to me: no, between me and the right to silence, the living rest, stretches the same old lesson - the one I once knew by heart and would not say. (I don't know why: perhaps for fear of silence. Or thinking any old thing would do, and so for preference lies, in order to remain hidden. No importance. ) But now I shall say my old lesson, if I can remember it. Under the skies, on the roads, in the towns, in the woods, in the hills, in the plains, by the shores, on the seas, behind my mannikins (I was not always sad), I wasted my time, abjured my rights, suffered for nothing, forgot my lesson. Then a little hell after my own heart (not too cruel), with a few nice damned to foist my groans on, something sighing off and on and the distant gleam of pity's fires biding their hour to promote us to ashes. I speak
(speak? ) because I must, but I do not listen. I seek my lesson: my life I used to know and would not confess (hence possibly an occasional slight lack of limpidity). And perhaps now again I shall do no more than seek my lesson, to the self-accompaniment of a tongue that is not mine. But instead of saying what I should not have said (and what I shall say no more, if I can, and what I shall say - perhaps - if I can), should I not rather say some other thing? Even though it be not yet the right thing? I'll try, I'll try in another present (even though it be not yet mine). Without pauses, without tears, without eyes, without reasons. Let it be assumed then that I am at rest (though this is unimportant): at rest or forever moving (through the air or in contact with other surfaces). Or that I sometimes move, sometimes rest - since I feel nothing (neither quietude nor change), nothing that can serve as a point of departure towards an opinion on this subject. Which would not greatly matter if I possessed some general notions, and then the use of reason. But there it is: I feel nothing, know nothing. And as far as thinking is concerned I do just enough to preserve me from going silent - you can't call that thinking. Let us then assume nothing: neither that I move, nor that I don't (it's safer, since the thing is unimportant), and pass on to those that are. Namely? This voice that speaks (knowing that it lies), indifferent to what it says. Too old perhaps and too abased ever to succeed in saying the words that would be its last. Knowing itself useless and its uselessness in vain. Not listening to itself but to the silence that it breaks and whence perhaps one day will come stealing the long clear sigh of advent and farewell. (Is it one? I'll ask no more questions: there are no more questions, I know none any more. ) It issues from me, it fills me, it clamours against my walls. It is not mine. I can't stop it, I can't prevent it, from tearing me, racking me, assailing me. It is not mine, I have none: I have no voice and must speak, that is all I know. It's round that I must revolve, of that I must speak - with this voice that is not mine, but can only be mine, since there is no one but me. (Or if there are others, to whom it might belong, they have never come near me. ) I won't delay just now to make this clear. Perhaps they are watching me from afar (I have no objection, as long as I don't see them), watching me like a face in the embers which they know is doomed to crumble. But it takes too long: it's getting late, eyes are heavy and tomorrow they must rise betimes. So it is I who speak, all alone, since I can't do otherwise. No, I am speechless. Talking of speaking: what if I went silent? What would happen to me then? Worse than what is happening? But fie! These are questions again! That is typical. I know no more questions and they keep on pouring out of my mouth. I think I know what it is: it's to prevent the discourse from coming to an end - this futile discourse which is not credited to me and brings me not a syllable
nearer silence. But now I am on my guard. I shall not answer them any more (I shall not pretend any more to answer them). Perhaps I shall be obliged (in order not to peter out) to invent another fairy-tale, yet another - with heads, trunks, arms, legs and all that follows, let loose in the changeless round of imperfect shadow and dubious light. But I hope and trust not. But I always can if necessary. For while unfolding my facetiae, the last time that happened to me (or to the other who passes for me), I was not inattentive. And it seemed to me then that I heard a murmur telling of another and less unpleasant method of ending my troubles and that I even succeeded in catching (without ceasing for an instant to emit my "he said", and "he said to himself^', and "he asked", and "he answered") a certain number of highly promising formulae; and which indeed I promised myself to turn to good account at the first opportunity. (That is to say as soon as I had finished with my troop of lunatics. ) But all has gone clean from my head. For it is difficult to speak (even any old rubbish) and at the same time focus one's attention on another point, where one's true interest lies (as fitfully defined by a feeble murmur seeming to apologize for not being dead). And what it seemed to me I heard then (concerning what I should do, and say, in order to have nothing further to do, nothing further to say), it seemed to me I only barely heard it (because of the noise I was engaged in making elsewhere, in obedience to the unintelligible terms of an incomprehensible damnation). And yet I was sufficiently impressed by certain expressions to make a vow (while continuing my yelps) never to forget them - and (what is more) to ensure they should engender others and finally (in an irresistible torrent) banish from my vile mouth all other utterance (from my mouth spent in vain with vain inventions), all other utterance but theirs: the true at last, the last at last. But all is forgotten