But what then of that other old age they bestowed upon me (if I
remember
right), and that other middle age, when neither legs nor arms were lacking, but simply the power to profit by them?
Samuel Beckett
And my family could have moved to other quarters during my absence, and settled down a hundred leagues away, without my deviating by as much as a hair's- breadth from my course.
As for the screams of pain and wafts of decomposition (assuming I was capable of noticing them), they would have seemed to me quite in the natural order of things, such as I had come to know it.
If before such manifestations I had been compelled each time to turn aside, I should not have got very far.
Washed (on the surface only) by the rains, my head cracking with unutterable imprecations, it was for myself I should have had to turn aside, before all else.
(After all perhaps I was doing so: that would account for my vaguely circular motion.
) Lies, lies: mine was not to know, nor to judge, nor talk, but to go.
That the bacillus botulinus should have exterminated my entire kith and kin (I shall never weary or repeating this) was something I could readily admit - but only on condition that my personal behaviour had not to suffer by it. Let us rather consider what really took place, if Mahood was telling the truth. And why should he have lied to me, he so anxious to obtain my adhesion? (To what, now that I come to think of it? To his conception of me? ) Why? For fear of paining me perhaps. But I am there to be pained, that is what my tempters have never grasped. What they all wanted (each according to his particular notion of what is endurable) was that I should exist and at the same time be only moderately (or perhaps I should say finitely) pained. They have even killed me off, with the friendly remark that having reached the end of my endurance I had no choice but to disappear. (The end of my endurance! It was one second they should have schooled me to endure: after that I would have held out for all eternity, whistling a merry tune. ) The hard knocks they invented for me! But the bouquet was this story of Mahood's in which I appear as upset at having been delivered so economically of a pack of blood relations (not to mention the two cunts into the bargain: the one for ever accursed that ejected me into this world and the other, infundibuliform, in which - pumping my likes - I tried to take my revenge). To tell the truth (let us be honest at least), it is some considerable time now since I last knew what I was talking about. It is because my thoughts are elsewhere. I am therefore forgiven. So long as one's thoughts are somewhere everything is permitted. On then, without misgiving, as if nothing had happened. And let us consider what really took place (if Mahood was telling me the truth when he represented me as rid at one glorious sweep of parents, wife and heirs). I've plenty of time to blow it all sky-high, this circus where it is enough to breathe to qualify for asphyxiation: I'll find a way out of it, it won't be like the other times. But I should not like to defame my defamer. For when he made me turn and set off in the other direction, before I had exhausted the possibilities of the one I was pursuing, he had not in mind a shrinking of the spirit, not for a moment: but a purely physiological commotion, followed by a simple desire to vomit - corresponding respectively to the howls of my family as they grudgingly succumbed and the subsequent stench (this latter compelling me to beat in retreat under penalty of losing consciousness entirely). (This version of the facts having been restored, it only remains to say it is no better than the other and no less incompatible with the kind of creature I might just conceivably have been if they had known how to take me. ) So let us consider now what really occurred. Finally I found myself, without surprise, within the building (circular in form as already stated, its ground-floor consisting of a single room flush with the arena) and there completed my
rounds - stamping under foot the unrecognizable remains of my family (here a face, there a stomach, as the case might be), and sinking into them with the ends of my crutches, both coming and going. To say I did so with satisfaction would be stretching the truth. For my feeling was rather one of annoyance at having to flounder in such muck just at the moment when my closing contortions called for a firm and level surface. I like to fancy (even if it is not true) that it was in mother's entrails I spent the last days of my long voyage, and set out on the next. (No, I have no preference: Isolde's breast would have done just as well, or papa's private parts, or the heart of one of the little bastards. ) But is it certain? Would I have not been more likely, in a sudden access of independence, to devour what remained of the fatal corned-beef? How often did I fall during these final stages, while the storms raged without? But enough of this nonsense: I was never anywhere but here, no one ever got me out of here. Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage leaf that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle. There will be no more from me about bodies and trajectories, sky and earth - I don't know what it all is. They have told me, explained to me, described to me, what it all is, what it looks like, what it's all for (one after the other, thousands of times, in thousands of connections), until I must have begun to look as if I understood. Who would ever think, to hear me, that I've never seen anything, never heard anything but their voices? (And man! The lectures they gave me on men, before they even began trying to assimilate me to him! ) What I speak of, what I speak with, all comes from them - it's all the same to me. But it's no good, there's no end to it. It's of me now I must speak, even if I have to do it with their language. It will be a start, a step towards silence and the end of madness: the madness of having to speak and not being able to - except of things that don't concern me, that I don't believe, that they have crammed me full of to prevent me from saying who I am, where I am, and from doing what I have to do in the only way that can put an end to it, from doing what I have to do. How they must hate me! Ah a nice state they have me in - but still I'm not their creature (not quite, not yet). To testify to them, until I die (as if there was any dying with that tomfoolery): that's what they've sworn they'll bring me to. Not to be able to open my mouth without proclaiming them, and our fellowship: that's what they imagine they'll have me reduced to. It's a poor trick that consists in ramming a set of words down your gullet on the principle that you can't bring them up without being branded as belonging to their breed. But I'll fix their gibberish for them. I never understood a word of it in any case - not a word of the stories it spews, like gobbets in a vomit. My inability to absorb, my genius for
forgetting, are more than they reckoned with. Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself in the end. Nothing will remain of all the lies they have glutted me with. And I'll be myself at last (as a starveling belches his odourless wind, before the bliss of coma). But who, they? Is it really worth inquiring? With my cogged means? No, but that's no reason not to. On their own ground, with their own arms, I'll scatter them, and their miscreated puppets. (Perhaps I'll find traces of myself by the same occasion. ) That's decided then. What is strange is that they haven't been pestering me for some time past (yes, they've inflicted the notion of time on me too). What conclusion, using their methods, am I to draw from this? Mahood is silent: that is to say his voice continues, but is no longer renewed. Do they consider me so plastered with their rubbish that I can never extricate myself, never make a gesture but their cast must come to life? But within, motionless, I can live, and utter me, for no ears but my own. They loaded me down with their trappings and stoned me through the carnival. I'll sham dead now, whom they couldn't bring to life, and my monster's carapace will rot off me. But it's entirely a matter of voices: no other metaphor is appropriate. They've blown me up with their voices, like a balloon, and even as I collapse it's them I hear. Who, them? And why nothing more from them lately? Can it be they have abandoned me, saying "Very well, there's nothing to be done with him, let's leave it at that, he's not dangerous"? Ah but the little murmur of unconsenting man, to murmur what it is their humanity stifles! The little gasp of the condemned to life, rotting in his dungeon garrotted and racked, to gasp what it is to have to celebrate banishment! Beware! No, they have nothing to fear. I am walled round with their vociferations. No one will ever know what I am, none will ever hear me say it: I won't say it, I can't say it, I have no language but theirs. No, perhaps I'll say it (even with their language), for me alone - so as not to have not lived in vain, and so as to go silent. (If that is what confers the right to silence - and it's unlikely: it's they who have silence in their gift, they who decide, the same old gang, among themselves. ) No matter, to hell with silence: I'll say what I am, so as not to have been born for nothing. I'll fix their jargon for them. Then any old thing (no matter what, whatever they want), with a will, till time is done - at least with a good grace. First I'll say what I'm not (that's how they taught me to proceed), then what I am. It's already under way: I have only to resume at the point where I let myself be cowed. I am neither (I needn't say) Murphy, nor Watt, nor Mercier, nor, (no, I can't even bring myself to name them, nor any of the others whose very names I forget, who told me I was they, who I must have tried to be - under duress, or through fear, or to avoid acknowledging me): not the slightest connection. I never desired, never sought, never suffered, never
