How It Is, Page 4

  asleep I see me asleep on my side or on my face it’s one or the other on my side it’s preferable which side the right it’s preferable the sack under my head or clasped to my belly clasped to my belly the knees drawn up the back bent in a hoop the tiny head near the knees curled round the sack Belacqua fallen over on his side tired of waiting forgotten of the hearts where grace abides asleep

  I know not what insect wound round its treasure I come back with empty hands to me to my place what to begin with ask myself that last a moment with that

  what to begin my long day my life present formulation last a moment with that coiled round my treasure listening my God to have to murmur that

  twenty years a hundred years not a sound and I listen not a gleam and I strain my eyes four hundred times my only season I clasp the sack closer to me a tin clinks first respite very first from the silence of this black sap

  something wrong there

  the mud never cold never dry it doesn’t dry on me the air laden with warm vapour of water or some other liquid I sniff the air smell nothing a hundred years not a smell I sniff the air

  nothing dries I clutch the sack first real sign of life it drips a tin clinks my hair never dry no electricity impossible fluff it up I comb it that can happen there’s another object straight back there’s another of my resources was once not now any more part three there’s another difference

  the morale at the outset before things got out of hand satisfactory ah the soul I had in those days the equanimity that’s why they gave me a companion

  it’s still my day part one before Pim my life present formulation the very beginning bits and scraps I come back to me to my place in the dark the mud clutch the sack a tin clinks I make ready I’m going end of the journey

  to speak of happiness one hesitates those awful syllables first asparagus burst abscess but good moments yes I assure you before Pim with Pim after Pim vast tracts of time good moments say what I may less good too they must be expected I hear it I murmur it no sooner heard dear scraps recorded somewhere it’s preferable someone listening another noting or the same never a plaint an odd tear inward no sound a pearl vast tracts of time natural order

  suddenly like all that happens to be hanging on by the fingernails to one’s species that of those who laugh too soon alpine image or speluncar atrocious moment it’s here words have their utility the mud is mute

  here then this ordeal before I go right leg right arm push pull ten yards fifteen yards towards Pim unwitting before that a tin clinks I fall last a moment with that

  enough indeed nearly enough when you come to think of it to make you laugh feel yourself falling and hang on with a squeak brief movements of the lower face no sound if you could come to think of it of what you nearly lost and then this splendid mud the panting stops and I hear it barely audible enough to make you laugh soon and late if you could come to think of it

  escape hiss it’s air of the little that’s left of the little whereby man continues standing laughing weeping and speaking his mind nothing physical the health is not in jeopardy a word from me and I am again I strain with open mouth so as not to lose a second a fart fraught with meaning issuing through the mouth no sound in the mud

  it comes the word we’re talking of words I have some still it would seem at my disposal at this period one is enough aha signifying mamma impossible with open mouth it comes I let it at once or in extremis or between the two there is room to spare aha signifying mamma or some other thing some other sound barely audible signifying some other thing no matter the first to come and restore me to my dignity

  passing time is told to me and time past vast tracts of time the panting stops and scraps of an enormous tale as heard so murmured to this mud which is told to me natural order part three it’s there I have my life

  my life natural order more or less in the present more or less part one before Pim how it was things so ancient the journey last stage I come back to me to my place clutch the sack it drips a tin clinks loss of species one word no sound it’s the beginning of my life present formulation I can go pursue my life it will still be a man

  what to begin with drink to begin with I turn over on my face that lasts a good moment I last with that a moment in the end the mouth opens the tongue comes out lolls in the mud that lasts a good moment they are good moments perhaps the best difficult to choose the face in the mud the mouth open the mud in the mouth thirst abating humanity regained

  sometimes in this position a fine image fine I mean in movement and colour blue and white of clouds in the wind sometimes some days this time as it happens this day in the mud a fine image I’ll describe it it will be described then go right leg right arm push pull towards Pim he does not exist

  sometimes in this position I fall asleep again the tongue goes in the mouth closes the mud opens it’s I who fall asleep again stop drinking and sleep again or the tongue out and drink all night all the time I sleep that’s my night present formulation I have no other I wake from sleep how much nearer to the last that of men of beasts too I wake ask myself how much nearer I quote on last a moment with that it’s another of my resources

  the tongue gets clogged with mud that can happen too only one remedy then pull it in and suck it swallow the mud or spit it out it’s one or the other and question is it nourishing and vistas last a moment with that

  I fill my mouth with it that can happen too it’s another of my resources last a moment with that and question if swallowed would it nourish and opening up of vistas they are good moments

  rosy in the mud the tongue lolls out again what are the hands at all this time one must always try and see what the hands are at well the left as we have seen still clutches the sack and the right

  the right I close my eyes not the blue the others at the back and finally make it out way off on the right at the end of its arm full stretch in the axis of the clavicle I say it as I hear it opening and closing in the mud opening and closing it’s another of my resources it helps me

  it can’t be far a bare yard it feels far it will go some day on its four fingers having lost its thumb something wrong there it will leave me I can see it close my eyes the others and see it how it throws its four fingers forward like grapnels the ends sink pull and so with little horizontal hoists it moves away it’s a help to go like that piecemeal it helps me

  and the legs and the eyes the blue closed no doubt no since suddenly another image the last there in the mud I say it as I hear it I see me