and I have done nothing - unless what I am doing now is something. And nothing could give me greater satisfaction. For if I could hear such a music at such a time (I mean while floundering through a ponderous chronicle of moribunds in their courses, moving, clashing, writhing or fallen in short-lived swoons), with how much more reason should I not hear it now, when supposedly I am burdened with myself alone? (But this is thinking again. ) And I see myself slipping (though not yet at the last extremity) towards the resorts of fable. Would it not be better if I were simply to keep on saying "bababa" (for example) while waiting to ascertain the true function of this venerable organ? Enough questions, enough reasoning. I resume, years later. Meaning I suppose that I went silent, that I can go silent. And now this noise again. (That is all rather obscure. ) I say "years", though here there are no years. What matter how long? Years is one of Basil's ideas. A short time, a long time? It's all the same. I kept silence, that's all that counts
(if that counts - I have forgotten if that is supposed to count). And now it is taken from me again. Silence, yes. But what silence? For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps. I listened. (One might as well speak and be done with it. What liberty! ) I strained my ear towards what must have been my voice still - so weak, so far, that it was like the sea, a far calm sea dying No, none of that: no beach, no shore - the sea is enough. I've had enough of shingle, enough of sand, enough of earth. (Enough of sea too. ) Decidedly Basil is becoming more important: I'll call him Mahood instead (I prefer that, I'm queer). It was he told me stories about me, lived in my stead, issued forth from me, came back to me, entered back into me, heaped stories on my head. I don't know how it was done. I always liked not knowing, but Mahood said it wasn't right. He didn't know either, but it worried him. It is his voice which has often, always, mingled with mine, and sometimes drowned it completely. Until he left me for good (or refused to leave me any more - I don't know). Yes, I don't know if he's here now or far away, but I don't think I am far wrong in saying that he has ceased to plague me. When he was away I tried to find myself again, to forget what he had said, about me, about my misfortunes: fatuous misfortunes, idiotic pains, in the light of my true situation (revolting word). But his voice continued to testify for me, as though woven into mine - preventing me from saying who I was, what I was (so as to have done with saying, done with listening). And still today (as he would say), though he plagues me no more his voice is there, in mine - but less, less. And being no longer renewed it will disappear one day, I hope, from mine, completely. But in order for that to happen I must speak. Speak. And at the same time (I do not deceive myself) he may come back again (or go away again and then come back again). Then my voice (? the" voice) would say: "That's an idea, now I'll tell one of Mahood's stories, I need a rest. " (Yes, that's how it would happen. ) And it would say: "Then refreshed, set about the truth again, with redoubled vigour. " To make me think I was a free agent. But it would not be my voice, not even in part. That is how it would be done. Or quietly, stealthily, the story would begin - as if nothing had happened and I still the teller and the told. But I would be fast asleep, my mouth agape, as usual: I would look the same as usual. And from my sleeping mouth the lies would pour, about me. (No, not sleeping: listening, in tears. ) But now? Is it I now? I on me? Sometimes I think it is. And then I realize it is not. I am doing my best, and failing again, yet again. I don't mind failing, it's a pleasure - but I want to go silent. Not as just now, the better to listen - but peacefully, victorious, without ulterior object. Then it would be a life worth having, a life at last. My speech-parched voice at rest would fill with spittle, I'd let it flow over and over, happy at last, dribbling with
life, my pensum ended, in the silence. I spoke (I must have spoken) of a lesson. It was "pensum" I should have said: I confused pensum with lesson. Yes, I have a pensum to discharge, before I can be free (free to dribble, free to speak no more, listen no more), and I've forgotten what it is. There at last is a fair picture of my situation. I was given a pensum (at birth perhaps), as a punishment for having been born perhaps (or for no particular reason, because they dislike me) - and I've forgotten what it is. But was I ever told? Squeeze, squeeze! Not too hard, but squeeze a little longer: this is perhaps about you, and your goal at hand. (After ten thousand words? Well let us say one goal - after it there will be others. ) Speak? Yes: but to me. I have never spoken enough to me, never listened enough to me, never replied enough to me, never had pity enough on me. I have spoken for my master, listened for the words of my master never spoken: "Well done, my child, well done, my son - you may stop, you may go, you are free, you are acquitted, you are pardoned. " Never spoken. "My master. " There is a vein I must not lose sight of. But for the moment my concern (but before I forget: there may be more than one, a whole college of tyrants, differing in their views as to what should be done with me, in conclave since time began or a little later, listening to me from time to time, then breaking up for a meal or a game of cards) my concern is with the pensum of which I think I may safely say (without loss of face) that it is in some way related to that lesson too hastily proclaimed, too hastily denied. For all I need say is this: that if I have a pensum to perform it is because I could not say my lesson; and that when I have finished