partook in any of that, never knew what it was to have things, adversaries, mind, senses. But enough of this. There is no use denying, no use harping on the same old thing I know so well, and so easy to say - and which simply amounts in the end to speaking yet again in the way they intend me to speak: that is to say about them (even with execration and disbelief). Perhaps they exist in the way they have decreed will be mine? It's possible: I don't know and I'm not interested. (If they had taught me how to wish I'd wish they did. ) There's no getting rid of them without naming them and their contraptions, that's the thing to keep in mind. I might as well tell another of Mahood's stories and no more about it (to be understood in the way I was given to understand it: namely as being about me). That's an idea. To heighten my disgust. I'll recite it. This will leave me free to consider how I may best proceed with my own affair, beginning again at the point where I had to interrupt it (under duress, or through fear, or through ignorance). It will be the last story. I'll try and look as if I was telling it willingly, to keep them quiet in case they should feel like refreshing my memory (on the subject of my behaviour above in the island, among my compatriots, coreligionists and companions in distress). This will leave me free to consider how to set about showing myself forth. No one will be any the wiser. But who are these maniacs let loose on me from on high for what they call my good? Let us first try and throw a little light on that. To tell the truth, No, first the story. The island. I'm on the island. I've never left the island, God help me. I was under the impression I spent my life in spirals round the earth. Wrong, it's on the island I wind my endless way. The island, that's all the earth I know. (I don't know it either, never having had the stomach to look at it. ) When I come to the coast I turn back inland. And my course is not helicoidal (I got that wrong too), but a succession of irregular loops - now sharp and short as in the waltz, now of a parabolic sweep that embraces entire boglands, now between the two (somewhere or other) - and invariably unpredictable in direction (that is to say determined by the panic of the moment). But at the period I refer to now this active life is at an end. I do not move and never shall again (unless it be under the impulsion of a third party). For of the great traveller I had been (on my hands and knees in the later stages, then crawling on my belly or rolling on the ground) only the trunk remains, in sorry trim, surmounted by the head with which we are already familiar (this is the part of myself the description of which I have best assimilated and retained). Stuck like a sheaf of flowers in a deep jar, its neck flush with my mouth, on the side of a quiet street near the shambles, I am at rest at last. If I turn (I shall not say my head, but my eyes, free to roll as they list) I can see the statue of the apostle of horse's meat: a bust. His pupilless eyes of stone are fixed upon
me. That makes four, with those of my creator. (Omnipresent: do not imagine I flatter myself I am privileged. ) Though not exactly in order I am tolerated by the police. They know I am speechless and consequently incapable of taking unfair advantage of my situation to stir up the population against its governors, by means of burning oratory during the rush hour or subversive slogans whispered, after nightfall, to belated pedestrians the worse for drink. And since I have lost all my members (with the exception of the one-time virile) they know also that I shall not be guilty of any gestures liable to be construed as inciting to alms (a prisonable offence). The fact is I trouble no one - except possibly that category of hypersensitive persons for whom the least thing is an occasion for scandal and indignation. But even here the risk is negligible: such people avoiding the neighbourhood for fear of being overcome at the sight of the cattle (fat and fresh from the pastures) trooping towards the humane killer. From this point of view the spot is well chosen (from my point of view). And even those sufficiently unhinged to be affected by the spectacle I offer (I mean upset and temporarily diminished in their capacity for work and aptitude for happiness) need only look at me a second time (those who can bring themselves to do it) to have immediately their minds made easy. For my face reflects nothing but the satisfaction of one savouring a well-earned rest. It is true my mouth was hidden, most of the time, and my eyes closed. (Ah yes: sometimes it's in the past, sometimes in the present. ) And alone perhaps the state of my skull (covered with pustules and bluebottles, these latter naturally abounding in such a neigbourhood) preserved me from being an object of envy for many, and a source of discontent. I hope this gives a fair picture of my situation. Once a week I was taken out of my receptacle, so that it might be emptied. This duty fell to the proprietress of the chop-house across the street, and she performed it punctually and without complaint (beyond an occasional good-natured reflection to the effect that I was a nasty old pig): for she had a kitchen garden. Without perhaps having exactly won her heart it was clear I did not leave her indifferent. And before putting me back she took advantage of the circumstance that my mouth was accessible to stick into it a chunk of lights or a marrow-bone. And when snow fell she covered me with a tarpaulin still watertight in places. It was under its shelter, snug and dry, that I became acquainted with the boon of tears (while wondering to what I was indebted for it, not feeling moved). And this not merely once, but every time she covered me - that is to say twice or three times a year. Yes, it was fatal: no sooner had the tarpaulin settled over me, and the precipitate steps of my benefactress died away, than the tears began to flow. Is this, was this, to be interpreted as an effect of gratitude? But in that case should not I have felt
grateful? Besides I realized darkly that if she took care of me thus, it was not solely out of goodness (or else I had not rightly understood the meaning of goodness, when it was explained to me). It must not be forgotten that I represented for this woman an undeniable asset. For quite apart from the services I rendered to her lettuce, I constituted for her establishment a kind of landmark, not to say an advertisement - far more effective than for example a chef in cardboard (pot-bellied in profile and full face wafer thin). That she was well aware of this is shown by the trouble she had taken to festoon my jar with Chinese lanterns (of a very pretty effect in the twilight, and a fortiori in the night). And the jar itself (so that the passer-by might consult with greater ease the menu attached to it) had been raised on a pedestal at her own expense. It is thus I learnt that her turnips in gravy are not so good as they used to be, but that on the other hand her carrots (equally in gravy) are even better than formerly. (The gravy has not varied. ) This is the kind of language I can almost understand, these the kind of clear and simple notions on which it is possible for me to build: I ask for no other spiritual nourishment. A turnip, I know roughly what a turnip is like. A carrot too (particularly the Flakkee, or Colmar Red). I seem to grasp at certain moments the nuance that divides bad from worse. And if I do not always feel the full force of yesterday and today, this does not detract very much from the satisfaction I feel at having penetrated the gist of the matter. Of her salad, for example, I have never heard anything but praise. Yes, I represent for her a tidy little capital and, if I should ever happen to die, I am convinced she would be genuinely annoyed. (This should help me to live. ) I like to fancy that when the fatal hour of reckoning comes (if it ever does), and my debt to nature is paid at last, she will do her best to prevent the removal, from where it now stands, of the old vase in which I shall have accomplished my vicissitudes. And perhaps in the place now occupied by my head she will set a melon, or a vegetable-marrow, or a big pineapple with its little tuft (or better still, I don't know why, a swede), in memory of me. Then I shall vanish quite (as is so often the way with people when they are buried). But it is not to speak of her that I have started lying again. (De nobis ipsis silemus: decidedly that should have been my motto. Yes, they gave me some lessons in pigsty Latin too - it looks well, sprinkled through the perjury. ) It is perhaps worth noting that snow alone (provided of course it is heavy) entitles me to the tarpaulin. No other form of filthy weather lets loose in her the maternal instinct, in my favour. I have tried to make her understand, dashing my head angrily against the neck of the jar, that I should like to be shrouded more often. At the same time I let my spittle flow over, in an attempt to show my displeasure. In vain. I wonder what explanation she can have found to account for
this behaviour. She must have talked it over with her husband and probably been told that I was merely stifling. That is the reverse of the truth. But credit where credit is due: we made a balls of it between us, I with my signs and she with her reading of them. This story is no good, I'm beginning almost to believe it. But let us see how it is supposed to end, that will sober me. The trouble is I forget how it goes on. (But did I ever know? ) Perhaps it stops there. Perhaps they stopped it there, saying (who knows? ): "There you are now, you don't need us any more. " This in fact is one of their favourite devices: to stop suddenly at the least sign of adhesion from me, leaving me high and dry, with nothing for my renewal but the life they have imputed to me. And it is only when they see me stranded that they take up again the thread of my misfortunes - judging me still insufficiently vitalized to bring them to a successful conclusion alone. But instead of making the junction (I have often noticed this) - I mean instead of resuming me at the point where I was left off - they pick me up at a much later stage, perhaps thereby hoping to induce in me the illusion that I had got through the interval all on my own; lived without help of any kind for quite some time, and with no recollection of by what means or in what circumstances: or even died, all on my own, and come back to earth again (by way of the vagina like a real live baby), and reached a ripe age, and even senility, without the least assistance from them and thanks solely to the hints they had given me. To saddle me with a lifetime is probably not enough for them: I have to be given a taste of two or three generations. But it's not certain. Perhaps all they have told me has reference to a single existence - the confusion of identities being merely apparent and due to my inaptitude to assume any. If I ever succeed in dying under my own steam, then they will be in a better position to decide if I am worthy to adorn another age (or to try the same one again, with the benefit of my experience). I may therefore perhaps legitimately suppose that the one-armed wayfarer of a moment ago and the wedge-headed trunk in which I am now marooned are simply two phases of the same carnal envelope (the soul being notoriously immune from deterioration and dismemberment). Having lost one leg, what more likely than that I should mislay the other? And similarly for the arms. A natural transition in sum.
