Malone Dies by Samuel Beckett

Author:Samuel Beckett [Samuel Beckett]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780571266913
Publisher: Faber and Faber
Published: 2012-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Quick quick my possessions. Quiet, quiet, twice, I have time, lots of time, as usual. My pencil, my two pencils, the one of which nothing remains between my huge fingers but the lead fallen from the wood and the other, long and round, in the bed somewhere, I was holding it in reserve, I won’t look for it, I know it’s there somewhere, if I have time when I’ve finished I’ll look for it, if I don’t find it I won’t have it, I’ll make the correction, with the other, if anything remains of it. Quiet, quiet. My exercise-book, I don’t see it, but I feel it in my left hand, I don’t know where it comes from, I didn’t have it when I came here, but I feel it is mine. That’s the style, as if I were sweet and seventy. In that case the bed would be mine too, and the little table, the dish, the pots, the cupboard, the blankets. No, nothing of all that is mine. But the exercise-book is mine, I can’t explain. The two pencils then, the exercise-book and then the stick, which I did not have either when I came here, but which I consider mine, I must have described it long ago. I am quiet, I have time, but I shall describe as little as possible. It is with me in the bed, under the blankets, there was a time I used to rub myself against it, saying, It’s a little woman. But it is so long that it sticks out under the pillow and finishes far behind me. I continue from memory. It is black dark. I can hardly see the window. It must be letting in the night again. Even if I had time to rummage in my possessions, to bring them over to the bed one by one or tangled together as is often the way with forsaken things, I would not see anything. And perhaps indeed I have the time, let us assume I have the time, and proceed as if I had not. But it cannot be so long since I checked and went through all my things, in the light, in anticipation of this hour. But since then I must have forgotten it all. A needle stuck into two corks to prevent it from sticking into me, for if the point pricks less than the eye, no, that’s wrong, for if the point pricks more than the eye, the eye pricks too, that’s wrong too. Round the shank, between the two corks, a wisp of black thread clings. It is a pretty little object, like a – no, it is like nothing. The bowl of my pipe, though I never used a tobacco-pipe. I must have found it somewhere, on the ground, when out walking. There it was, in the grass, thrown away because it could no longer serve, the stem having broken off (I suddenly remember that) just short of the bowl. This pipe could have been repaired, but he must have said, Bah, I’ll buy myself another.

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