my pensum I shall still have my lesson to say, before I have the right to stay quiet in my corner (alive and dribbling, my mouth shut, my tongue at rest) far from all disturbance, all sound, my mind at peace (that is to say, empty). But this does not get me very far. For even should I hit upon the right pensum (somewhere in this churn of words at last) I would still have to reconstitute the right lesson (unless of course the two are one and the same, which obviously is not impossible either). Strange notion in any case (and eminently open to suspicion), that of a task to be performed, before one can be at rest. Strange task, which consists in speaking of one self. Strange hope, turned towards silence and peace. Possessed of nothing but my voice (the voice), it may seem natural, once the idea of obligation has been swallowed, that I should interpret it as an obligation to say something. But is it possible? Bereft of hands, perhaps it is my duty to clap or (striking the palms together) to call the waiter; and of feet, to dance the Carmagnole. But let us first suppose, in order to get on a little (then we'll suppose something else, in order to get on a little further), that it is in fact required of me that I say something, something that is not to be found in all I have said up to now. That seems a reasonable
assumption. But thence to infer that the something required is something about me suddenly strikes me as unwarranted. Might it not rather be the praise of my master, intoned, in order to obtain his forgiveness? Or the admission that I am Mahood after all and these stories of a being whose identity he usurps (and whose voice he prevents from being heard) all lies from beginning to end? And what if Mahood were my master? I'll leave it at that, for the time being. So many prospects in so short a time, it's too much. Decidedly it seems impossible, at this stage, that I should dispense with questions, as I promised myself I would. (No, I merely swore I'd stop asking them. ) And perhaps before long (who knows) I shall light on the happy combination which will prevent them from ever arising again in my - let us not be over-nice - mind. For what I am doing is not being done without a minimum of mind. Not mine perhaps (granted, with pleasure), but I draw on it. At least I try and look as if I did. Rich matter there, to be exploited, fatten you up: suck it to the core, keep you going for years, tasty into the bargain. I quiver at the thought (give you my word, spoken in jest), quiver and hurry on, all life before me, on and forget, what I was saying, just now, something important. It's gone, it'll come back, no regrets (as good as new? unrecognizable? let's hope so), some day when I feel more on for high-class nuts to crack. On. The master. I never paid him enough attention. (No more perhapses either: that old trick is worn to a thread. I'll forbid myself everything, then go on as if I hadn't. ) The master. A few allusions here and there, as to a satrap, with a view to enlisting sympathy. "They clothed me and gave me money" - that kind of thing, the light touch. Then no more. Or Moran's boss (I forget his name). Ah yes, certain things, things I invented (hoping for the best, full of doubts, croaking with fatigue) - I remember certain things, not always the same. But to investigate this matter seriously (I mean with as much futile ardour as that of the underling, which I hoped was mine, close to mine, the road to mine) - no, that never occurred to me. And if it occurs to me now it is because I have despaired of mine. A moment of discouragement, to strike while hot. My master then (assuming he is solitary, in my image) wishes me well, poor devil, wishes my good. And if he does not seem to do very much in order not to be disappointed it is because there is not very much to be done - otherwise he would have done it, my great and good master (that must be it), long ago, poor devil. Another supposition: he has taken the necessary steps, his will is done as far as I am concerned (for he may have other prot ^ s), and all is well with me without my knowing it. Cases one and two. I'll consider the former first, if I can. Then I'll admire the latter, if my eyes are still open. (This sounds like one of Malone's anecdotes. ) But quick, consider, before you forget. There he is then, the unfortunate brute, quite
miserable because of me, for whom there is nothing to be done - and he so anxious to help, so used to giving orders and to being obeyed. There he is, ever since I came into the world (possibly at his instigation, I wouldn't put it past him), commanding me to be well (you know, in every way, no complaints at all), with as much success as if he were shouting at a lump of inanimate matter. If he is not pleased with this panegyric I hope I may be I nearly said hanged - but that I hope in any case, without restriction (I nearly said con-). That would cut my cackle. Ah for a neck! "I want all to be well with you, do you hear me? " That's what he keeps on dinning at me. To which I reply, in a respectful attitude: "I too, your Lordship. " I say that to cheer him up, he sounds so unhappy. (I am good-hearted, on the surface.
Perhaps it is time I paid a little attention to myself, for a change. (I shall be reduced to it sooner or later. ) At first sight it seems impossible. Me? Utter me? In the same foul breath as my creatures? Say of me that I see this, feel that? Fear, hope? Know and do not know? Yes, I will say it, and of me alone. Impassive, still and mute, Malone revolves, a stranger forever to my infirmities: one who is not as I can never not be. I am motionless in vain, he is the god. And the other? I have assigned him eyes that implore me, offerings for me, need of succour. He does not look at me, does not know of me, wants for nothing. I alone am man and all the rest divine.