But what then of that other old age they bestowed upon me (if I remember right), and that other middle age, when neither legs nor arms were lacking, but simply the power to profit by them? And of that kind of youth in which they had to give me up for dead? If I have warm place it is not in their hearts. Oh I don't say they haven't done all they could to be agreeable to me, to get me out of here (on no matter what pretext, in no matter what disguise). All I reproach them with is their insistence. For beyond them is that other who will not give me quittance until
they have abandoned me as inutilizable and restored me to myself. Then at last I can set about saying what I was, and where, during all this long lost time. But who is he, if my guess is right, who is waiting for that, from me? And who these others whose designs are so different? And into whose hands I play when I ask myself such questions? But do I, do I? In the jar did I ask myself questions? And in the arena? I have dwindled, I dwindle. Not so long ago (with a kind of shrink of my head and shoulders, as when one is scolded) I could disappear. Soon, at my present rate of decrease, I may spare myself this effort. And spare myself the trouble of closing my eyes, so as not to see the day (for they are blinded by the jar a few inches away). And I have only to let my head fall forward against the wall to be sure that the light from above (which at night is that of the moon) will not be reflected there either, in those little blue mirrors. (I used to look at myself in them, to try and brighten them. ) Wrong again, wrong again! This effort and this trouble will not be spared me. For the woman, displeased at seeing me sink lower and lower, has raised me up by filling the bottom of my jar with sawdust which she changes every week (when she makes my toilet). It is softer than the stone, but less hygienic. And I had got used to the stone. Now I'm getting used to the sawdust. (It's an occupation: I could never bear to be idle, it saps one's energy. ) And I open and close my eyes, open and close, as in the past. And I move my head in and out, in and out, as heretofore. And often at dawn, having left it out all night, I bring it in, to mock the woman and lead her astray. For in the morning, when she has rattled up her shutters, the first look of her eyes still moist with fornication is for the jar. And when she does not see my head she comes running to find out what has happened. For either I have escaped during the night or else I have shrunk again. But just before she reaches me I up with it like a jack-in-the-the-box, the old eyes glaring up at her. (I mentioned I cannot turn my head, and this is true - my neck having stiffened prematurely. But this does not mean it is always facing in the same direction. For with a kind of tossing and writhing I succeed in imparting to my trunk the degree of rotation required - and not merely in one direction, but in the other also. ) My little game (which I should have thought inoffensive) has cost me dear - and yet I could have sworn I was insolvable. (It is true one does not know one's riches until they are lost and I probably have others still that only await the thief to be brought to my notice. ) And today, if I can still open and close my eyes, as in the past, I can no longer (because of my roguish character) move my head in and out, as in the good old days. For a collar, fixed to the mouth of the jar, now encircles my neck, just below the chin. And my lips which used to be hidden (and which I sometimes pressed against the freshness of the stone) can now be seen by all and sundry. Did I say I catch flies? I
snap them up, clack! (Does this mean I still have my teeth? To have lost one's limbs and preserved one's dentition - what a mockery! ) But to revert now to the gloomy side of this affair: I may say that this collar, or ring, of cement, makes it very awkward for me to turn, in the way I have said. I take advantage of this to learn to stay quiet. To have forever before my eyes (when I open them) approximately the same set of hallucinations exactly, is a joy I might never have known, but for my cang. There is really only one thing that worries me, and that is the prospect of being throttled if I should ever happen to shorten further. Asphyxia! I who was always the respiratory type! (Witness this thorax still mine, together with the abdomen. ) I who murmured (each time I breathed in) "Here comes more oxygen", and (each time I breathed out) "There go the impurities, the blood is bright red again". The blue face! The obscene protrusion of the tongue! The tumefaction of the penis! The penis! Well now, that's a nice surprise - I'd forgotten I had one. What a pity I have no arms: there might still be something to be wrung from it. No, 'tis better thus. At my age, to start manstuprating again, it would be indecent. And fruitless. And yet one can never tell. With a yo heave ho, concentrating with all my might on a horse's rump, at the moment when the tail rises: who knows, I might not go altogether empty-handed away. Heaven, I almost felt a flutter! Does that mean they did not geld me? I could have sworn they had gelt me. But perhaps I am getting mixed up with other scrota. Not anothe stir our of it in any case. I'll concentrate again. (A Clydesdale! A Suffolk stallion! ) Come come, a little co-operation please: finish dying. It's the least you might do, after all the trouble they've taken to bring you to life. The worst is over. You've been sufficiently assassinated, sufficiently suicided, to be able now to stand on your own feet, like a big boy. That's what I keep telling myself. And I add (quite carried away): "Slough off this mortal inertia, it is out of place, in this society. They can't do everything. They have put you on the right road, led you by the hand to the very brink of the precipice: now it's up to you, with an unassisted last step, to show them your gratitude. " (I like this colourful language, these bold metaphors and apostrophes. ) Through the splendours of nature they dragged a paralytic and now there's nothing more to admire it's my duty to jump, that it may be said: "There goes another who has lived. " It does not seem to occur to them that I was never there: that this glassy eye, this fallen chap and the foam at the mouth owe nothing to the Bay of Naples, or Aubervilliers. The last step! I who could never manage the first. But perhaps they would consider themelves sufficiently rewarded if I simply waited for the wind to blow me over. That by all means - it's in my repertory. The trouble is there is no wind equal to it. The cliff would have to cave in under me. If only I were alive inside one might look forward to heart-
failure, or to a nice little infarctus somewhere or other. It's usually with sticks they put me out of my agony - their idea being to demonstrate (to the backers, and bystanders) that I had a beginning, and an end. Then (planting the foot on my chest, where all is as usual) to the assembly: "Ah if you had seen him fifty years ago! What push, what go! " Knowing perfectly well they have to begin me all over again. But perhaps I exaggerate my need of them. I accuse myself of inertia, and yet I move. (At least I did: can I by any chance have missed the tide? ) Let us consider the head. There something seems to stir, from time to time: no reason therefore to despair of a fit of apoplexy. What else? The organs of digestion and evacuation, though sluggish, are not wholly inactive (as is shown by the attentions I receive). It's encouraging. While there's life there's hope. (The flies, considered as traumatic agents, hardly call for mention. I suppose they might bring me typhus. No, that's rats. I have seen a few, but they are not yet reduced to me. A lowly tapeworm? Not interesting. ) It is clear in any case that I have lost heart too lightly. It is quite possible I have all that is required to give them satisfaction. But already I'm beginning to be there no more, in that calamitous street they made so clear to me. I could describe it (I could have, a