WHAT WE TALK AsouT WHEN WE TALK As ouT LovE JY.ly frie.docx

WHAT WE TALK AsouT
WHEN WE TALK As ouT LovE
JY.ly friend ~lelllcGinnis was talking. llel McGinnis is
lUJ a cardiologist, and sometimes that gives him the right.
The four of us were sitting around his kitchen table
drinking gin. Sunlight filled the kitchen from the big win-
dow bchind the sink. There were ~lei and me and his sec-
ond wife, Teresa-Terri, we called her-and my wife,
Laura. ' e lived in Albuquerque then. But we were all from
somewhere eh.e.
There was an ice bucket on the table. The gin and the
tonic water kept going around, and we somehow got on the
subject of love. llel thought real love was nothing less than
spiritual love. He said he'd spent five years in a seminary
before quitting to go to medical school. He said he still looked
back on those years in the seminary as the most important
years in his life.
Terri said the man she li-ed with before she lived with
llelloved her so much he tried to kill her. Then Terri said,
"He beat me up one night. He dragged me around the living
room by my ankles. He kept saying, 'I love you, I love you,
you bitch.' He ,.,·ent on dragging me around the living room.
lly head kept knocking on things." Terri looked around the

table. "'hat do you do with kwe like that?"
She was a bone-thin woman with a pretty face, dark eyes,
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and brown hair that hung down her back. She liked necklaces
made of turquoise, and long pendant earrings.
"My Cod, don't be silly. That's not love, and you know
it," Mel said. "I don't know what you'd call it, but I sure know
you wouldn't call it love."
"Say what you want to, but I know it was," Terri said. "It
may sound crazy to you, but it's true just the same. People are
different, Mel. Sure, sometimes he may have acted crazy.
Okay. But he loved me. In his own way maybe, but he loved
me. There was love there, Mel. Don't say there wasn't."
llel let out his breath. He held his glass and turned to
Laura and me. "The man threatened to kill me," Mel said.
He finished his drink and reached for the gin bottle. "Terri's
a romantic. Terri's of the kick-me-so-1'11-know-you-love-me
school. Terri, hon, don't look that way." Mel reached across
the table and touched Terri's cheek with his fingers. He
grinned at her.
''Now he wants to make up," Terri said.
"Make up what?" Mel said. "'hat is there to make up?
I know what I know. That's all."
"How'd we get started on this subject, anyway?" Terri
said. She raised her glass and drank from it. "Mel always has
love on his mind," she said. "Don't you, honey?" She smiled,
and I thought that was the last of it.
"I just wouldn't call Ed's behavior love. That's all I'm
saying, honey," llel said. "'hat about you guys?" Mel said
to Laura and me. "Does that sound like love to you?"

''I'm the wrong person to ask," I said. "I didn't even
know the man. I've only heard his name mentioned in pass-
ing. I wouldn't know. You'd have to know the particulars. But
I think what you're saying is that love is an absolute."
lIel said, "The kind of love I'm talking about is. The kind
of love I'm talking about, you don't try to kill people."
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RAYMOND CARVER
Laura said, "I don't know anything about Ed, or anything
about the situation. But who can judge anyone else's situa-
tion?"
I touched the back of Laura's hand. She gave me a quick
smile. I picked up Laura's hand. It was warm, the nails pol-
ished, perfectly manicured. I encircled the broad wrist with
my fingers, and I held her.
"Vhen I left, he drank rat poison," Terri said. She clasped
her arms with her hands. "They took him to the hospital in
Santa Fe. That's where we lived then, about ten miles out.
They saved his life. But his gums went crazy from it. I mean
they pulled away from his teeth. After that, his teeth stood
out like fangs. lly Cod," Terri said. She waited a minute,
then let go of her arms and picked up her glass.
"Vhat people won't do!" Laura said.
"He's out of the action now," ~lel said. "He's dead."

llel handed me the saucer of limes. I took a section,
squeezed it over my drink, and stirred the ice cubes with my
finger.
"It gets worse," Terri said. ''He shot himself in the
mouth. But he bungled that too. Poor Ed," she said. Terri
shook her head.
"Poor Ed nothing," llel said. "He was dangerous."
llel was forty-five years old. He was tall and rangy with
curly soft hair. His face and arms were brown from the tennis
he played. 'hen he was sober, his gestures, all his move-
ments, were precise, very careful.
"lie did love me though, lIel. Grant me that," Terri said.
''That's all I'm asking. He didn't love me the way you love
me. I'm not saying that. But he loved me. You can grant me
J~Yan't you?"
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WHAT WE TAll( ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE

"What do you mean, he bungled it?" I said.
Laura leaned forward with her glass. She put her elbows
on the table and held her glass in both hands. She glanced
from Mel to Terri and waited with a look of bewilderment
on her open face, as if amazed that such things happened to
people you were friendly with.
"How'd he bungle it when he killed himself?" I said.
''I'll tell you what happened," Mel said. "He took this
twenty-two pistol he'd bought to threaten Terri and me with.
Oh, I'm serious, the man was always threatening. You should
have seen the way we lived in those days. Like fugitives. I even
bought a gun myself. Can you believe it? A guy like me? But
I did. I bought one for self-defense and carried it in the glove
compartment. Sometimes I'd have to leave the apartment in
the middle of the night. To go to the hospital, you know?
Terri and I weren't married then, and my first wife had the
house and kids, the dog, everything, and Terri and I were
living in this apartment here. Sometimes, as I say, I'd get a
call in the middle of the night and have to go in to the
hospital at two or three in the morning. It'd be dark out there
in the parking lot, and I'd break into a sweat before I could
even get to my car. I never knew if he was going to come up
out of the shrubbery or from behind a car and start shooting.
I mean, the man was crazy. He was capable of wiring a bomb,
anything. He used to call my service at all hours and say he
needed to talk to the doctor, and when I'd return the call,
he'd say, 'Son of a bitch, your days are numbered.' Little
things like that. It was scary, I'm telling you."
"I still feel sorry for him," Terri said.
"It sounds like a nightmare," Laura said. "But what ex-