Air. The air. Is there anything to be squeezed from that old chestnut? Close to me it is grey, dimly transparent, and beyond that charmed circle deepens and spreads its fine
impenetrable veils. Is it I who cast the faint light that enables me to see what goes on under my nose? There is nothing to be gained, for the moment, by supposing so. There is no night so deep (so I have heard tell) that it may not be pierced in the end, with the help of no other light than that of the blackened sky, or of the earth itself. Nothing nocturnal here. This grey, first murky, then frankly opaque, is luminous none the less. But may not this screen which my eyes probe in vain, and see as denser air, in reality be the enclosure wall, as compact as lead? To elucidate this point I would need a stick or pole, and the means of plying it (the former being of little avail without the latter, and vice versa). (I could also do, incidentally, with future and conditional participles. ) Then I would dart it, like a javelin, straight before me and know (by the sound made) whether that which hems me round, and blots out my world, is the old void, or a plenum. Or else (without letting it go) I would wield it like a sword and thrust it through empty air - or against the barrier. But the days of sticks are over. Here I can count on my body alone: my body incapable of the smallest movement, and whose very eyes can no longer close as they once could (according to Basil and his crew) to rest me from seeing, to rest me from waking, to darken me to sleep; and no longer look away, or down, or up open to heaven: but must remain forever fixed and staring on the narrow space before them where there is nothing to be seen (99 per cent of the time). They must be as red as live coals. I sometimes wonder if the two retinae are not facing each other. And come to think of it this grey is shot with rose (like the plumage of certain birds, among which I seem to remember the cockatoo).
Whether all grow black, or all grow bright, or all remain grey, it is grey we need, to begin with, because of what it is, and of what it can do, made of bright and black: able to shed the former, or the latter, and be the latter or the former alone. (But perhaps I am the prey - on the subject of grey, in the grey - to delusions. )
How, in such conditions, can I write (to consider only the manual aspect of that bitter folly)? I don't know. I could know. But I shall not know. Not this time. It is I who write, who cannot raise my hand from my knee. It is I who think (just enough to write), whose head is far. I am Matthew and I am the angel - I who came before the cross, before the sinning: came into the world, came here.
I add this, to be on the safe side: these things I say (and shall say, if I can) are no longer, or are not yet, or never were, or never will be - or (if they were, if they are, if they will be) were not here, are not here, will not be here, but elsewhere. But I am
here. So I am obliged to add this: I who am here, who cannot speak, cannot think, and who must speak (and therefore perhaps think a little), cannot in relation only to me who am here, to here where I am; but can a little, sufficiently (I don't know how, unimportant), in relation to me who was elsewhere (who shall be elsewhere) and to those places where I was (where I shall be). But I have never been elsewhere (however uncertain the future). And the simplest therefore is to say that what I say (what I shall say, if I can) relates to the place where I am, to me who am there (in spite of my inability to think of these, or to speak of them), because of the compulsion I am under to speak of them (and therefore perhaps think of them a little). Another thing: what I say (what I may say) on this subject (the subject of me and my abode) has already been said - since, having always been here, I am here still. (At last a piece of reasoning that pleases me, and worthy of my situation! ) So I have no cause for anxiety. And yet I am anxious. So I am not heading for disaster: I am not heading anywhere. My adventures are over, my say said. (I call that my adventures! ) And yet I feel not. And indeed I greatly fear, since my speech can only be of me and here, that I am once more engaged in putting an end to both. Which would not matter (far from it) but for the obligation, once rid of them, to begin again: to start again (from nowhere, from no one and from nothing) and win to me again, to me here again. (By fresh ways to be sure. Or by the ancient ways, unrecognizable at each fresh faring). Whence a certain confusion in the exordia - long enough to situate the condemned and prepare him for execution. And yet I do not despair of one day sparing me, without going silent. And that day (I don't know why) I shall be able to go silent, and make an end: I know it. Yes, the hope is there, once again, of not making me, not losing me, of staying here (where I said I have always been, but I had to say something quick), of ending here: it would be wonderful. But is it to be wished? Yes, it is to be wished: to end would be wonderful - no matter who I am, no matter where I am.
I hope this preamble will soon come to an end and the statement begin that will dispose of me. Unfortunately I am afraid (as always) of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again (a stranger first, then little by little the same as always) in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing (being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking) but of which little by little - in spite of these handicaps - I shall begin to know something: just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want (take your choice), which spews me out or swallows me up (I'll
never know), which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess (or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back), and ever murmuring my old stories (my old story), as if it were the first time. So there is nothing to be afraid of. And yet I am afraid: afraid of what my words will do to me, to my refuge, yet again. Is there really nothing new to try? (I mentioned my hope, but it is not serious. ) If I could speak and yet say nothing, really nothing? Then I might escape being gnawed to death as by an old satiated rat (and my little tester-bed along with me, a cradle) - or be gnawed to death not so fast, in my old cradle, and the torn flesh have time to knit (as in the Caucasus) before being torn again. But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing. You think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something: a little "yes", a little "no" - enough to exterminate a regiment of dragoons. And yet I do not despair, this time (while saying who I am, where I am), of not losing me, of not going from here, of ending here. What prevents the miracle is the spirit of method to which I have perhaps been a little too addicted. The fact that Prometheus was delivered twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy years after having purged his offence leaves me naturally as cold as camphor. For between me and that miscreant who mocked the gods, invented fire, denatured clay and domesticated the horse (in a word, obliged humanity), I trust there is nothing in common. (But the thing is worth mentioning. ) In a word: shall I be able to speak of me and of this place without putting an end to us? Shall I ever be able to go silent? Is there any connection between these two questions? Nothing like issues. There are a few to be going on with (perhaps one only).