moment ago) as if I had been there, in the form they chose for me: diminished certainly (not the man I was, not much longer for this world), but the eyes still open to impressions (and one ear, sufficiently), and the head sufficiently obedient, to provide me at least with a vague idea of the elements to be eliminated from the setting in order for all to be empty and silent. That was always the way. Just at the moment when the world is assembled at last, and it begins to dawn on me how I can leave it, all fades and disappears. I shall never see this place again, where my jar stands on its pedestal, with its garland of many-coloured lanterns, and me inside it: I could not cling to it. Perhaps they will have me struck by lightning (for a change), or pole-axed, one merry bank-holiday evening, then bundled in my shroud and whisked away, out of sight and mind. Or removed alive (for a change), shifted and deposited elsewhere, on the off chance. And at my next appearance (if I ever appear again) all will be new, new and strange. But little by little I'll get used to it (admonished by them) - used to the scene, used to me. And little by little the old problem will raise its horrid head: how to live, with their kind of life, for a single second, young or old, without aid and assistance. And thus reminded of other attempts, other circumstances, I shall start asking myself questions (prompted by them) like those I have been asking, concerning me, and them, and these sudden shifts of time and age. And how to succeed at last where I have always failed, so that they may be pleased with me, and perhaps leave me in peace at last, and free to do what I have to do: namely try and please the other (if that
is what I have to do), so that he may be pleased with me, and leave me in peace at last, and give me quittance, and the right to rest, and silence (if that is in his gift). It's a lot to expect of one creature, it's a lot to ask: that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to the peace where he neither is, nor is not (and where the language dies that permits of such expressions). Two falsehoods, two trappings, to be borne to the end, before I can be let loose, alone, in the unthinkable unspeakable, where I have not ceased to be, where they will not let me be. (It will perhaps be less restful than I appear to think, alone there at last, and never importuned. No matter: "rest" is one of their words, "think" is another. ) But here at last, it seems to me, is food for delirium. (What a shame if I should pitch on something and never notice it, another candle throw its little light and I be none the wiser. ) Yes, I feel the moment has come for me to look back, if I can, and take my bearings, if I am to go on. If only I knew what I have been saying! Bah, no need to worry: it can only have been one thing, the same as ever. I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them. I have only to go on, as if there was something to be done, something begun, somewhere to go. It all boils down to a question of words, I must not forget this (I have not forgotten it). But I must have said this before, since I say it now. I have to speak in a certain way (with warmth perhaps, all is possible) first of the creature I am not (as if I were he) and then (as if I were he) of the creature I am. (Before I can, etc. ) It's a question of voices - of voices to keep going, in the right manner, when they stop (on purpose, to put me to the test - as now the one whose burden is roughly to the effect that I am alive). Warmth, ease, conviction, the right manner - as if it were my own voice, pronouncing my own words, words pronouncing me alive (since that's how they want me to be - I don't know why, with their billions of quick, their trillions of dead: that's not enough for them, I too must contribute my little convulsion, mewl, howl, gasp and rattle, loving my neighbour and blessed with reason. But what is the right manner? I don't know. It is they who dictate this torrent of balls, they who stuffed me full of these groans that choke me. And out it all pours unchanged: I have only to belch to be sure of hearing them, the same sour old teachings I can't change a tittle of. A parrot, that's what they're up against, a parrot. If they had told me what I have to say, in order to meet with their approval, I'd be bound to say it, sooner or later. But God forbid, that would be too easy, my heart wouldn't be in it! I have to puke my heart out too, spew it up whole along with the rest of the vomit. It's then at last I'll look as if I mean what I'm saying, it won't be just idle words. (Well, don't lose hope. Keep your mouth open and your stomach turned. Perhaps you'll come out with it one of these days. ) But the other voice (of him who does not share this passion for
the animal kingdom, who is waiting to hear from me), what is its burden? Nice point - too nice for me. For on the subject of me properly so called (I know what I mean), so far as I know I have received no information up to date. May one speak of a voice, in these conditions? Probably not. And yet I do. The fact is all this business about voices requires to be revised, corrected and then abandoned. Hearing nothing I am none the less a prey to communications. And I speak of voices! After all, why not? So long as one knows it's untrue. But there are limits, it appears. Let them come. So nothing about me. That is to say no connected statement. Faint calls, at long intervals. "Hear me! " "Be yourself again! " Someone has therefore something to say to me. But never the least news concerning me, beyond the insinuation that I am not in a condition to receive any, since I am not there (which I knew already). I have naturally remarked, in a moment of exceptional receptivity, that these exhortations are conveyed to me by the same channel as that used by Malone and Co. for their transports. That's suspicious - or rather would be if I still hoped to obtain (from these revelations to come) some truth of more value than those I have been plastered with ever since they took it into their heads I had better exist. But this fond hope (which buoyed me up as recently as a moment ago, if I remember right) has now passed from me. Two labours then: to be distinguished perhaps (as the mine from the quarry) on the plane of the effort required, but identically deficient in charm and interest. "I". Who might that be? The galley-man, bound for the Pillars of Hercules, who drops his sweep under cover of night and crawls between the thwarts, towards the rising sun, unseen by the guard, praying for storm? Except that I've stopped praying for anything. (No, no, I'm still a suppliant. I'll get over it, between now and the last voyage, on this leaden sea. It's like the other madness, the mad wish to know, to remember, one's transgressions. ) I won't be caught at that again, I'll leave it to this year's damned. And now let us think no more about it, think no more about anything, think no more. He alone or they a many, all solicit me in the same tongue, the only one they taught me. (They told me there were others: I don't regret not knowing them. ) The moment the silence is broken in this way it can only mean one thing: orders, prayers, threats, praise, reproach, reasons. Praise? Yes, they gave me to understand I was making progress: "Well done, sonny, that will be all for today, run along now back to your dark and see you tomorrow. " And there I am, with my white beard, sitting among the children, babbling, cringing from the rod. I'll die in the lower third, bowed down with years and impositions - four foot tall again, like when I had a future, bare-legged in my old black pinafore, wetting my drawers. ("Pupil Mahood, for the twenty-five thousandth time, what is a mammal? ") And I'll fall down dead, worn out by the
rudiments. But I'll have made progress, they told me so. Only not enough, not enough. Ah! Where was I, in my lessons? That is what has had a fatal effect on my development: my lack of memory, no doubt about it. "Pupil Mahood, repeat after me: Man is a higher mammal.