  I look to me about sixteen and to crown all glorious weather egg-blue sky and scamper of little clouds I have my back turned to me and the girl too whom I hold who holds me by the hand the arse I have

  we are if I may believe the colours that deck the emerald grass if I may believe them we are old dream of flowers and seasons we are in April or in May and certain accessories if I may believe them white rails a grandstand colour of old rose we are on a racecourse in April or in May

  heads high we gaze I imagine we have I imagine our eyes open and gaze before us still as statues save only the swinging arms those with hands clasped what else

  in my free hand or left an undefinable object and consequently in her right the extremity of a short leash connecting her to an ash-grey dog of fair size askew on its hunkers its head sunk stillness of those hands

  question why a leash in this immensity of verdure and emergence little by little of grey and white spots lambs little by little among their dams what else the bluey bulk closing the scene three miles four miles of a mountain of modest elevation our heads overtop the crest

  we let go our hands and turn about I dextrogyre she sinistro she transfers the leash to her left hand and I the same instant to my right the object now a little pale grey brick the empty hands mingle the arms swing the dog has not moved I have the impression we are looking at me I pull in my tongue close my mouth and smile

  seen full face the girl is less hideous it’s not with her I am concerned me pale staring hair red pudding face with
pimples protruding belly gaping fly spindle legs sagging knocking at the knees wide astraddle for greater stability feet splayed one hundred and thirty degrees fatuous half-smile to posterior horizon figuring the morn of life green tweeds yellow boots all those colours cowslip or suchlike in the buttonhole

  again about turn introrse at ninety degrees fleeting face to face transfer of things mingling of hands swinging of arms stillness of dog the rump I have

  suddenly yip left right off we go chins up arms swinging the dog follows head sunk tail on balls no reference to us it had the same notion at the same instant Malebranche less the rosy hue the humanities I had if it stops to piss it will piss without stopping I shout no sound plant her there and run cut your throat

  brief black and there we are again on the summit the dog askew on its hunkers in the heather it lowers its snout to its black and pink penis too tired to lick it we on the contrary again about turn introrse fleeting face to face transfer of things swinging of arms silent relishing of sea and isles heads pivoting as one to the city fumes silent location of steeples and towers heads back front as though on an axle

  suddenly we are eating sandwiches alternate bites I mine she hers and exchanging endearments my sweet girl I bite she swallows my sweet boy she bites I swallow we don’t yet coo with our bills full

  my darling girl I bite she swallows my darling boy she bites I swallow brief black and there we are again dwindling again across the pastures hand in hand arms swinging heads high towards the heights smaller and smaller out of sight first the dog then us the scene is shut of us

  some animals still the sheep like granite outcrops a horse I hadn’t seen standing motionless back bent head sunk animals know

  blue and white of sky a moment still April morning in the mud it’s over it’s done I’ve had the image the scene is empty a few animals still then goes out no more blue I stay there

  way off on the right in the mud the hand opens and closes that helps me it’s going let it go I realize I’m still smiling there’s no sense in that now been none for a long time now

  my tongue comes out again lolls in the mud I stay there no more thirst the tongue goes in the mouth closes it must be a straight line now it’s over it’s done I’ve had the image

  that must have lasted a good moment with that I have lasted a moment they must have been good moments soon it will be Pim I can’t know the words can’t come solitude soon over soon lost those words

  I have had company mine because it amuses me I say it as I hear it and a little girl friend’s under the sky of April or of May we are gone I stay there

  way off on the right the tugging hand the mouth shut grim the staring eyes glued to the mud perhaps we shall come back it will be dusk the earth of childhood glimmering again streaks of dying amber in a murk of ashes the earth must have been on fire when I see us we are already at hand

  it is dusk we are going tired home I see only the naked parts the solidary faces raised to the east the pale swaying of the mingled hands tired and slow we toil up towards me and vanish

  the arms in the middle go through me and part of the bodies shades through a shade the scene is empty in the mud the sky goes out the ashes darken no world left for me now but mine very pretty only not like that it doesn’t happen like that