actly happened after he shot himself?"
Laura is a legal secretary. ' e' d met in a professional
capacity. Before we knew it, it was a courtship. She's thirty-
five, three years younger than I am. In addition to l->"'itu? in
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RAYI101.D C"R ER
love, we like each other and enjoy one another's company.
She's easy to be with.
"'hat happened?" Laura said.
~tel said, "He shot himself in the mouth in his room.
Someone heard the shot and told the manager. They came
in with a passkey, saw what had happened, and called an
ambulance. I happened to be there when they brought him
in, alive but past recall. The man lived for three days. His
head swelled up to twice the size of a normal head. I'd never
seen anything like it, and I hope I never do again. Terri
wanted to go in and sit with him when she found out about
it. 'e had a fight over it. I didn't think she should see him
like that. I didn't think she should see him, and I still don't."
"'ho won the fight?" Laura said.
"I was in the room with him when he died," Terri said.
"He never came up out of it. But I sat with him. He didn't
ha·e anyone else."
"He was dangerous," ld said. "If you call that love, you

can hae it."
"It was lm·e," Terri said. "Sure, it's abnormal in most
people's eyes. But he was willing to die for it. He did die for
it."
"I sure as hdl wouldn't call it love," ~lel said. "I mean,
no one knows what he did it for. I've seen a lot of suicides,
and I couldn't say anyone ever knew what they did it for."
l.ld put his hands behind his neck and tilted his chair
back. "I'm not interested in that kind of lm·e," he said. "If
that's love, you can have it."
Terri said, "'e were afraid. ld even made a will out
and wrote to his brother in California who used to be a Green
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WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVt
Beret. 1lel told him who to look for if something happened
to him."
Terri drank from her glass. She said, "But Mel's right-
we lived like fugitives. 'e were afraid. Mel was, weren't you,
honey? I even called the police at one point, but they were
no help. They said they couldn't do anything until Ed actually
did something. Isn't that a laugh?" Terri said.
She poured the last of the gin into her glass and waggled
the bottle. l.Iel got up from the table and went to the cup-

board. He took down another bottle.
"Veil, 1;ick and I know what love is," Laura said. "For us,
I mean," Laura said. She bumped my knee with her knee.
"You're supposed to say something now," Laura said, and
turned her smile on me.
For an answer, I took Laura's hand and raised it to my
lips. I made a big production out of kissing her hand. Every-
one was amused.
"'e're lucky," I said.
"You guys," Terri said. "Stop that now. You're making
me sick. You're still on the honeymoon, for Cod's sake.
You're still gaga, for crying out loud. Just wait. How long have
you been together now? How long has it been? A year? Lon-
ger than a year?"
"Going on a year and a half," Laura said, flushed and
smiling.
"Oh, now," Terri said. "Vait awhile."
She held her drink and gazed at Laura.
''I'm only kidding," Terri said.
Mel opened the gin and went around the table with the
bottle .
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RA ~MONO CIR'ER
"Here, you guys," he said. "Let's have a toast. I want to

propose a toast. A toast to love. To true love," Mel said.
Ve touched glasses.
"To love," we said.
Outside in the backyard, one of the dogs began to bark. The
leaves of the aspen that leaned past the window ticked against
the glass. The afternoon sun was like a presence in this room,
the spacious light of ease and generosity. We could have been
anywhere, somewhere enchanted. Ve raised our glasses again
and grinned at each other like children who had agreed on
something forbidden.
''I'll tell you what real love is," l·Iel said. "I mean, I'll give
you a good example. And then you can draw your own conclu-
sions." He poured more gin into his glass. He added an ice
cube and a sliver of lime. Ve waited and sipped our drinks.
Laura and I touched knees again. I put a hand on her warm
thigh and left it there.
"Vhat do any of us really know about love?" Mel said.
"It seems to me we're just beginners at love. 'e say we love
each other and we do, I don't doubt it. I love Terri and Terri
loves me, and you guys love each other too. You know the
kind of love I'm talking about now. Physical love, that im-
pulse that drives you to someone special, as well as love of the
other person's being, his or her essence, as it were. Carnal love
and, well, call it sentimentallo·e, the day-to-day caring about
the other person. But sometimes I have a hard time account-
ing for the fact that I must have loved my first wife too. But
I did, I know I did. So I suppose I am like Terri in that regard.
Terri and Ed.'' He thought about it and then he went on.
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WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE
"There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more
than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you
explain that? What happened to that love? What happened
to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.
Then there's Ed. Okay, we're back to Ed. He loves Terri so
much he tries to kill her and he winds up killing himself." Mel
stopped talking and swallowed from his glass. "You guys have
been together eighteen months and you love each other. It
shows all over you. You glow with it. But you both loved other
people before you met each other. You've both been married
before, just like us. And you probably loved other people
before that too, even. Terri and I have been together five
years, been married for four. And the terrible thing, the
terrible thing is, but the good thing too, the saving grace, you
might say, is that if something happened to one of us-excuse
me for saying this-but if something happened to one of us

tomorrow, I think the other one, the other person, would
grieve for a while, you know, but then the surviving party
would go out and love again, have someone else soon enough.
All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be
a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I
way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you
think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know
anything, and I'm the first one to admit it."
"Mel, for God's sake," Terri said. She reached out and
took hold of his wrist. "Are you getting drunk? Honey? Are
you drunk?"
"Honey, I'm just talking," Mel said. "All right? I don't
have to be drunk to say what I think. I mean, we're all just
talking, right?" Mel said. He fixed his eyes on her.
"Sweetie, I'm not criticizing," Terri said.
She picked up her glass.
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RAYMOf<D CARER
''I'm not on call today," Mel said. "Let me remind you
of that. I am not on call," he said.
•·Mel, we love you," Laura said.
Mel looked at Laura. He looked at her as if he could not
place her, as if she was not the woman she was.
"Love you too, Laura," Mel said. "And you, Nick, love
you too. You know something?" Mel said. "You guys are our