That the bacillus botulinus should have exterminated my entire kith and kin (I shall never weary or repeating this) was something I could readily admit - but only on condition that my personal behaviour had not to suffer by it. Let us rather consider what really took place, if Mahood was telling the truth. And why should he have lied to me, he so anxious to obtain my adhesion? (To what, now that I come to think of it? To his conception of me? ) Why? For fear of paining me perhaps. But I am there to be pained, that is what my tempters have never grasped. What they all wanted (each according to his particular notion of what is endurable) was that I should exist and at the same time be only moderately (or perhaps I should say finitely) pained. They have even killed me off, with the friendly remark that having reached the end of my endurance I had no choice but to disappear. (The end of my endurance! It was one second they should have schooled me to endure: after that I would have held out for all eternity, whistling a merry tune. ) The hard knocks they invented for me! But the bouquet was this story of Mahood's in which I appear as upset at having been delivered so economically of a pack of blood relations (not to mention the two cunts into the bargain: the one for ever accursed that ejected me into this world and the other, infundibuliform, in which - pumping my likes - I tried to take my revenge). To tell the truth (let us be honest at least), it is some considerable time now since I last knew what I was talking about. It is because my thoughts are elsewhere. I am therefore forgiven. So long as one's thoughts are somewhere everything is permitted. On then, without misgiving, as if nothing had happened. And let us consider what really took place (if Mahood was telling me the truth when he represented me as rid at one glorious sweep of parents, wife and heirs). I've plenty of time to blow it all sky-high, this circus where it is enough to breathe to qualify for asphyxiation: I'll find a way out of it, it won't be like the other times. But I should not like to defame my defamer. For when he made me turn and set off in the other direction, before I had exhausted the possibilities of the one I was pursuing, he had not in mind a shrinking of the spirit, not for a moment: but a purely physiological commotion, followed by a simple desire to vomit - corresponding respectively to the howls of my family as they grudgingly succumbed and the subsequent stench (this latter compelling me to beat in retreat under penalty of losing consciousness entirely). (This version of the facts having been restored, it only remains to say it is no better than the other and no less incompatible with the kind of creature I might just conceivably have been if they had known how to take me. ) So let us consider now what really occurred. Finally I found myself, without surprise, within the building (circular in form as already stated, its ground-floor consisting of a single room flush with the arena) and there completed my
rounds - stamping under foot the unrecognizable remains of my family (here a face, there a stomach, as the case might be), and sinking into them with the ends of my crutches, both coming and going. To say I did so with satisfaction would be stretching the truth. For my feeling was rather one of annoyance at having to flounder in such muck just at the moment when my closing contortions called for a firm and level surface. I like to fancy (even if it is not true) that it was in mother's entrails I spent the last days of my long voyage, and set out on the next. (No, I have no preference: Isolde's breast would have done just as well, or papa's private parts, or the heart of one of the little bastards. ) But is it certain? Would I have not been more likely, in a sudden access of independence, to devour what remained of the fatal corned-beef? How often did I fall during these final stages, while the storms raged without? But enough of this nonsense: I was never anywhere but here, no one ever got me out of here. Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage leaf that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle. There will be no more from me about bodies and trajectories, sky and earth - I don't know what it all is. They have told me, explained to me, described to me, what it all is, what it looks like, what it's all for (one after the other, thousands of times, in thousands of connections), until I must have begun to look as if I understood. Who would ever think, to hear me, that I've never seen anything, never heard anything but their voices? (And man! The lectures they gave me on men, before they even began trying to assimilate me to him! ) What I speak of, what I speak with, all comes from them - it's all the same to me. But it's no good, there's no end to it. It's of me now I must speak, even if I have to do it with their language. It will be a start, a step towards silence and the end of madness: the madness of having to speak and not being able to - except of things that don't concern me, that I don't believe, that they have crammed me full of to prevent me from saying who I am, where I am, and from doing what I have to do in the only way that can put an end to it, from doing what I have to do. How they must hate me! Ah a nice state they have me in - but still I'm not their creature (not quite, not yet). To testify to them, until I die (as if there was any dying with that tomfoolery): that's what they've sworn they'll bring me to. Not to be able to open my mouth without proclaiming them, and our fellowship: that's what they imagine they'll have me reduced to. It's a poor trick that consists in ramming a set of words down your gullet on the principle that you can't bring them up without being branded as belonging to their breed. But I'll fix their gibberish for them. I never understood a word of it in any case - not a word of the stories it spews, like gobbets in a vomit. My inability to absorb, my genius for
forgetting, are more than they reckoned with. Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself in the end. Nothing will remain of all the lies they have glutted me with. And I'll be myself at last (as a starveling belches his odourless wind, before the bliss of coma). But who, they? Is it really worth inquiring? With my cogged means? No, but that's no reason not to. On their own ground, with their own arms, I'll scatter them, and their miscreated puppets. (Perhaps I'll find traces of myself by the same occasion. ) That's decided then. What is strange is that they haven't been pestering me for some time past (yes, they've inflicted the notion of time on me too). What conclusion, using their methods, am I to draw from this? Mahood is silent: that is to say his voice continues, but is no longer renewed. Do they consider me so plastered with their rubbish that I can never extricate myself, never make a gesture but their cast must come to life? But within, motionless, I can live, and utter me, for no ears but my own. They loaded me down with their trappings and stoned me through the carnival. I'll sham dead now, whom they couldn't bring to life, and my monster's carapace will rot off me. But it's entirely a matter of voices: no other metaphor is appropriate. They've blown me up with their voices, like a balloon, and even as I collapse it's them I hear. Who, them? And why nothing more from them lately? Can it be they have abandoned me, saying "Very well, there's nothing to be done with him, let's leave it at that, he's not dangerous"? Ah but the little murmur of unconsenting man, to murmur what it is their humanity stifles! The little gasp of the condemned to life, rotting in his dungeon garrotted and racked, to gasp what it is to have to celebrate banishment! Beware! No, they have nothing to fear. I am walled round with their vociferations. No one will ever know what I am, none will ever hear me say it: I won't say it, I can't say it, I have no language but theirs. No, perhaps I'll say it (even with their language), for me alone - so as not to have not lived in vain, and so as to go silent. (If that is what confers the right to silence - and it's unlikely: it's they who have silence in their gift, they who decide, the same old gang, among themselves. ) No matter, to hell with silence: I'll say what I am, so as not to have been born for nothing. I'll fix their jargon for them. Then any old thing (no matter what, whatever they want), with a will, till time is done - at least with a good grace. First I'll say what I'm not (that's how they taught me to proceed), then what I am. It's already under way: I have only to resume at the point where I let myself be cowed. I am neither (I needn't say) Murphy, nor Watt, nor Mercier, nor, (no, I can't even bring myself to name them, nor any of the others whose very names I forget, who told me I was they, who I must have tried to be - under duress, or through fear, or to avoid acknowledging me): not the slightest connection. I never desired, never sought, never suffered, never