  I wait for us perhaps to come back and we don’t come back for the evening perhaps to whisper to me what the morning had sung and that day to that morning no evening

  find something else to last a little more questions who were they what beings what point of the earth that family whence this dumb show better nothing eat something

  that must have lasted a moment there must be worse moments hope blighted is not the worst the day is well advanced eat something that will last a moment they will be good moments

  then if necessary my pain which of my many the deep beyond reach it’s preferable the problem of my pains the solution last a moment with that then go not because of the shit and vomit something else it’s not known not said end of the journey

  right leg right arm push pull ten yards fifteen yards arrival new place readaptation prayer to sleep pending which questions if necessary who they were what beings what point of the earth

  they will be good moments then less good that too must be expected it will be night present formulation I can sleep and if ever I wake

  and if ever mute laugh I wake forthwith catastrophe Pim and end of part one leaving only part two leaving only part three and last

  the panting stops I am on my side which side the right it’s preferable I part the mouth of the sack and questions what my God can I desire what hunger to eat what was my last meal that family time passes I remain

  it’s the scene of the sack the two hands part its mouth what can one still desire the left darts in the left hand in the sack it’s the scene of the sack and the arm after up to the armpit and then

  it strays among the tins without meddling with how many announces a round dozen fastens who knows on the last prawns these details for the sake of something

  it brings out the little oval tin transfers it to the other hand goes back to look for the opener finds it at last brings it out the opener we’re talking of the opener with its spindle bone handle to the feel rest

  the hands what are the hands at when at rest difficult to see with thumb and index respectively pad of tip and outer face of second joint something wrong there nip the sack and with remaining fingers clamp the objects against the palms the tin the opener these details in preference to nothing

  a mistake rest we’re talking of rest how often suddenly at this stage I say it as I hear it in this position the hands suddenly empty still nipping the sack never let go the sack otherwise suddenly empty

  grope in a panic in the mud for the opener that is my life but of what cannot as much be said could not as much be always said my little lost always vast stretch of time

  rest then my mistakes are my life the knees draw up the back bends the head comes to rest on the sack between the hands my sack my body all mine all these parts every part

  mine say mine to say something to say what I hear in Erebus in the end I’d succeed in seeing my navel the breath is there it wouldn’t stir a mayfly’s wing I feel the mouth opening

  on the muddy belly I saw one blessed day saving the grace of Heraclitus the Obscure at the pitch of heaven’s azure towering between its great black still spread wings the snowy body of I know not what frigate-bird the screaming albatross of the southern seas the history I knew my God the natural the good moments I had

  but last day of the journey it’s a good day no surprises good or bad as I went to rest so back I came my hands as I left them I shall lose nothing more see nothing more

  the sack my life that I never let go here I let it go needing both hands as when I journey that hangs together ah these sudden blazes in the head as empty and dark as the heart can desire then suddenly like a handful of shavings aflame the spectacle then

  need journey when shall I say weak enough later some day weak as me a voice of my own

  with both hands therefore as when I journey or in them take my head took my head above in the light I let go the sack therefore but just a moment it’s my life I lie across it therefore that hangs together still

  through the jute the edges of the last tins rowel my ribs perished jute upper ribs right side just above where one holds them holds one’s sides held one’s sides my life that day will not escape me that life not yet

  if I was born it was not left-handed the right hand transfers the tin to the other and this to that the same instant the tool pretty movement little swirl of fingers and palms little miracle thanks to which little miracle among so many thanks to which I live on lived on

  nothing now but to eat ten twelve episodes open the tin put away the tool raise the tin slowly to the nose irreproachable freshness distant perfume of laurel felicity then dream or not empty the tin or not throw it away or not all that it’s not said I can’t see no great importance wi
pe my mouth that without fail so on and at last

  take the sack in my arms strain it so light to me lay my cheek on it it’s the big scene of the sack it’s done I have it behind me the day is well advanced close the eyes at last and wait for my pain that with it I may last a little more and while waiting

  prayer in vain to sleep I have no right to it yet I haven’t yet deserved it prayer for prayer’s sake when all fails when I think of the souls in torment true torment true souls who have no right to it no right ever to sleep we’re talking of sleep I prayed for them once if I may believe an old view it has faded

  me again always everywhere in the light age unknown seen from behind on my knees arse bare on the summit of a muckheap clad in a sack bottom burst to let the head through holding in my mouth the horizontal staff of a vast banner on which I read

  in thy clemency now and then let the great damned sleep here something illegible in the folds then dream perhaps of the good time their naughtiness procured them what time the demons may rest ten seconds fifteen seconds

  sleep sole good brief movements of the lower face no sound sole good come quench these two old coals that have nothing more to see and this old kiln destroyed by fire and in all this tenement

  all this tenement of naught from top to bottom from hair to toe and finger-nails what little sensation it still has of what it still is in all its parts and dream

  dream come of a sky an earth an under-earth where I am inconceivable aah no sound in the rectum a redhot spike that day we prayed no further

  how often kneeling how often from behind kneeling from every angle from behind in every posture if he wasn’t me he was always the same cold comfort

  one buttock twice too big the other twice too small unless an optical delusion here when you shit it’s the mud that wipes I haven’t touched them for an eternity in other words the ratio four to one I always loved arithmetic it has paid me back in full