All these Murphys, Molloys and Malones do not fool me. They have made me waste my time, suffer for nothing, speak of them when (in order to stop speaking) I should have spoken of me and of me alone. But I just said I have spoken of me, am speaking of me. I don't care a curse what I just said. It is now I shall speak of me, for the first time. I thought I was right in enlisting these sufferers of my pains. I was wrong. They never suffered my pains. Their pains are nothing, compared to mine, a mere tittle of mine - the tittle I thought I could put from me, in order to witness it. Let them be gone now, them and all the others (those I have used and those I have not used), give me back the pains I lent them and vanish (from my life, my memory, my terrors and shames). There! Now there is no one here but me. No one wheels about me, no one comes towards me, no one has ever met anyone before my eyes. These creatures have never been: only I and this black void have ever been. And the sounds? No, all is
silent. And the lights, on which I had set such store - must they too go out? Yes, out with them: there is no light here. No grey either: black is what I should have said. Nothing then but me (of which I know nothing, except that I have never uttered) and this black (of which I know nothing either, except that it is black, and empty). That then is what (since I have to speak) I shall speak of, until I need speak no more. And Basil and his gang? Inexistent. Invented to explain I forget what. Ah yes, all lies. God and man, nature and the light of day, the heart's outpourings and the means of understanding: all invented, basely, by me alone (with the help of no one, since there is no one), to put off the hour when I must speak of me. There will be no more about them.
I. Of whom I know nothing. I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly. I know I am seated, my hands on my knees, because of the pressure against my rump, against the soles of my feet, against the palms of my hands, against my knees. (Against my palms the pressure is of my knees, against my knees of my palms. But what is it that presses against my rump, against the soles of my feet? I don't know. ) My spine is not supported. I mention these details to make sure I am not lying on my back, my legs raised and bent, my eyes closed. It is well to establish the position of the body from the outset, before passing on to more important matters. But what makes me say I gaze straight before me, as I have said? I feel my back straight, my neck stiff and free of twist and up on top of it the head, like the ball of the cup-and- ball in its cup at the end of the stick. (These comparisons are uncalled for. ) Then there is the way of flowing of my tears which flow all over my face, and even down along the neck, in a way it seems to me they could not do if the face were bowed, or lifted up. But I must not confuse the unbowed head with the level gaze, nor the vertical with the horizantal plane. (This question in any case is secondary, since I see nothing. ) Am I clothed? (I have often asked myself this question, then suddenly started talking about Malone's hat, or Molloy's greatcoat, or Murphy's suit. ) If I am, I am but lightly. For I feel my tears coursing over my chest, my sides, and all down my back. Ah yes, I am truly bathed in tears. They gather in my beard and from there, when it can hold no more No, no beard. No hair either. It is a great smooth ball I carry on my shoulders, featureless but for the eyes (of which only the sockets remain). And were it not for the distant testimony of my palms, my soles (which I have not yet been able to quash), I would gladly give myself the shape (if not the consistency) of an egg - with two holes no matter where to prevent it from bursting (for the consistency is more like that of mucilage). But softly, softly. Otherwise I'll never arrive. In the
matter of clothes then I can think of nothing for the moment but possibly puttees, with perhaps a few rags clinging to me here and there. No more obscenities either. Why should I have a sex, who have no longer a nose? All those things have fallen (all the things that stick out), with my eyes, my hair - without leaving a trace: fallen so far so deep, that I heard nothing (perhaps are falling still, my hair slowly like soot still): of the fall of my ears heard nothing. Mean words (and needless) from the mean old spirit: I invented love, music, the smell of flowering currant, to escape from me. Organs? Without? It's easy to imagine. A god? It's unavoidable. You imagine them, it's easy: the worst is dulled, you doze away, an instant. (Yes, God, fomentor of calm. I never believed, not a second. ) No more pauses either. Can I keep nothing then? Nothing of what has borne my poor thoughts, bent beneath my words, while I hid? I'll dry these streaming sockets too, bung them up. There: it's done. No more tears. I'm a big talking ball, talking about things that do not exist - or that exist perhaps (impossible to know, beside the point). Ah yes, quick: let me change my tune. And after all why a ball, rather than something else? And why big? Why not a cylinder? (A small cylinder. ) An egg? (A medium egg. ) No, that's the old nonsense. I always knew I was round, solid and round, without daring to say so: no asperities, no apertures. Invisible perhaps. Or as vast as Sirius in the Great Dog. Those expressions mean nothing. All that matters is that I am round and hard. (There must be reasons for that - for my being round and hard rather than of some irregular shape and subject to the dents and bulges incident to shock. But I have done with reasons. ) All the rest I renounce - including this ridiculous black which I thought for a moment worthier than grey to enfold me. (What rubbish all this stuff about light and dark! And how I have luxuriated in it! ) But do I roll, in the manner of a true ball? Or am I in equilibrium somewhere, on one of my numberless poles? I feel strongly tempted to inquire.