pals," Mel said.
He picked up his glass.
Mel said, "I was going to tell you about something. I mean,
I was going to prove a point. You see, this happened a few
months ago, but it's still going on right now, and it ought to
make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're
talking about when we talk about love."
"Come on now," Terri said. "Don't talk like you're drunk
if you're not drunk."
"Just shut up for once in your life," Mel said very quietly.
"Will you do me a favor and do that for a minute? So as I
was saying, there's this old couple who had this car wreck out
on the interstate. A kid hit them and they were all torn to shit
and nobody was giving them much chance to pull through."
Terri looked at us and then back at Mel. She seemed
anxious, or maybe that's too strong a word.
Mel was handing the bottle around the table.
"I was on call that night," ~tel said. "It was llay or
maybe it was June. Terri and I had just sat down to dinner
when the hospital called. There'd been this thing out on the
interstate. Drunk kid, teenager, plowed his dad's pickup into
this camper with this old couple in it. They were up in their
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mid-se,·enties, that couple. The kid-eighteen, nineteen,
something-he was DOA. Taken the steering wheel through
his sternum. The old couple, they were alive, you under~tand.
I mean, just barely. But they had everything. Multiple frac-
tures, internal injuries, hemorrhaging, contusions, lacerations,
the works, and they each of them had themselves concus-
sions. They were in a bad way, believe me. And, of courst·,
their age was two strikes against them. I'd say she was worse
off than he was. Ruptured spleen along with everything else.
Both kneecaps broken. But they'd been wearing their scat-
belts and, God knows, that's what saved them for the time
being."
"Folks, this is an ad,·crtisement for the National Safety
Council," Terri said. "This is your spokesman, Dr. Melvin
R. lfcGinnis, talking." Terri laughed. "lld," she said,
"sometimes you're just too much. But I love you, hon," she
said.
"Honey, I love you," lIel said.
He leaned across the table. Terri met him halfway. They
kissed.
''Terri's right," lIel said as he settled himself again. "Get
those seatbelts on. But seriously, they were in some shape,
those oldsters. By the time I got down there, the kid was dead,

as I said. He was off in a corner, laid out on a gurney. I took
one look at the old couple and told the ER nurse to get me
a neurologist and an orthopedic man and a couple of surgeons
down there right away."
He drank from his glass. 'Til try to keep this short," he
said. "So we took the two of them up to the OR and worked
like fuck on them most of the night. They had these incred-
ible reserves, those two. You see that once in a while. So we
did everything that could be done, and toward morning we're
179 . ••
RAH.IO~D CAR ER
giYing them a fifty-fifty chance, maybe less than that for her.
So here they are, still ahe the next morning. So, okay, we
move them into the ICU, which is where they both kept
plugging away at it for two weeks, hitting it better and better
on all the SLopes. So we lramfer them out to their own room."
tvld stopped talking. "Here," he said, "let's drink this
cheapo gin the hell up. Then we're going to dinner, right?
Terri and I know a new place. That's where we'll go, to this
new place we know about. But we're not going until we finish
up this cut-rate, lousy gin."
Terri said, "'e han:n't actually eaten there yet. But it
looks good. From the oub.ide, you know."
"I like food," llel ~aid. "If I had it to do all over agaii1,
I' J be a chef, you know:' Right, Terri?" 1lel said.
He laughed. He fingered the icc in his glass.

'Terri knows," he said. "Terri can tell you. But let me say
this. If I coulJ come back again in a different life, a different
time and all, you know what? I'd like to come back as a
knight. You were pretty safe wearing all that arinor. It was all
right being a knight until gunpowder and muskets and pistols
came along."
''.Iel would like to ride a horse and cam: a lance," Terri
said.
"Carry a woman's scarf with you e·erywhere," Laura said.
"Or just a woman," :lel said.
"Shame 011 you," Laura said.
Terri :-.aid, "Suppose you came back as a serf. The serfs
didn't have it so good in those days," Terri said.
''The st:rfs never had it guud," .lei said. "But I guess
en~n the knights were essels tu someone. Isn't that the way
it worked? But then e·eryone is always a vessel to someone.
Isn't that right, Terri? But what I liked about knights, besides
their ladie~, as that they had that ~uit of armor, you know,
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and they couldn't get hurt very easy. No cars in those days,
you know? No drunk teenagers to tear into your ass."
"Vassals," Terri said.
"'hat?" .Mel said.

"Vassals," Terri said. ''They were called vassals, not ves-
sels."
'''assals, vessels," Mel said, "what the fuck's the differ-
ence? You knew what I meant anyway. All right," Mel said.
"So I'm not educated. I learned my stuff. I'm a heart surgeon,
sure, but I'm just a mechanic. I go in and I fuck around and
I fix things. Shit," llel said.
"..lodesty doesn't become you," Terri said.
"He's just a humble sawbones," I said. "But sometimes
they suffocated in all that armor, Mel. They'd even have heart
attacks if it got too hot and they were too tired and worn out.
I read somewhere that they'd fall off their horses and not be
able to get up because they were too tired to stand with all
that armor on them. They got trampled by their own horses
sometimes."
'That's terrible," Mel said. "That's a terrible thing,
Nicky. I guess they'd just lay there and wait until someboc)y
came along and made a shish kebab out of them."
"Some other vessel," Terri said.
"That's right," .!lei said. "Some vassal would come along
and spear the bastard in the name of love. Or whatever the
fuck it was they fought over in those days."
"Same things we fight over these days," Terri said.
Laura said, "Nothing's changed."
The color was still high in Laura's cheeks. Her eyes were
bright. She brought her glass to her lips.

