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I
,
who
had
been
thinking
myself
so
vast
,
a
temple
,
a
church
,
a
whole
universe
,
unconfined
and
capable
of
being
everywhere
on
the
verge
of
things
and
here
too
,
am
now
nothing
but
what
you
see
--
an
elderly
man
,
rather
heavy
,
grey
above
the
ears
,
who
(
I
see
myself
in
the
glass
)
leans
one
elbow
on
the
table
,
and
holds
in
his
left
hand
a
glass
of
old
brandy
.
That
is
the
blow
you
have
dealt
me
.
I
have
walked
bang
into
the
pillar-box
.
I
reel
from
side
to
side
.
I
put
my
hands
to
my
head
.
My
hat
is
off
--
I
have
dropped
my
stick
.
I
have
made
an
awful
ass
of
myself
and
am
justly
laughed
at
by
any
passer-by
.
'
Lord
,
how
unutterably
disgusting
life
is
!
What
dirty
tricks
it
plays
us
,
one
moment
free
;
the
next
,
this
.
Here
we
are
among
the
breadcrumbs
and
the
stained
napkins
again
.
That
knife
is
already
congealing
with
grease
.
Disorder
,
sordidity
and
corruption
surround
us
.
We
have
been
taking
into
our
mouths
the
bodies
of
dead
birds
.
It
is
with
these
greasy
crumbs
,
slobbered
over
napkins
,
and
little
corpses
that
we
have
to
build
.
Always
it
begins
again
;
always
there
is
the
enemy
;
eyes
meeting
ours
;
fingers
twitching
ours
;
the
effort
waiting
.
Call
the
waiter
.
Pay
the
bill
.
We
must
pull
ourselves
up
out
of
our
chairs
.
We
must
find
our
coats
.
We
must
go
.
Must
,
must
,
must
--
detestable
word
.
Once
more
,
I
who
had
thought
myself
immune
,
who
had
said
,
"
Now
I
am
rid
of
all
that
,
"
find
that
the
wave
has
tumbled
me
over
,
head
over
heels
,
scattering
my
possessions
,
leaving
me
to
collect
,
to
assemble
,
to
heap
together
,
summon
my
forces
,
rise
and
confront
the
enemy
.
'
It
is
strange
that
we
,
who
are
capable
of
so
much
suffering
,
should
inflict
so
much
suffering
.
Strange
that
the
face
of
a
person
whom
I
scarcely
know
save
that
I
think
we
met
once
on
the
gangway
of
a
ship
bound
for
Africa
--
a
mere
adumbration
of
eyes
,
cheeks
,
nostrils
--
should
have
power
to
inflict
this
insult
.
You
look
,
eat
,
smile
,
are
bored
,
pleased
,
annoyed
--
that
is
all
I
know
.
Yet
this
shadow
which
has
sat
by
me
for
an
hour
or
two
,
this
mask
from
which
peep
two
eyes
,
has
power
to
drive
me
back
,
to
pinion
me
down
among
all
those
other
faces
,
to
shut
me
in
a
hot
room
;
to
send
me
dashing
like
a
moth
from
candle
to
candle
.
'
But
wait
.
While
they
add
up
the
bill
behind
the
screen
,
wait
one
moment
.
Now
that
I
have
reviled
you
for
the
blow
that
sent
me
staggering
among
peelings
and
crumblings
and
old
scraps
of
meat
,
I
will
record
in
words
of
one
syllable
how
also
under
your
gaze
with
that
compulsion
on
me
I
begin
to
perceive
this
,
that
and
the
other
.
The
clock
ticks
;
the
woman
sneezes
;
the
waiter
comes
--
there
is
a
gradual
coming
together
,
running
into
one
,
acceleration
and
unification
.
Listen
:
a
whistle
sounds
,
wheels
rush
,
the
door
creaks
on
its
hinges
.
I
regain
the
sense
of
the
complexity
and
the
reality
and
the
struggle
,
for
which
I
thank
you
.
And
with
some
pity
,
some
envy
and
much
good
will
,
take
your
hand
and
bid
you
good
night
.
'
Heaven
be
praised
for
solitude
!
I
am
alone
now
.
That
almost
unknown
person
has
gone
,
to
catch
some
train
,
to
take
some
cab
,
to
go
to
some
place
or
person
whom
I
do
not
know
.
The
face
looking
at
me
has
gone
.
The
pressure
is
removed
.
Here
are
empty
coffee-cups
.
Here
are
chairs
turned
but
nobody
sits
on
them
.
Here
are
empty
tables
and
nobody
any
more
coming
to
dine
at
them
to-night
.
'
Let
me
now
raise
my
song
of
glory
.
Heaven
be
praised
for
solitude
.
Let
me
be
alone
.
Let
me
cast
and
throw
away
this
veil
of
being
,
this
cloud
that
changes
with
the
least
breath
,
night
and
day
,
and
all
night
and
all
day
.
While
I
sat
here
I
have
been
changing
.
I
have
watched
the
sky
change
.
I
have
seen
clouds
cover
the
stars
,
then
free
the
stars
,
then
cover
the
stars
again
.
Now
I
look
at
their
changing
no
more
.
Now
no
one
sees
me
and
I
change
no
more
.
Heaven
be
praised
for
solitude
that
has
removed
the
pressure
of
the
eye
,
the
solicitation
of
the
body
,
and
all
need
of
lies
and
phrases
.
'M
y
book
,
stuffed
with
phrases
,
has
dropped
to
the
floor
.
It
lies
under
the
table
,
to
be
swept
up
by
the
charwoman
when
she
comes
wearily
at
dawn
looking
for
scraps
of
paper
,
old
tram
tickets
,
and
here
and
there
a
note
screwed
into
a
ball
and
left
with
the
litter
to
be
swept
up
.
What
is
the
phrase
for
the
moon
?
And
the
phrase
for
love
?
By
what
name
are
we
to
call
death
?
I
do
not
know
.
I
need
a
little
language
such
as
lovers
use
,
words
of
one
syllable
such
as
children
speak
when
they
come
into
the
room
and
find
their
mother
sewing
and
pick
up
some
scrap
of
bright
wool
,
a
feather
,
or
a
shred
of
chintz
.
I
need
a
howl
;
a
cry
.
When
the
storm
crosses
the
marsh
and
sweeps
over
me
where
I
lie
in
the
ditch
unregarded
I
need
no
words
.
Nothing
neat
.
Nothing
that
comes
down
with
all
its
feet
on
the
floor
.
None
of
those
resonances
and
lovely
echoes
that
break
and
chime
from
nerve
to
nerve
in
our
breasts
,
making
wild
music
,
false
phrases
.
I
have
done
with
phrases
.
'
How
much
better
is
silence
;
the
coffee-cup
,
the
table
.
How
much
better
to
sit
by
myself
like
the
solitary
sea-bird
that
opens
its
wings
on
the
stake
.
Let
me
sit
here
for
ever
with
bare
things
,
this
coffee-cup
,
this
knife
,
this
fork
,
things
in
themselves
,
myself
being
myself
.
Do
not
come
and
worry
me
with
your
hints
that
it
is
time
to
shut
the
shop
and
be
gone
.
I
would
willingly
give
all
my
money
that
you
should
not
disturb
me
but
will
let
me
sit
on
and
on
,
silent
,
alone
.