What reams of discourse I could elicit from this seemingly so legitimate preoccupation! But which would not be credited to me: no, between me and the right to silence, the living rest, stretches the same old lesson - the one I once knew by heart and would not say. (I don't know why: perhaps for fear of silence. Or thinking any old thing would do, and so for preference lies, in order to remain hidden. No importance. ) But now I shall say my old lesson, if I can remember it. Under the skies, on the roads, in the towns, in the woods, in the hills, in the plains, by the shores, on the seas, behind my mannikins (I was not always sad), I wasted my time, abjured my rights, suffered for nothing, forgot my lesson. Then a little hell after my own heart (not too cruel), with a few nice damned to foist my groans on, something sighing off and on and the distant gleam of pity's fires biding their hour to promote us to ashes. I speak
(speak? ) because I must, but I do not listen. I seek my lesson: my life I used to know and would not confess (hence possibly an occasional slight lack of limpidity). And perhaps now again I shall do no more than seek my lesson, to the self-accompaniment of a tongue that is not mine. But instead of saying what I should not have said (and what I shall say no more, if I can, and what I shall say - perhaps - if I can), should I not rather say some other thing? Even though it be not yet the right thing? I'll try, I'll try in another present (even though it be not yet mine). Without pauses, without tears, without eyes, without reasons. Let it be assumed then that I am at rest (though this is unimportant): at rest or forever moving (through the air or in contact with other surfaces). Or that I sometimes move, sometimes rest - since I feel nothing (neither quietude nor change), nothing that can serve as a point of departure towards an opinion on this subject. Which would not greatly matter if I possessed some general notions, and then the use of reason. But there it is: I feel nothing, know nothing. And as far as thinking is concerned I do just enough to preserve me from going silent - you can't call that thinking. Let us then assume nothing: neither that I move, nor that I don't (it's safer, since the thing is unimportant), and pass on to those that are. Namely? This voice that speaks (knowing that it lies), indifferent to what it says. Too old perhaps and too abased ever to succeed in saying the words that would be its last. Knowing itself useless and its uselessness in vain. Not listening to itself but to the silence that it breaks and whence perhaps one day will come stealing the long clear sigh of advent and farewell. (Is it one? I'll ask no more questions: there are no more questions, I know none any more. ) It issues from me, it fills me, it clamours against my walls. It is not mine. I can't stop it, I can't prevent it, from tearing me, racking me, assailing me. It is not mine, I have none: I have no voice and must speak, that is all I know. It's round that I must revolve, of that I must speak - with this voice that is not mine, but can only be mine, since there is no one but me. (Or if there are others, to whom it might belong, they have never come near me. ) I won't delay just now to make this clear. Perhaps they are watching me from afar (I have no objection, as long as I don't see them), watching me like a face in the embers which they know is doomed to crumble. But it takes too long: it's getting late, eyes are heavy and tomorrow they must rise betimes. So it is I who speak, all alone, since I can't do otherwise. No, I am speechless. Talking of speaking: what if I went silent? What would happen to me then? Worse than what is happening? But fie! These are questions again! That is typical. I know no more questions and they keep on pouring out of my mouth. I think I know what it is: it's to prevent the discourse from coming to an end - this futile discourse which is not credited to me and brings me not a syllable
nearer silence. But now I am on my guard. I shall not answer them any more (I shall not pretend any more to answer them). Perhaps I shall be obliged (in order not to peter out) to invent another fairy-tale, yet another - with heads, trunks, arms, legs and all that follows, let loose in the changeless round of imperfect shadow and dubious light. But I hope and trust not. But I always can if necessary. For while unfolding my facetiae, the last time that happened to me (or to the other who passes for me), I was not inattentive. And it seemed to me then that I heard a murmur telling of another and less unpleasant method of ending my troubles and that I even succeeded in catching (without ceasing for an instant to emit my "he said", and "he said to himself^', and "he asked", and "he answered") a certain number of highly promising formulae; and which indeed I promised myself to turn to good account at the first opportunity. (That is to say as soon as I had finished with my troop of lunatics. ) But all has gone clean from my head. For it is difficult to speak (even any old rubbish) and at the same time focus one's attention on another point, where one's true interest lies (as fitfully defined by a feeble murmur seeming to apologize for not being dead). And what it seemed to me I heard then (concerning what I should do, and say, in order to have nothing further to do, nothing further to say), it seemed to me I only barely heard it (because of the noise I was engaged in making elsewhere, in obedience to the unintelligible terms of an incomprehensible damnation). And yet I was sufficiently impressed by certain expressions to make a vow (while continuing my yelps) never