Shame - pg. 32

'Sometimes I found skeletons,' he swore to disbelieving Farah, 'humans as well as animal.' And even where bones were absent, the house's long-dead occupants dogged his steps. Not in the way you think! -- No howls, no clanking chains! -- But disembodied feelings, the choking fumes of ancient hopes, fears, loves; and finally, made wild by the ancestor-heavy, phantom oppressions of these far recesses of the run-down building, Omar Khayyam took his revenge (not long after the episode of the broken wall) on his unnatural surroundings. I wince as I record his vandalism: armed with broomstick and misappropriated hatchet, he rampaged through dusty passages and maggoty bedrooms, smashing glass cabinets, felling oblivion-sprinkled divans, pulverizing wormy libraries; crystal, paintings, rusty helmets, the paper-thin remnants of priceless silken carpets were destroyed beyond all possibility of repair. 'Take that,' he screeched amidst the corpses of his useless, massacred history, 'take that, old stuff!' -- and then burst (dropping guilty hatchet and clean-sweeping broom) into illogical tears.

Shame - pg. 28

Wherever I turn, there is something of which to be ashamed. But shame is like everything else; live with it for long enough and it becomes part of the furniture. In 'Defence', you can find shame in every house, burning in an ashtray, hanging framed upon a wall, covering a bed. But nobody notices it any more. And everyone is civilized.

Shame - pg. 28

You can get anywhere in Pakistan if you know people, even into jail.

Shame - pg. 21

Omar Khayyam Shakil entered life without benefit of mutilation, barbery or divine approval. There are many who would consider this a handicap.

Shame - pg. 12

'Come quickly,' Hashmat Bibi ran from the room yelling for the old man's daughters, 'your fatherji is sending himself to the devil.' Mr Shakil, having dismissed the outside world, had turned the rage of his dying monologue against himself, calling eternal damnation down upon his soul. 'God knows what got his goat,' Hashmat despaired, 'but he is going in an incorrect way.'

Thousand Cranes - Closing

He wiped his face with his handkerchief. The blood seemed to leave as he wiped, and he wiped more violently. The handkerchief was wet and dark. He felt a cold sweat at his back.
"She has no reason to die," he muttered.
There was no reason for Fumiko to die, Fumiko who had brought him to life.
But had the simple directness of the evening before been the directness of death?
Was she, like her mother, guilt-ridden, afraid of the directness?
"And only Kurimoto is left." As if spitting out all the accumulated venom on the woman he took for his enemy, Kikuji hurried into the shade of the park.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 144

He gazed at the eastern sky for a time, as if to retrieve something stolen.
The clouds would not be heavy; but he could not tell where the star was. The clouds broke near the horizon. The faint red deepened where they touched the roofs of houses.
"I can't just leave it," he said aloud. He picked up the pieces again, and put them in the sleeve of his night kimono.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 109

The shadow of the maple leaves, layer upon layer, fell on Fukimoto's hair.
Her head and her long throat were in the light of the window, and her arms, below the short sleeves of a dress she was apparently wearing for the first time, were white with a touch of green. Although she was not plump, there was a round fullness in the shoulders, and a roundness too in the arms.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 99

"It was good of you to telephone this morning."
Fumiko looked up at him, showing the full curve of her long, white throat.
There was a yellowish shadow in the hollow from throat to breast.
Whether it was a play of light or a sign of weariness, it somehow gave him rest.
"Kurimoto is here."

Thousand Cranes - pg. 91

He put the Shino in its box and went to bed.
As he looked out over the garden, he heard thunder.
It was distant but strong, and at each clap it was nearer.
Lightning came through the trees in the garden.
But when the rain began, the thunder seemed to withdraw.
It was violent rain. White spray rose from the earth of the garden.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 65

Kikuji sat by the telephone with his eyes closed.
He saw the evening sun as he had seen it after the night with Mrs. Ota: the evening sun through the train windows, behind the grove of the Hommonji Temple.
The red sun seemed about to flow down over the branches.
The grove stood dark against it.
The sun flowing over the branches sank into his tired eyes, and he closed them.
The white cranes from the Inamura girl's kerchief flew across the evening sun, which was still in his eyes.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 39

A hill fell away from outside the gate. Halfway down the slope the street curved, and, looking back, one saw only the trees in Kikuji's garden.