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1'lel poured himself another drink. He looked at the label
closely as if studying a long row of numbers. Then he slowly
put the bottle down on the table and slowly reached for the
tonic water.
"'hat about the old couple?'' Laura said. "You didn't finish
that story you started."
Laura was having a hard time lighting her cigarette. Her
matches kept going out.
The sunshine inside the room was different now, chang-
ing, getting thinner. But the leaves outside the window were
still shimmering, and I stared at the pattern they made on the
panes and on the Formica counter. They weren't the same
patterns, of course.
"'hat about the old couple?'' I said.
"Older but wiser," Terri said.
.1:lel stared at her.
Terri said, "Co on with your story, hon. I was only kid-
ding. Then what happened?"
"Terri, :;ometimes," 1'lel said.
"Please, .Iel," Terri said. "Don't always be so serious,

sweetie. Can't you take a joke?"
"'here's the joke?" .'lel said.
He held his glass and gazed steadily at his wife.
"'hat happened?" Laura said.
Mel fastened his eyes on Laura. He said, "Laura, if I
didn't have Terri and if I didn't love her so much, and if lick
wasn't my best friend, r d fall in lm·e with you. I'd carry you
off, honey," he said.
"Tell your story," Terri said. "Then we'll go to that new
place, okay?"
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"Okay," Mel said. "'here was I?" he said. He stared at
the table and then he began again.

"I dropped in to see each of them every day, sometimes
twice a day if I was up doing other calls anyway. Casts and
bandages, head to foot, the both of them. You know, you've
seen it in the movies. That's just the way they looked, just like
in the movies. Little eye-holes and nose-holes and mouth-
holes. And she had to have her legs slung up on top of it.
'ell, the husband was very depressed for the longest while.
Even after he found out that his wife was going to pull
through, he was still very depressed. Not about the accident,
though. I mean, the accident was one thing, but it wasn't
everything. I'd get up to his mouth-hole, you know, and he'd
say no, it wasn't the accident exactly but it was because he
couldn't see her through his eye-holes. He said that was what
was making him feel so bad. Can you imagine? I'm telling
you, the man's heart was breaking because he couldn't turn
his god damn head and see his goddamn wife."
lIellooked around the table and shook his head at what
he was going to say.
"I mean, it was killing the old fart just because he
couldn't look at the fucking woman."
'e all looked at Mel.
''Do you see what I'm saying?" he said.
laybe we were a little drunk by then. I know it was hard
keeping things in focus. The light was draining out of the
room, going back through the window where it had come
from. Yet nobody made a move to get up from the table to
turn on the overhead light.
"Listen,'' .!lei said. "Let's finish this fucking gin. There's

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RAY~IOI'ID CAR ER
about enough left here for one shooter all around. Then let's
go eat. Let's go to the new place."
"He's depressed," Terri said. "Mel, why don't you take
"11?" a p1 .
Mel shook his head. "I've taken everything there is."
"Ve all need a pill now and then," I said.
"Some people are born needing them," Terri said.
She was using her finger to rub at something on the table.
Then she stopped rubbing.
"I think I want to call my kids," !lei said. "Is that all
right with everybody? I'll call my kids," he said.
Terri said, "'hat if Marjorie answers the phone? You
guys, you've heard us on the subject of Marjorie? Honey, you
know you don't want to talk to !-larjorie. It'll make you feel
e'en worse."
"I don't want to talk to ~Iarjorie," Mel said. "But I want
to talk to my kids."
"There isn't a day goes by that .ld doesn't say he wishes
she'd get married again. Or else die," Terri said. "For one
thing." Terri said, "she's bankrupting us. 1·fel says it's just to
spite him that she won't get married again. She has a boy-
friend who lives with her and the kids, so 1lel is supporting

the boyfriend too."
"She's allergic to bees," 1ld said. "If I'm not praying
she'll get married again, I'm praying she'll get herself stung
to death hy a swarm of fucking bees."
"Shame on you," Laura said.
''Bzzzzzzz," Mel said, turning his fingers into bees and
buzzing them at Terri's throat. Then he let his hands drop
all the way to his sides.
"She's vicious," 1lcl said. ''Sometimes I think I'll go up
there dressed like a beekeeper. You know, that hat that's like
a helmet with the plate that comes down O'er your face, the
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big gloves, and the padded coat? I'll knock on the door and

let loose a hive of bees in the house. But first I'd make sure
the kids were out, of course."
He crossed one leg over the other. It seemed to take him
a lot of time to do it. Then he put both feet on the floor and
leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin cupped in his
hands.
"~Iaybe I won't call the kids, after all. Maybe it isn't such
a hot idea. Maybe we'll just go <::at. How does that sound?"
"Sounds fine to me," I said. ''Eat or not eat. Or keep
drinking. I could head right on out into the sunset."
"'hat does that mean, honey?" Laura said.
"It just means what I said," I said. "It means I could just
keep going. That's all it means."
"I could eat something myself," Laura said. "I don't
think I·e e·er been so hungry in my life. Is there something
to nibble on?"
'Til put out some cheese and crackers," Terri said.
But Terri just sat there. She did not get up to get any-
thing.
1lcl turned his glass over. He spilled …
1
James Joyce (1882-1941)