to forget them - and (what is more) to ensure they should engender others and finally (in an irresistible torrent) banish from my vile mouth all other utterance (from my mouth spent in vain with vain inventions), all other utterance but theirs: the true at last, the last at last. But all is forgotten and I have done nothing - unless what I am doing now is something. And nothing could give me greater satisfaction. For if I could hear such a music at such a time (I mean while floundering through a ponderous chronicle of moribunds in their courses, moving, clashing, writhing or fallen in short-lived swoons), with how much more reason should I not hear it now, when supposedly I am burdened with myself alone? (But this is thinking again. ) And I see myself slipping (though not yet at the last extremity) towards the resorts of fable. Would it not be better if I were simply to keep on saying "bababa" (for example) while waiting to ascertain the true function of this venerable organ? Enough questions, enough reasoning. I resume, years later. Meaning I suppose that I went silent, that I can go silent. And now this noise again. (That is all rather obscure. ) I say "years", though here there are no years. What matter how long? Years is one of Basil's ideas. A short time, a long time? It's all the same. I kept silence, that's all that counts
(if that counts - I have forgotten if that is supposed to count). And now it is taken from me again. Silence, yes. But what silence? For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps. I listened. (One might as well speak and be done with it. What liberty! ) I strained my ear towards what must have been my voice still - so weak, so far, that it was like the sea, a far calm sea dying No, none of that: no beach, no shore - the sea is enough. I've had enough of shingle, enough of sand, enough of earth. (Enough of sea too. ) Decidedly Basil is becoming more important: I'll call him Mahood instead (I prefer that, I'm queer). It was he told me stories about me, lived in my stead, issued forth from me, came back to me, entered back into me, heaped stories on my head. I don't know how it was done. I always liked not knowing, but Mahood said it wasn't right. He didn't know either, but it worried him. It is his voice which has often, always, mingled with mine, and sometimes drowned it completely. Until he left me for good (or refused to leave me any more - I don't know). Yes, I don't know if he's here now or far away, but I don't think I am far wrong in saying that he has ceased to plague me. When he was away I tried to find myself again, to forget what he had said, about me, about my misfortunes: fatuous misfortunes, idiotic pains, in the light of my true situation (revolting word). But his voice continued to testify for me, as though woven into mine - preventing me from saying who I was, what I was (so as to have done with saying, done with listening). And still today (as he would say), though he plagues me no more his voice is there, in mine - but less, less. And being no longer renewed it will disappear one day, I hope, from mine, completely. But in order for that to happen I must speak. Speak. And at the same time (I do not deceive myself) he may come back again (or go away again and then come back again). Then my voice (? the" voice) would say: "That's an idea, now I'll tell one of Mahood's stories, I need a rest. " (Yes, that's how it would happen. ) And it would say: "Then refreshed, set about the truth again, with redoubled vigour. " To make me think I was a free agent. But it would not be my voice, not even in part. That is how it would be done. Or quietly, stealthily, the story would begin - as if nothing had happened and I still the teller and the told. But I would be fast asleep, my mouth agape, as usual: I would look the same as usual. And from my sleeping mouth the lies would pour, about me. (No, not sleeping: listening, in tears. ) But now? Is it I now? I on me? Sometimes I think it is. And then I realize it is not. I am doing my best, and failing again, yet again. I don't mind failing, it's a pleasure - but I want to go silent. Not as just now, the better to listen - but peacefully, victorious, without ulterior object. Then it would be a life worth having, a life at last. My speech-parched voice at rest would fill with spittle, I'd let it flow over and over, happy at last, dribbling with
life, my pensum ended, in the silence. I spoke (I must have spoken) of a lesson. It was "pensum" I should have said: I confused pensum with lesson. Yes, I have a pensum to discharge, before I can be free (free to dribble, free to speak no more, listen no more), and I've forgotten what it is. There at last is a fair picture of my situation. I was given a pensum (at birth perhaps), as a punishment for having been born perhaps (or for no particular reason, because they dislike me) - and I've forgotten what it is. But was I ever told? Squeeze, squeeze! Not too hard, but squeeze a little longer: this is perhaps about you, and your goal at hand. (After ten thousand words? Well let us say one goal - after it there will be others. ) Speak? Yes: but to me. I have never spoken enough to me, never listened enough to me, never replied enough to me, never had pity enough on me. I have spoken for my master, listened for the words of my master never spoken: "Well done, my child, well done, my son - you may stop, you may go, you are free, you are acquitted, you are pardoned. " Never spoken. "My master. " There is a vein I must not lose sight of. But for the moment my concern (but before I forget: there may be more than one, a whole college of tyrants, differing in