The image of the girl with the thousand-crane kerchief came to him. Fumiko stopped and said good-by.

Kikuji started back toward the house.

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - Closing

FORTINBRAS Let four captains
Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage,
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have proved most royal; and for his passage,
The soldier's music and the rite of war
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.
Go bid the soldiers shoot.
Exeunt marching, after the which a peal of ordnance are shot off

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:5.2.11

HAMLET Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay

Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,

And praised be rashness for it – let us know,

Our indiscretion sometime serves us well

When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-her them how we will --

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:5.1.160

HAMLET Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy, he hath borne me on his back a thousand times – and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Now one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that. – Prithee Horatio, tell me one thing.

Shame - pg. 11

Old Mr Shakil, at the time of his death a widower for eighteen years, had developed the habit of referring to the town in which he lived as 'a hell hole'. During his last delirium he embarked on a ceaseless and largely incomprehensible monologue amidst whose turbid peregrination the household servants could make out long passages of obscenity, oaths and curses of a ferocity that made the air boil violently around his bed. In this peroration the embittered old recluse rehearsed his lifelong hatred for his home town, now calling down demons to destroy the clutter of low, dun-coloured, 'higgling and piggling' edifices around the bazaar, now annihilating with his death-encrusted words the cool whitewashed smugness of the Cantonment district. These were the two orbs of the town's dumb-bell shape: old town and Cantt, the former inhabited by the indigenous, colonized population and the latter by the alien colonizers, the Angrez, or British sahibs.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 21

The light was really too bright for a tea cottage, but it made the girl's youth glow. The tea napking, as became a young girl, was red, and it impressed one less with its softness than with its freshness, as if the girl's hand were bringing a red flower into bloom.

Thousand Cranes - pg. 17

Kikuji had not seen her since his father's funeral.
She had hardly changed in four year.
The white neck, rather long, was as it had been, and the full shoulders that strangely matched the slender neck -- it was a figure young for her years. The mouth and nose were small in proportion to the eyes. The little nose, if one bothered to notice, was cleanly modeled and most engaging. When she spoke, her lower lip was thrust forward a little, as if in a pout.

The Tragedy Of King Lear - Opening

I.I Enter KENT, GLOUCESTER, and EDMOND

KENT I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall

GLOUCESTER It did always seem so to us: but now in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most, for qualities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety

KENT Is not this your son, my lord?

GLOUCESTER His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to't.

KENT I cannot conceive you.

IN MEMORIAM

PHILIP BROCKBANK, 1922--1989

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge

Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York

Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Kawabata's Nobel Lecture excerpt:

The following is from the biography of Myoe by his disciple Kikai:

"Saigyo frequently came and talked of poetry. His own attitude towards poetry, he said, was far from the ordinary. Cherry blossoms, the cuckoo, the moon, snow: confronted with all the manifold forms of nature, his eyes and his ears were filled with emptiness. And were not all the words that came forth true words? When he sang of the blossoms the blossoms were not on his mind, when he sang of the moon he did not think of the moon. As the occasion presented itself, as the urge arose, he wrote poetry. The red rainbow across the sky was as the sky taking on color. The white sunlight was as the sky growing bright. Yet the empty sky, by its nature, was not something to become bright. It was not something to take on color. With a spirit like the empty sky he gives color to all the manifold scenes but not a trace remained. In such poetry was the Buddha, the manifestation of the ultimate truth."

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:4.5.130

CLAUDIUS Let him demand his fill.

LAERTES How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with.

To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil,

Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit!

I dare damnation. To this point I stand,

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes, only I'll be revenged

Most thoroughly for my father.

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:3.3.10

ROSENCRATZ The single and peculiar life is bound

With all the strength and armous of the mind

To keep itself from noyance; but much more

That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests

The lives of many. The cess of majesty

Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw

What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel

Fixed on the summit of the highest mount,

To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things

Are mortised and adjoined, which when it falls,

Each small annexment, petty consequence,

Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone

Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:3.2.350

HAMLET By and by easily said. -- Leave me, friends.

Exeunt all but Hamlet

'Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyard yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother.

O heart, lost not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom.

Let me be cruel, not unnatural:

I will speak daggers to her but use none.

My soul in this be hypocrites,

How in my words somever she be shent,

To give them seals never my soul consent.

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:3.1.60

HAMLET To be, or not to be, that is the question --

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep --

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to -- 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep --

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamit of so long life,

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworth takes,

When he himself might his queitus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of??