partook in any of that, never knew what it was to have things, adversaries, mind, senses. But enough of this. There is no use denying, no use harping on the same old thing I know so well, and so easy to say - and which simply amounts in the end to speaking yet again in the way they intend me to speak: that is to say about them (even with execration and disbelief). Perhaps they exist in the way they have decreed will be mine? It's possible: I don't know and I'm not interested. (If they had taught me how to wish I'd wish they did. ) There's no getting rid of them without naming them and their contraptions, that's the thing to keep in mind. I might as well tell another of Mahood's stories and no more about it (to be understood in the way I was given to understand it: namely as being about me). That's an idea. To heighten my disgust. I'll recite it. This will leave me free to consider how I may best proceed with my own affair, beginning again at the point where I had to interrupt it (under duress, or through fear, or through ignorance). It will be the last story. I'll try and look as if I was telling it willingly, to keep them quiet in case they should feel like refreshing my memory (on the subject of my behaviour above in the island, among my compatriots, coreligionists and companions in distress). This will leave me free to consider how to set about showing myself forth. No one will be any the wiser. But who are these maniacs let loose on me from on high for what they call my good? Let us first try and throw a little light on that. To tell the truth, No, first the story. The island. I'm on the island. I've never left the island, God help me. I was under the impression I spent my life in spirals round the earth. Wrong, it's on the island I wind my endless way. The island, that's all the earth I know. (I don't know it either, never having had the stomach to look at it. ) When I come to the coast I turn back inland. And my course is not helicoidal (I got that wrong too), but a succession of irregular loops - now sharp and short as in the waltz, now of a parabolic sweep that embraces entire boglands, now between the two (somewhere or other) - and invariably unpredictable in direction (that is to say determined by the panic of the moment). But at the period I refer to now this active life is at an end. I do not move and never shall again (unless it be under the impulsion of a third party). For of the great traveller I had been (on my hands and knees in the later stages, then crawling on my belly or rolling on the ground) only the trunk remains, in sorry trim, surmounted by the head with which we are already familiar (this is the part of myself the description of which I have best assimilated and retained). Stuck like a sheaf of flowers in a deep jar, its neck flush with my mouth, on the side of a quiet street near the shambles, I am at rest at last. If I turn (I shall not say my head, but my eyes, free to roll as they list) I can see the statue of the apostle of horse's meat: a bust. His pupilless eyes of stone are fixed upon
me. That makes four, with those of my creator. (Omnipresent: do not imagine I flatter myself I am privileged. ) Though not exactly in order I am tolerated by the police. They know I am speechless and consequently incapable of taking unfair advantage of my situation to stir up the population against its governors, by means of burning oratory during the rush hour or subversive slogans whispered, after nightfall, to belated pedestrians the worse for drink. And since I have lost all my members (with the exception of the one-time virile) they know also that I shall not be guilty of any gestures liable to be construed as inciting to alms (a prisonable offence). The fact is I trouble no one - except possibly that category of hypersensitive persons for whom the least thing is an occasion for scandal and indignation. But even here the risk is negligible: such people avoiding the neighbourhood for fear of being overcome at the sight of the cattle (fat and fresh from the pastures) trooping towards the humane killer. From this point of view the spot is well chosen (from my point of view). And even those sufficiently unhinged to be affected by the spectacle I offer (I mean upset and temporarily diminished in their capacity for work and aptitude for happiness) need only look at me a second time (those who can bring themselves to do it) to have immediately their minds made easy. For my face reflects nothing but the satisfaction of one savouring a well-earned rest. It is true my mouth was hidden, most of the time, and my eyes closed. (Ah yes: sometimes it's in the past, sometimes in the present. ) And alone perhaps the state of my skull (covered with pustules and bluebottles, these latter naturally abounding in such a neigbourhood) preserved me from being an object of envy for many, and a source of discontent. I hope this gives a fair picture of my situation. Once a week I was taken out of my receptacle, so that it might be emptied. This duty fell to the proprietress of the chop-house across the street, and she performed it punctually and without complaint (beyond an occasional good-natured reflection to the effect that I was a nasty old pig): for she had a kitchen garden. Without perhaps having exactly won her heart it was clear I did not leave her indifferent. And before putting me back she took advantage of the circumstance that my mouth was accessible to stick into it a chunk of lights or a marrow-bone. And when snow fell she covered me with a tarpaulin still watertight in places. It was under its shelter, snug and dry, that I became acquainted with the boon of tears (while wondering to what I was indebted for it, not feeling moved). And this not merely once, but every time she covered me - that is to say twice or three times a year. Yes, it was fatal: no sooner had the tarpaulin settled over me, and the precipitate steps of my benefactress died away, than the tears began to flow. Is this, was this, to be interpreted as an effect of gratitude? But in that case should not I have felt
grateful? Besides I realized darkly that if she took care of me thus, it was not solely out of goodness (or else I had not rightly understood the meaning of goodness, when it was explained to me). It must not be forgotten that I represented for this woman an undeniable asset. For quite apart from the services I rendered to her lettuce, I constituted for her establishment a kind of landmark, not to say an advertisement - far more effective than for example a chef in cardboard (pot-bellied in profile and full face wafer thin). That she was well aware of this is shown by the trouble she had taken to festoon my jar with Chinese lanterns (of a very pretty effect in the twilight, and a fortiori in the night). And the jar itself (so that the passer-by might consult with greater ease the menu attached to it) had been raised on a pedestal at her own expense. It is thus I learnt that her turnips in gravy are not so good as they used to be, but that on the other hand her carrots (equally in gravy) are even better than formerly. (The gravy has not varied. ) This is the kind of language I can almost understand, these the kind of clear and simple notions on which it is possible for me to build: I ask for no other spiritual nourishment. A turnip, I know roughly what a turnip is like. A carrot too (particularly the Flakkee, or Colmar Red). I seem to grasp at certain moments the nuance that divides bad from worse. And if I do not always feel the full force of yesterday and today, this does not detract very much from the satisfaction I feel at having penetrated the gist of the matter. Of her salad, for example, I have never heard anything but praise. Yes, I represent for her a tidy little capital and, if I should ever happen to die, I am convinced she would be genuinely annoyed. (This should help me to live. ) I like to fancy that when the fatal hour of reckoning comes (if it ever does), and my debt to nature is paid at last, she will do her best to prevent the removal, from where it now stands, of the old vase in which I shall have accomplished my vicissitudes. And perhaps in the place now occupied by my head she will set a melon, or a vegetable-marrow, or a big pineapple with its little tuft (or better still, I don't know why, a swede), in memory of me. Then I shall vanish quite (as is so often the way with people when they are buried). But it is not to speak of her that I have started lying again. (De nobis ipsis silemus: decidedly that should have been my motto. Yes, they gave me some lessons in pigsty Latin too - it looks well, sprinkled through the perjury. ) It is perhaps worth noting that snow alone (provided of course it is heavy) entitles me to the tarpaulin. No other form of filthy weather lets loose in her the maternal instinct, in my favour. I have tried to make her understand, dashing my head angrily against the neck of the jar, that I should like to be shrouded more often. At the same time I let my spittle flow over, in an attempt to show my displeasure. In vain. I wonder what explanation she can have found to account for
this behaviour. She must have talked it over with her husband and probably been told that I was merely stifling. That is the reverse of the truth. But credit where credit is due: we made a balls of it between us, I with my signs and she with her reading of them. This story is no good, I'm beginning almost to believe it. But let us see how it is supposed to end, that will sober me. The trouble is I forget how it goes on. (But did I ever know? ) Perhaps it stops there. Perhaps they stopped it there, saying (who knows? ): "There you are now, you don't need us any more. " This in fact is one of their favourite devices: to stop suddenly at the least sign of adhesion from me, leaving me high and dry, with nothing for my renewal but the life they have imputed to me. And it is only when they see me stranded that they take up again the thread of my misfortunes - judging me still insufficiently vitalized to bring them to a successful conclusion alone. But instead of making the junction (I have often noticed this) - I mean instead of resuming me at the point where I was left off - they pick me up at a much later stage, perhaps thereby hoping to induce in me the illusion that I had got through the interval all on my own; lived without help of any kind for quite some time, and with no recollection of by what means or in what circumstances: or even died, all on my own, and come back to earth again (by way of the vagina like a real live baby), and reached a ripe age, and even senility, without the least assistance from them and thanks solely to the hints they had given me. To saddle me with a lifetime is probably not enough for them: I have to be given a taste of two or three generations. But it's not certain. Perhaps all they have told me has reference to a single existence - the confusion of identities being merely apparent and due to my inaptitude to assume any. If I ever succeed in dying under my own steam, then they will be in a better position to decide if I am worthy to adorn another age (or to try the same one again, with the benefit of my experience). I may therefore perhaps legitimately suppose that the one-armed wayfarer of a moment ago and the wedge-headed trunk in which I am now marooned are simply two phases of the same carnal envelope (the soul being notoriously immune from deterioration and dismemberment). Having lost one leg, what more likely than that I should mislay the other? And similarly for the arms. A natural transition in sum.