their views as to what should be done with me, in conclave since time began or a little later, listening to me from time to time, then breaking up for a meal or a game of cards) my concern is with the pensum of which I think I may safely say (without loss of face) that it is in some way related to that lesson too hastily proclaimed, too hastily denied. For all I need say is this: that if I have a pensum to perform it is because I could not say my lesson; and that when I have finished my pensum I shall still have my lesson to say, before I have the right to stay quiet in my corner (alive and dribbling, my mouth shut, my tongue at rest) far from all disturbance, all sound, my mind at peace (that is to say, empty). But this does not get me very far. For even should I hit upon the right pensum (somewhere in this churn of words at last) I would still have to reconstitute the right lesson (unless of course the two are one and the same, which obviously is not impossible either). Strange notion in any case (and eminently open to suspicion), that of a task to be performed, before one can be at rest. Strange task, which consists in speaking of one self. Strange hope, turned towards silence and peace. Possessed of nothing but my voice (the voice), it may seem natural, once the idea of obligation has been swallowed, that I should interpret it as an obligation to say something. But is it possible? Bereft of hands, perhaps it is my duty to clap or (striking the palms together) to call the waiter; and of feet, to dance the Carmagnole. But let us first suppose, in order to get on a little (then we'll suppose something else, in order to get on a little further), that it is in fact required of me that I say something, something that is not to be found in all I have said up to now. That seems a reasonable
assumption. But thence to infer that the something required is something about me suddenly strikes me as unwarranted. Might it not rather be the praise of my master, intoned, in order to obtain his forgiveness? Or the admission that I am Mahood after all and these stories of a being whose identity he usurps (and whose voice he prevents from being heard) all lies from beginning to end? And what if Mahood were my master? I'll leave it at that, for the time being. So many prospects in so short a time, it's too much. Decidedly it seems impossible, at this stage, that I should dispense with questions, as I promised myself I would. (No, I merely swore I'd stop asking them. ) And perhaps before long (who knows) I shall light on the happy combination which will prevent them from ever arising again in my - let us not be over-nice - mind. For what I am doing is not being done without a minimum of mind. Not mine perhaps (granted, with pleasure), but I draw on it. At least I try and look as if I did. Rich matter there, to be exploited, fatten you up: suck it to the core, keep you going for years, tasty into the bargain. I quiver at the thought (give you my word, spoken in jest), quiver and hurry on, all life before me, on and forget, what I was saying, just now, something important. It's gone, it'll come back, no regrets (as good as new? unrecognizable? let's hope so), some day when I feel more on for high-class nuts to crack. On. The master. I never paid him enough attention. (No more perhapses either: that old trick is worn to a thread. I'll forbid myself everything, then go on as if I hadn't. ) The master. A few allusions here and there, as to a satrap, with a view to enlisting sympathy. "They clothed me and gave me money" - that kind of thing, the light touch. Then no more. Or Moran's boss (I forget his name). Ah yes, certain things, things I invented (hoping for the best, full of doubts, croaking with fatigue) - I remember certain things, not always the same. But to investigate this matter seriously (I mean with as much futile ardour as that of the underling, which I hoped was mine, close to mine, the road to mine) - no, that never occurred to me. And if it occurs to me now it is because I have despaired of mine. A moment of discouragement, to strike while hot. My master then (assuming he is solitary, in my image) wishes me well, poor devil, wishes my good. And if he does not seem to do very much in order not to be disappointed it is because there is not very much to be done - otherwise he would have done it, my great and good master (that must be it), long ago, poor devil. Another supposition: he has taken the necessary steps, his will is done as far as I am concerned (for he may have other prot ^ s), and all is well with me without my knowing it. Cases one and two. I'll consider the former first, if I can. Then I'll admire the latter, if my eyes are still open. (This sounds like one of Malone's anecdotes. ) But quick, consider, before you forget. There he is then, the unfortunate brute, quite
miserable because of me, for whom there is nothing to be done - and he so anxious to help, so used to giving orders and to being obeyed. There he is, ever since I came into the world (possibly at his instigation, I wouldn't put it past him), commanding me to be well (you know, in every way, no complaints at all), with as much success as if he were shouting at a lump of inanimate matter. If he is not pleased with this panegyric I hope I may be I nearly said hanged - but that I hope in any case, without restriction (I nearly said con-). That would cut my cackle. Ah for a neck! "I want all to be well with you, do you hear me? " That's what he keeps on dinning at me. To which I reply, in a respectful attitude: "I too, your Lordship. " I say that to cheer him up, he sounds so unhappy. (I am good-hearted, on the surface.