Eveline (1914)
She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.
Her head was leaned
against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of
dusty cretonne. She was
tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his
way home; she heard
his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and
afterwards crunching on the cinder
path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a
field there in which they used to
play every evening with other people's children. Then a man
from Belfast bought the field
and built houses in it—not like their little brown houses but
bright brick houses with shining
roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that
field—the Devines, the
Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers
and sisters. Ernest, however,
never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to
hunt them in out of the field
with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep
nix and call out when he saw

her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy
then. Her father was not so
bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long
time ago; she and her brothers
and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn
was dead, too, and the
Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she
was going to go away like
the others, to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar
objects which she had
dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on
earth all the dust came from.
Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from
which she had never dreamed
2
of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never
found out the name of the
priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the
broken harmonium beside the
coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary

Alacoque. He had been a
school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph
to a visitor her father used
to pass it with a casual word:
“He is in Melbourne now.”
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that
wise? She tried to weigh
each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter
and food; she had those whom
she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work
hard, both in the house and at
business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they
found out that she had run
away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place
would be filled up by
advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had
an edge on her, especially
whenever there were people listening.
“Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?”
“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not

be like that. Then
she would be married—she, Eveline. People would treat her
with respect then. She would not
be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was
over nineteen, she sometimes
felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was
that that had given her the
palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for
her like he used to go for
Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had
begun to threaten her and say
3
what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And
now she had nobody to protect
her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church
decorating business, was nearly
always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable
squabble for money on
Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She
always gave her entire wages—
seven shillings—and Harry always sent up what he could but the
trouble was to get any

money from her father. He said she used to squander the money,
that she had no head, that he
wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about
the streets, and much more,
for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he
would give her the money and
ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then
she had to rush out as quickly
as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather
purse tightly in her hand as she
elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late
under her load of provisions.
She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the
two young children who had
been left to hr charge went to school regularly and got their
meals regularly. It was hard
work—a hard life—but now that she was about to leave it she
did not find it a wholly
undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was
very kind, manly, open-
hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be
his wife and to live with him in

Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well
she remembered the first time
she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road
where she used to visit. It
seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his
peaked cap pushed back on his
head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then
they had come to know each
other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and
see her home. He took her to
4
see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an
unaccustomed part of the theatre
with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little.
People knew that they were
courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor,
she always felt pleasantly
confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it
had been an excitement for
her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had
tales of distant countries. He
had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the

Allan Line going out to
Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and
the names of the different
services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he
told her stories of the terrible
Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said,
and had come over to the
old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found
out the affair and had
forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to
meet her lover
secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in
her lap grew
indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest
had been her favourite but
she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she
noticed; he would miss her.
Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she
had been laid up for a day, he
had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire.

Another day, when their
mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of
Howth. She remembered her
father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children
laugh.
5
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the
window, leaning her head
against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty
cretonne. Down far in the avenue she
could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that
it should come that very
night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to
keep the home together as
long as she could. She remembered the last night of her
mother's illness; she was again in the
close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she
heard a melancholy air of Italy.
The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given
sixpence. She remembered her
father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

“Damned Italians! coming over here!”
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell
on the very quick of
her being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final
craziness. She trembled as she
heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish
insistence:
“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must
escape! Frank would
save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she
wanted to live. Why should she
be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her
in his arms, fold her in his
arms. He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North
Wall. He held her
hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying
something about the passage over and
over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown
baggages. Through the wide doors of
the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat,
lying in beside the quay wall,

6
with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her
cheek pale and cold and, out of
a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her
what was her duty. The boat
blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went,
tomorrow she would be on the sea
with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had
been booked. Could she still
draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a
nausea in her body and she
kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
“Come!”
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was
drawing her into them: he
would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron
railing.
“Come!”
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in

frenzy. Amid the seas
she sent a cry of anguish.
“Eveline! Evvy!”
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He
was shouted at to go on
but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive,
like a helpless animal. Her
eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
1
A&P
by John Updike- 1962
In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I'm in the
third check-out
slot, with my back to the door, so I don't see them until they're
over by the bread.
The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green
two-piece. She
was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-
looking can with those
two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems

to hit, at the top
of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of
HiHo crackers
trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and
the customer starts
giving me hell. She's one of these cash-register-watchers, a
witch about fifty with
rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I know it made
her day to trip
me up. She'd been watching cash registers forty years and
probably never seen a
mistake before.
By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a
bag -- she gives
me a little snort in passing, if she'd been born at the right time
they would have
burned her over in Salem -- by the time I get her on her way the
girls had circled
around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart,
back my way along
the counters, in the aisle between the check-outs and the Special
bins. They
didn't even have shoes on. There was this chunky one, with the
two-piece -- it

was bright green and the seams on the bra were still sharp and
her belly was still
pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit) -- there was
this one, with one of
those chubby berry-faces, the lips all bunched together under
her nose, this one,
and a tall one, with black hair that hadn't quite frizzed right,
and one of these
sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was too
long -- you know,
the kind of girl other girls think is very "striking" and
"attractive" but never quite
makes it, as they very well know, which is why they like her so
much -- and then
the third one, that wasn't quite so tall. She was the queen. She
kind of led them,
the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round.
She didn't look
around, not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on
these long white
prima donna legs. She came down a little hard on her heels, as
if she didn't walk
in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then
letting the weight

move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every
step, putting a
little deliberate extra action into it. You never know for sure
how girls' minds
work (do you really think it's a mind in there or just a little
buzz like a bee in a
glass jar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into
coming in here
with her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk
slow and hold
yourself straight.
She had on a kind of dirty-pink - - beige maybe, I don't know --
bathing suit with
a little nubble all over it and, what got me, the straps were
down. They were off
her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms,
and I guess as a
result the suit had slipped a little on her, so all around the top
of the cloth there
was this shining rim. If it hadn't been there you wouldn't have
known there could
have been anything whiter than those shoulders. With the straps
pushed off, there