But what then of that other old age they bestowed upon me (if I remember right), and that other middle age, when neither legs nor arms were lacking, but simply the power to profit by them? And of that kind of youth in which they had to give me up for dead? If I have warm place it is not in their hearts. Oh I don't say they haven't done all they could to be agreeable to me, to get me out of here (on no matter what pretext, in no matter what disguise). All I reproach them with is their insistence. For beyond them is that other who will not give me quittance until
they have abandoned me as inutilizable and restored me to myself. Then at last I can set about saying what I was, and where, during all this long lost time. But who is he, if my guess is right, who is waiting for that, from me? And who these others whose designs are so different? And into whose hands I play when I ask myself such questions? But do I, do I? In the jar did I ask myself questions? And in the arena? I have dwindled, I dwindle. Not so long ago (with a kind of shrink of my head and shoulders, as when one is scolded) I could disappear. Soon, at my present rate of decrease, I may spare myself this effort. And spare myself the trouble of closing my eyes, so as not to see the day (for they are blinded by the jar a few inches away). And I have only to let my head fall forward against the wall to be sure that the light from above (which at night is that of the moon) will not be reflected there either, in those little blue mirrors. (I used to look at myself in them, to try and brighten them. ) Wrong again, wrong again! This effort and this trouble will not be spared me. For the woman, displeased at seeing me sink lower and lower, has raised me up by filling the bottom of my jar with sawdust which she changes every week (when she makes my toilet). It is softer than the stone, but less hygienic. And I had got used to the stone. Now I'm getting used to the sawdust. (It's an occupation: I could never bear to be idle, it saps one's energy. ) And I open and close my eyes, open and close, as in the past. And I move my head in and out, in and out, as heretofore. And often at dawn, having left it out all night, I bring it in, to mock the woman and lead her astray. For in the morning, when she has rattled up her shutters, the first look of her eyes still moist with fornication is for the jar. And when she does not see my head she comes running to find out what has happened. For either I have escaped during the night or else I have shrunk again. But just before she reaches me I up with it like a jack-in-the-the-box, the old eyes glaring up at her. (I mentioned I cannot turn my head, and this is true - my neck having stiffened prematurely. But this does not mean it is always facing in the same direction. For with a kind of tossing and writhing I succeed in imparting to my trunk the degree of rotation required - and not merely in one direction, but in the other also. ) My little game (which I should have thought inoffensive) has cost me dear - and yet I could have sworn I was insolvable. (It is true one does not know one's riches until they are lost and I probably have others still that only await the thief to be brought to my notice. ) And today, if I can still open and close my eyes, as in the past, I can no longer (because of my roguish character) move my head in and out, as in the good old days. For a collar, fixed to the mouth of the jar, now encircles my neck, just below the chin. And my lips which used to be hidden (and which I sometimes pressed against the freshness of the stone) can now be seen by all and sundry. Did I say I catch flies? I
snap them up, clack! (Does this mean I still have my teeth? To have lost one's limbs and preserved one's dentition - what a mockery! ) But to revert now to the gloomy side of this affair: I may say that this collar, or ring, of cement, makes it very awkward for me to turn, in the way I have said. I take advantage of this to learn to stay quiet. To have forever before my eyes (when I open them) approximately the same set of hallucinations exactly, is a joy I might never have known, but for my cang. There is really only one thing that worries me, and that is the prospect of being throttled if I should ever happen to shorten further. Asphyxia! I who was always the respiratory type! (Witness this thorax still mine, together with the abdomen. ) I who murmured (each time I breathed in) "Here comes more oxygen", and (each time I breathed out) "There go the impurities, the blood is bright red again". The blue face! The obscene protrusion of the tongue! The tumefaction of the penis! The penis! Well now, that's a nice surprise - I'd forgotten I had one. What a pity I have no arms: there might still be something to be wrung from it. No, 'tis better thus. At my age, to start manstuprating again, it would be indecent. And fruitless. And yet one can never tell. With a yo heave ho, concentrating with all my might on a horse's rump, at the moment when the tail rises: who knows, I might not go altogether empty-handed away. Heaven, I almost felt a flutter! Does that mean they did not geld me? I could have sworn they had gelt me. But perhaps I am getting mixed up with other scrota. Not anothe stir our of it in any case. I'll concentrate again. (A Clydesdale! A Suffolk stallion! ) Come come, a little co-operation please: finish dying. It's the least you might do, after all the trouble they've taken to bring you to life. The worst is over. You've been sufficiently assassinated, sufficiently suicided, to be able now to stand on your own feet, like a big boy. That's what I keep telling myself. And I add (quite carried away): "Slough off this mortal inertia, it is out of place, in this society. They can't do everything. They have put you on the right road, led you by the hand to the very brink of the precipice: now it's up to you, with an unassisted last step, to show them your gratitude. " (I like this colourful language, these bold metaphors and apostrophes. ) Through the splendours of nature they dragged a paralytic and now there's nothing more to admire it's my duty to jump, that it may be said: "There goes another who has lived. " It does not seem to occur to them that I was never there: that this glassy eye, this fallen chap and the foam at the mouth owe nothing to the Bay of Naples, or Aubervilliers. The last step! I who could never manage the first. But perhaps they would consider themelves sufficiently rewarded if I simply waited for the wind to blow me over. That by all means - it's in my repertory. The trouble is there is no wind equal to it. The cliff would have to cave in under me. If only I were alive inside one might look forward to heart-
failure, or to a nice little infarctus somewhere or other. It's usually with sticks they put me out of my agony - their idea being to demonstrate (to the backers, and bystanders) that I had a beginning, and an end. Then (planting the foot on my chest, where all is as usual) to the assembly: "Ah if you had seen him fifty years ago! What push, what go! " Knowing perfectly well they have to begin me all over again. But perhaps I exaggerate my need of them. I accuse myself of inertia, and yet I move. (At least I did: can I by any chance have missed the tide? ) Let us consider the head. There something seems to stir, from time to time: no reason therefore to despair of a fit of apoplexy. What else? The organs of digestion and evacuation, though sluggish, are not wholly inactive (as is shown by the attentions I receive). It's encouraging. While there's life there's hope. (The flies, considered as traumatic agents, hardly call for mention. I suppose they might bring me typhus. No, that's rats. I have seen a few, but they are not yet reduced to me. A lowly tapeworm? Not interesting. ) It is clear in any case that I have lost heart too lightly. It is quite possible I have all that is required to give them satisfaction. But already I'm beginning to be there no more, in that calamitous street they made so clear to me. I could describe it (I could have, a