was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head
except just her,
this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the
shoulder bones like a
dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more
than pretty.
She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached,
done up in a bun
that was unraveling, and a kind of prim face. Walking into the
A & P with your
straps down, I suppose it's the only kind of face you can have.
She held her head
so high her neck, coming up out of those white shoulders,
looked kind of
stretched, but I didn't mind. The longer her neck was, the more
of her there was.
She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my
shoulder Stokesie in
the second slot watching, but she didn't tip. Not this queen. She
kept her eyes
moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it
made my stomach
rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who
kind of huddled

against her for relief, and they all three of them went up the cat-
and-dog-food-
breakfast-cereal-macaroni-rice-raisins-seasonings-spreads-
spaghetti-soft drinks-
crackers-and- cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight
up this aisle to the
meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with
the tan sort of
fumbled with the cookies, but on second thought she put the
packages back. The
sheep pushing their carts down the aisle -- the girls were
walking against the
usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything) --
were pretty
hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie's white shoulders
dawned on them,
kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup, but their eyes snapped back to
their own baskets
and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in an A &
P and the people
would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off
their lists and
muttering "Let me see, there was a third thing, began with A,
asparagus, no, ah,

yes, applesauce!" or whatever it is they do mutter. But there
was no doubt, this
jiggled them. A few house-slaves in pin curlers even looked
around after pushing
their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.
You know, it's one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on
the beach,
where what with the glare nobody can look at each other much
anyway, and
another thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent
lights, against all
those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over
our
checkerboard green-and-cream rubber-tile floor.
2
"Oh Daddy," Stokesie said beside me. "I feel so faint."
"Darling," I said. "Hold me tight." Stokesie's married, with two
babies chalked
up on his fuselage already, but as far as I can tell that's the only
difference. He's
twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.

"Is it done?" he asks, the responsible married man finding his
voice. I forgot to
say he thinks he's going to be manager some sunny day, maybe
in 1990 when it's
called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company or
something.
What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a
big summer
colony out on the Point, but we're right in the middle of town,
and the women
generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get
out of the car into
the street. And anyway these are usually women with six
children and varicose
veins mapping their legs and nobody, including them, could
care less. As I say,
we're right in the middle of town, and if you stand at our front
doors you can see
two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper
store and three real-
estate offices and about twenty-seven old free-loaders tearing
up Central Street
because the sewer broke again. It's not as if we're on the Cape;
we're north of

Boston and there's people in this town haven't seen the ocean
for twenty years.
The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking
McMahon something.
He pointed, they pointed, and they shuffled out of sight behind
a pyramid of Diet
Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old
McMahon patting his
mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I
began to feel
sorry for them, they couldn't help it.
Now here comes the sad part of the story, at least my family
says it's sad but I
don't think it's sad myself. The store's pretty empty, it being
Thursday afternoon,
so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register and
wait for the girls
to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine
and I didn't know
which tunnel they'd come out of. After a while they come
around out of the far
aisle, around the light bulbs, records at discount of the
Caribbean Six or Tony
Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax

on, six packs of
candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that fall apart
when a kid
looks at them anyway. Around they come, Queenie still leading
the way, and
holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through Seven
are unmanned
and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but
Stokesie with his
usual luck draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles
up with four
giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these bums do with all
that pineapple juice
I've often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts
down the jar and I
take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks
in Pure Sour
Cream: 49¢. Now her hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet,
bare as God
made them, and I wonder where the money's coming from. Still
with that prim
look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center
of her nubbled
pink top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that

was so cute.
Then everybody's luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from
haggling with a
truck full of cabbages on the lot and is about to scuttle into that
door marked
MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch
his eye. Lengel's
pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn't
miss that much.
He comes over and says, "Girls, this isn't the beach."
Queenie blushes, though maybe it's just a brush of sunburn I
was noticing for the
first time, now that she was so close. "My mother asked me to
pick up a jar of
herring snacks." Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices
do when you see
the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony,
too, the way it
ticked over "pick up" and "snacks." All of a sudden I slid right
down her voice
into her living room. Her father and the other men were
standing around in ice-
cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals
picking up herring

snacks on toothpicks off a big plate and they were all holding
drinks the color of
water with olives and sprigs of mint in them. When my parents
have somebody
over they get lemonade and if it's a real racy affair Schlitz in
tall glasses with
"They'll Do It Every Time" cartoons stenciled on.
"That's all right," Lengel said. "But this isn't the beach." His
repeating this struck
me as funny, as if it had just occurred to him, and he had been
thinking all these
years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head
lifeguard. He didn't
like my smiling -- -as I say he doesn't miss much -- but he
concentrates on giving
the girls that sad Sunday- school-superintendent stare.
Queenie's blush is no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid,
that I liked better
from the back -- a really sweet can -- pipes up, "We weren't
doing any shopping.
We just came in for the one thing."
"That makes no difference," Lengel tells her, and I could see
from the way his

eyes went that he hadn't noticed she was wearing a two-piece
before. "We want
you decently dressed when you come in here."
"We are decent," Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing,
getting sore now
that she remembers her place, a place from which the crowd that
runs the A & P
must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in her
very blue eyes.
3
"Girls, I don't want to argue with you. After this come in here
with your
shoulders covered. It's our policy." He turns his back. That's
policy for you.
Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is
juvenile delinquency.
All this while, the customers had been showing up with their
carts but, you
know, sheep, seeing a scene, they had all bunched up on
Stokesie, who shook
open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to

miss a word. I
could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all
Lengel, who asks
me, "Sammy, have you rung up this purchase?"
I thought and said "No" but it wasn't about that I was thinking. I
go through the
punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT -- it's more complicated than you
think, and after you
do it often enough, it begins to make a little song, that you hear
words to, in my
case "Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)"-the
splat being the
drawer flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may
imagine, it just having
come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had
ever known were
there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink palm,
and nestle the
herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the
time thinking.
The girls, and who'd blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I
say "I quit" to
Lengel quick enough for them to hear, hoping they'll stop and
watch me, their

unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric
eye; the door flies
open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and
Plaid and Big Tall
Goony-Goony (not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving
me with Lengel
and a kink in his eyebrow.
"Did you say something, Sammy?"
"I said I quit."
"I thought you did."
"You didn't have to embarrass them."
"It was they who were embarrassing us."
I started to say something that came out "Fiddle-de-doo." It's a
saying of my
grandmother's, and I know she would have been pleased.
"I don't think you know what you're saying," Lengel said.
"I know you don't," I said. "But I do." I pull the bow at the back
of my apron and
start shrugging it off my shoulders. A couple customers that had
been heading
for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared pigs

in a chute.
Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray.
He's been a friend
of my parents for years. "Sammy, you don't want to do this to
your Mom and
Dad," he tells me. It's true, I don't. But it seems to me that once
you begin a
gesture it's fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron,
"Sammy" stitched in
red on the pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow
tie on top of it.
The bow tie is theirs, if you've ever wondered. "You'll feel this
for the rest of
your life," Lengel says, and I know that's true, too, but
remembering how he
made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch
the No Sale tab
and the machine whirs "pee-pul" and the drawer splats out. One
advantage to this
scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean
exit, there's no
fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter
into the electric
eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before,

and the door
heaves itself open, and outside the sunshine is skating around
on the asphalt.
I look around for my girls, but they're gone, of course. There
wasn't anybody but
some young married screaming with her children about some
candy they didn't
get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking
back in the big
windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn
furniture stacked on
the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot,
checking the sheep
through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he'd
just had an injection
of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world
was going to be
to me hereafter.

4
A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE (1933)
By Ernest Hemingway
It was late and every one had left the cafe except an old man
who sat in the
shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In
the day time
the street was dusty; but at night the dew settled the dust and
the old man
liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was
quiet and he felt
the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old
man was a
little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he
became too
drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on
him.
"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.
"Why?"
"He was in despair."
"What about?"
"Nothing."
How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."
They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near
the door of the
cafe and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty
except where
the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that
moved slightly in
the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street
light shone on
the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering
and hurried
beside him.
"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.
"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"
"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him.
They went by
five minutes ago."
The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his
glass. The
younger waiter went over to him.
"What do you want?"
The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.
"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him.
The waiter
went away.
"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now.
I never get into
bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last
week."
The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the
counter inside
the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. He put down
the saucer and
poured the glass full of brandy.
"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf
man. The old

man motioned with his finger.
"A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so
that
the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top
saucer of
the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the
bottle
back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table with his colleague
again.
"He's drunk now," he said.
"He's drunk every night."
"What did he want to kill himself for?"
"How should I know."
"How did he do it?"
"He hung himself with a rope."
"Who cut him down?"
"His niece."
"Why did he do it?"
"For his soul."
"How much money has he got?"
"He's got plenty."
"He must be eighty years old."
"Anyway I should say he was eighty."
"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three
o'clock.
What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"
"He stays up because he likes it."
"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for
me."
"He had a wife once too."
"A wife would be no good to him now."
"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."
"His niece looks after him."
"I know. You said she cut him down."
"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling.
Even
now, drunk. Look at him."
"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has
no
regard for those who must work."
The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over
at the
waiters.
"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who
was
in a hurry came over.
"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax
stupid
people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners.
"No
more tonight. Close now."
"Another," said the old man.
5
"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a
towel
and shook his head.
The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a
leather coin purse
from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta
tip.
The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man
walking unsteadily
but with dignity,.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter
asked. They
were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."
"I want to go home to bed."
"What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him."
"An hour is the same."
"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and
drink at home."
"It's not the same."
"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to
be unjust. He
was only in a hurry.
"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual
hour?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
"No, hombre, only to make a joke."
"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from putting on
the metal
shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."
"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said.
"You have
everything."
"And what do you lack?"
"Everything but work."
"You have everything I have."
"No. I have never had confidence and I'm not young."
"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."
"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter
said.
"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those

who need a light
for the night."
"I want to go home and into bed."
"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was
now dressed to
go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence
although those
things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up
because there
may be some one who needs the cafe."
"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."
"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is
well lighted.
The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the
leaves."
"Good night," said the younger waiter.
"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he
continued the
conversation with himself. It is the light of course but it is
necessary that the
place be clean and light. You do not want music. Certainly you
do not want
music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although
that is all that is
provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not fear or
dread. It was a
nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man
was nothing too.
It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain
cleanness and order.
Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it was already
nada y pues nada y

pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy
kingdom nada thy
will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily
nada and nada
us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but
deliver us
from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is
with thee. He
smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure
coffee machine.
"What's yours?" asked the barman.
"Nada."
"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.
"A little cup," said the waiter.
The barman poured it for him.
"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished,"
the waiter
said.
The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at
night for
conversation.
"You want another copita?" the barman asked.
"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars
and bodegas.
A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now,
without thinking
further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed
and finally,
with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to
himself, it is probably
only insomnia. Many must have it.

6
The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin 1894
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble,
great care was taken to break
to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It
was her sister Josephine who
told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half
concealing. Her husband's
friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been
in the newspaper office
when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with
Brently Mallard's name leading
the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself
of its truth by a second
telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less
tender friend in bearing the sad

message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same,
with a paralyzed inability to
accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild
abandonment, in her sister's
arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to
her room alone. She would
have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy
armchair. Into this she sank,
pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body
and seemed to reach into her
soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of
trees that were all aquiver with
the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air.
In the street below a peddler
was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some
one was singing reached her
faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through
the clouds that had met and
piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the
chair, quite motionless, except
when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child
who has cried itself to sleep
continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke
repression and even a certain
strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze
was fixed away off yonder
on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of
reflection, but rather indicated a
suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it,
fearfully. What was it? She
did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt
it, creeping out of the sky,
reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color
that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning
to recognize this thing that
was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it
back with her will--as
powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her
slightly parted lips. She
said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The
vacant stare and the look of
terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen
and bright. Her pulses beat
fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of
her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy
that held her. A clear and
exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as
trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind,
tender hands folded in death;
the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed
and gray and dead. But she

saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to
come that would belong to her
absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in
welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years;
she would live for herself.
There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind
persistence with which men and
women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a
fellow-creature. A kind
intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime
as she looked upon it in that
brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What
did it matter! What could
love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession
of self-assertion which she
suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to

the keyhole, imploring for
admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door--you
will make yourself ill. What
are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in
a very elixir of life through
that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.
Spring days, and summer days,
and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a
quick prayer that life might be
long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that
life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's
importunities. There …
1
Araby
by James Joyce
North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at
the hour when the

Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited
house of two storeys stood at
the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground.
The other houses of the
street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one
another with brown
imperturbable faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back
drawing-room. Air, musty
from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the
waste room behind the
kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I
found a few paper-covered
books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by
Walter Scott, The
Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the
last best because its
leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained
a central apple-tree and
a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late
tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.
He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all
his money to institutions
and the furniture of his house to his sister.
When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had
well eaten our dinners.
When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The
space of sky above us was
the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of
the street lifted their feeble
lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies
glowed. Our shouts echoed
in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through
the dark muddy lanes

behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes
from the cottages, to the
back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose
from the ashpits, to the dark
odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the
horse or shook music from
the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from
the kitchen windows had
filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid
in the shadow until we
had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on
the doorstep to call her
brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up
and down the street. We
waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she
remained, we left our shadow
and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting
for us, her figure defined
by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always
teased her before he obeyed,
and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as
she moved her body, and
the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching
her door. The blind was
pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be
seen. When she came out
on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my
books and followed her. I
kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near
the point at which our
ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This
happened morning after
morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual
words, and yet her name was

like a summons to all my foolish blood.
2
Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to
romance. On Saturday
evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry
some of the parcels. We
walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and
bargaining women, amid
the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who
stood on guard by the barrels
of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a
come-all-you about
O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native
land. These noises
converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I
bore my chalice safely
through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at
moments in strange prayers and
praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often
full of tears (I could not
tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour
itself out into my bosom. I
thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever
speak to her or not or, if I
spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But
my body was like a harp
and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the
wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the
priest had died. It was a
dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house.

Through one of the broken panes
I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant
needles of water playing in the
sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed
below me. I was thankful
that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil
themselves and, feeling
that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my
hands together until they
trembled, murmuring: Ò love! O love!' many times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to
me I was so confused that
I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to
Araby. I forgot whether I
answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she
would love to go.
Ànd why can't you?' I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round
her wrist. She could not go,
she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her
convent. Her brother and two
other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the
railings. She held one of the
spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp
opposite our door caught
the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and,
falling, lit up the hand
upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the
white border of a
petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.
Ìt's well for you,' she said.

`If I go,' I said, `I will bring you something.'
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping
thoughts after that evening!
I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed
against the work of school.
At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image
came between me and the
page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were
called to me through the
silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern
enchantment over me. I asked for
leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was
surprised, and hoped it was not
3
some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I
watched my master's face
pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning
to idle. I could not call
my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with
the serious work of life
which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to
me child's play, ugly
monotonous child's play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to
the bazaar in the
evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-
brush, and answered me
curtly:
`Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and
lie at the window. I felt the
house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The
air was pitilessly raw
and already my heart misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home.
Still it was early. I sat
staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to
irritate me, I left the
room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the
house. The high, cold,
empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to
room singing. From the front
window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their
cries reached me
weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the
cool glass, I looked over at
the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an
hour, seeing nothing but
the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched
discreetly by the lamplight at the
curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border
below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the
fire. She was an old,
garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used
stamps for some pious
purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal
was prolonged beyond an
hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to
go: she was sorry she
couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she
did not like to be out late,

as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to
walk up and down the
room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:
`I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our
Lord.'
At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I
heard him talking to
himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received
the weight of his overcoat. I
could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his
dinner I asked him to give
me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.
`The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.
I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:
`Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him
late enough as it is.'
4
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he
believed in the old saying:
`All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me
where I was going and, when
I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's
Farewell to his Steed. When
I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the
piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham

Street towards the station.
The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with
gas recalled to me the
purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage
of a deserted train. After
an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It
crept onward among
ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row
Station a crowd of people
pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back,
saying that it was a
special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare
carriage. In a few minutes the
train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed
out on to the road and saw
by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In
front of me was a large
building which displayed the magical name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the
bazaar would be closed, I
passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a
weary-looking man. I found
myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly
all the stalls were closed
and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a
silence like that which
pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the
bazaar timidly. A few
people were gathered about the stalls which were still open.
Before a curtain, over which
the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two
men were counting money
on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.
Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to

one of the stalls and
examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of
the stall a young lady was
talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked
their English accents and
listened vaguely to their conversation.
Ò, I never said such a thing!'
Ò, but you did!'
Ò, but I didn't!'
`Didn't she say that?'
`Yes. I heard her.'
Ò, there's a... fib!'
Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I
wish to buy anything. The
tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have
spoken to me out of a sense of
duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern
guards at either side of the
dark entrance to the stall and murmured:
5
`No, thank you.'
The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and
went back to the two young
men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the

young lady glanced at me
over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless,
to make my interest in her
wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and
walked down the middle of the
bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in
my pocket. I heard a
voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out.
The upper part of the hall
was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven
and derided by vanity; and
my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

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