moment ago) as if I had been there, in the form they chose for me: diminished certainly (not the man I was, not much longer for this world), but the eyes still open to impressions (and one ear, sufficiently), and the head sufficiently obedient, to provide me at least with a vague idea of the elements to be eliminated from the setting in order for all to be empty and silent. That was always the way. Just at the moment when the world is assembled at last, and it begins to dawn on me how I can leave it, all fades and disappears. I shall never see this place again, where my jar stands on its pedestal, with its garland of many-coloured lanterns, and me inside it: I could not cling to it. Perhaps they will have me struck by lightning (for a change), or pole-axed, one merry bank-holiday evening, then bundled in my shroud and whisked away, out of sight and mind. Or removed alive (for a change), shifted and deposited elsewhere, on the off chance. And at my next appearance (if I ever appear again) all will be new, new and strange. But little by little I'll get used to it (admonished by them) - used to the scene, used to me. And little by little the old problem will raise its horrid head: how to live, with their kind of life, for a single second, young or old, without aid and assistance. And thus reminded of other attempts, other circumstances, I shall start asking myself questions (prompted by them) like those I have been asking, concerning me, and them, and these sudden shifts of time and age. And how to succeed at last where I have always failed, so that they may be pleased with me, and perhaps leave me in peace at last, and free to do what I have to do: namely try and please the other (if that
is what I have to do), so that he may be pleased with me, and leave me in peace at last, and give me quittance, and the right to rest, and silence (if that is in his gift). It's a lot to expect of one creature, it's a lot to ask: that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to the peace where he neither is, nor is not (and where the language dies that permits of such expressions). Two falsehoods, two trappings, to be borne to the end, before I can be let loose, alone, in the unthinkable unspeakable, where I have not ceased to be, where they will not let me be. (It will perhaps be less restful than I appear to think, alone there at last, and never importuned. No matter: "rest" is one of their words, "think" is another. ) But here at last, it seems to me, is food for delirium. (What a shame if I should pitch on something and never notice it, another candle throw its little light and I be none the wiser. ) Yes, I feel the moment has come for me to look back, if I can, and take my bearings, if I am to go on. If only I knew what I have been saying! Bah, no need to worry: it can only have been one thing, the same as ever. I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them. I have only to go on, as if there was something to be done, something begun, somewhere to go. It all boils down to a question of words, I must not forget this (I have not forgotten it). But I must have said this before, since I say it now. I have to speak in a certain way (with warmth perhaps, all is possible) first of the creature I am not (as if I were he) and then (as if I were he) of the creature I am. (Before I can, etc. ) It's a question of voices - of voices to keep going, in the right manner, when they stop (on purpose, to put me to the test - as now the one whose burden is roughly to the effect that I am alive). Warmth, ease, conviction, the right manner - as if it were my own voice, pronouncing my own words, words pronouncing me alive (since that's how they want me to be - I don't know why, with their billions of quick, their trillions of dead: that's not enough for them, I too must contribute my little convulsion, mewl, howl, gasp and rattle, loving my neighbour and blessed with reason. But what is the right manner? I don't know. It is they who dictate this torrent of balls, they who stuffed me full of these groans that choke me. And out it all pours unchanged: I have only to belch to be sure of hearing them, the same sour old teachings I can't change a tittle of. A parrot, that's what they're up against, a parrot. If they had told me what I have to say, in order to meet with their approval, I'd be bound to say it, sooner or later. But God forbid, that would be too easy, my heart wouldn't be in it! I have to puke my heart out too, spew it up whole along with the rest of the vomit. It's then at last I'll look as if I mean what I'm saying, it won't be just idle words. (Well, don't lose hope. Keep your mouth open and your stomach turned. Perhaps you'll come out with it one of these days. ) But the other voice (of him who does not share this passion for
the animal kingdom, who is waiting to hear from me), what is its burden? Nice point - too nice for me. For on the subject of me properly so called (I know what I mean), so far as I know I have received no information up to date. May one speak of a voice, in these conditions? Probably not. And yet I do. The fact is all this business about voices requires to be revised, corrected and then abandoned. Hearing nothing I am none the less a prey to communications. And I speak of voices! After all, why not? So long as one knows it's untrue. But there are limits, it appears. Let them come. So nothing about me. That is to say no connected statement. Faint calls, at long intervals. "Hear me! " "Be yourself again! " Someone has therefore something to say to me. But never the least news concerning me, beyond the insinuation that I am not in a condition to receive any, since I am not there (which I knew already). I have naturally remarked, in a moment of exceptional receptivity, that these exhortations are conveyed to me by the same channel as that used by Malone and Co. for their transports. That's suspicious - or rather would be if I still hoped to obtain (from these revelations to come) some truth of more value than those I have been plastered with ever since they took it into their heads I had better exist. But this fond hope (which buoyed me up as recently as a moment ago, if I remember right) has now passed from me. Two labours then: to be distinguished perhaps (as the mine from the quarry) on the plane of the effort required, but identically deficient in charm and interest. "I". Who might that be? The galley-man, bound for the Pillars of Hercules, who drops his sweep under cover of night and crawls between the thwarts, towards the rising sun, unseen by the guard, praying for storm? Except that I've stopped praying for anything. (No, no, I'm still a suppliant. I'll get over it, between now and the last voyage, on this leaden sea. It's like the other madness, the mad wish to know, to remember, one's transgressions. ) I won't be caught at that again, I'll leave it to this year's damned. And now let us think no more about it, think no more about anything, think no more. He alone or they a many, all solicit me in the same tongue, the only one they taught me. (They told me there were others: I don't regret not knowing them. ) The moment the silence is broken in this way it can only mean one thing: orders, prayers, threats, praise, reproach, reasons. Praise? Yes, they gave me to understand I was making progress: "Well done, sonny, that will be all for today, run along now back to your dark and see you tomorrow. " And there I am, with my white beard, sitting among the children, babbling, cringing from the rod. I'll die in the lower third, bowed down with years and impositions - four foot tall again, like when I had a future, bare-legged in my old black pinafore, wetting my drawers. ("Pupil Mahood, for the twenty-five thousandth time, what is a mammal? ") And I'll fall down dead, worn out by the
rudiments. But I'll have made progress, they told me so. Only not enough, not enough. Ah! Where was I, in my lessons? That is what has had a fatal effect on my development: my lack of memory, no doubt about it. "Pupil Mahood, repeat after me: Man is a higher mammal.