Thus conscience makes cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regards their currents turn awry

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:2.2.280

HAMLET I will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all customs of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame,the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire --why, it appeareth no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals -- and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me -- no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - V:2.2.240

GUILDENSTERN Prison, my lord?

HAMLET Denmark's a prison.

ROSENCRATZ Then is the world one.

HAMLET A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons; Denmark being one o'th'worst.

ROSENCRATZ We think not so my lord.

HAMLET Why then 'tis none to you, for there is nothing either good or bad byt thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.

ROSENCRATZ Why then your ambition makes it one; 'tis too narrow for your mind.

HAMLET O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

GUILDENSTERN Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

HAMLET A dream itself is but a shadow.

ROSENCRATZ Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.

Thousand Cranes - Opening

EVEN WHEN he reached Kamakura and the Engkuji Temple, Kikuji did not know whether or not he would go to the tea ceremony. He was already late.

THOUSAND CRANES was originally published in Japan as SEMBAZURU

and was published in English by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.,

on February 23, 1959. Part of THOUSAND CRANES

originally appeared in slightly different form

in MADEMOISELLE, December 1958

This is a Borzoi Book published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

First Combined Edition

Copyright 1956, 1958 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published in the United States

by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

The Noble Prize Edition of two novels by

YASUNARI KAWABATA

Translated from the Japanese by

EDWARD G.SEIDENSTICKER

1969 New York Alfred A. Knopf

The Confidence-Man - pg. 139

Analogicaly, he couples the slanting cut of the equivocator's coat-tails with the sinister cast in his eye; he weighs slyboot's sleek speech in the light imparted by the oblique import of the smooth slope of his worn boot-heels; the insinuator's undulating flunkyisms dovetail into those of the flunky beast that windeth his way on his belly.
From these uncordial reveries he is roused by a cordial slap on the shoulder, accompanied by a spicy volume of tobacco-smoke, out of which came a voice, sweet as a seraph's:
"A penny for your thoughts, my fine fellow."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 137

"Thank you. Confidence is the indisputable basis of all sorts of business transactions. Without it, commerce between man and woman, as between country and country, would, like a watch, run down and stop. And now, supposing that against present expectation the lad should, after all, evince some little undesirable trait, do not, respected sir, rashly dismiss him. Have but patience, have but confidence. Those transient vices will, ere long, fall out, and be replaced by the sound, firm, even and permanent virtues. Ah," glancing shoreward, towards a grotesquely-shaped bluff, "there's the Devil's Joke, as they call it; the bell for landing will shortly ring. I must go look up the cook I brought for the inn-keeper at Cairo."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 134

"... Then, you rather like St. Augustine, sir?"
"Excellent genius!"
"In some points he was; yet, how comes it that under his own hand, St. Augustine confesses that, until his thirtieth year, he was a very sad dog?"
"A saint a sad dog?"
"Not the saint, but the saint's irresponsible little forerunner -- the boy."
"All boys are rascals, and so are all men," again flying off at his tangent; "my name is Pitch, I stick to what I say."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 130

"I don't know about that. The devil is very sagacious. To judge by the event, he appears to have understood man better even than the Being who made him."
"For God's sake, don't say that, sir! To the point. Can it now with fairness be denied that, in his beard, the man-child prospectively possesses an appendix, not less imposing than patriarchal; and for this goodly beard, should we not by generous anticipation give the man-child, even in his cradle, credit? Should we not now, sir? respectfully I put it."
"Yes, if like pig-weed he mows it down soon as it shoots," porcinely rubbing his stubble-chin against his coon-skins.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 126

"Boys outgrow what is amiss in them? From bad boys spring good men? Sir, 'the child is father of the man;' hence, as all boys are rascals, so are all men. But, God bless me, you must know these things better than I; keeping an intelligence office as you do; a business must furnish peculiar facilities for studying mankind. Come, come up here, sir; confess you know these things pretty well, after all. Do you not know that all men are rascals, and all boys, too?"

Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark - Opening

I.I Enter BARNARDO and FRANCISCO, two setinels

BARNARDO Who's there?
FRANCISCO Nay answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.
BARNARDO Long live the king!
FRANCISCO Barnardo?
BARNARDO He?
FRANCISCO You come most faithfully upon your hour.

PUBLISHED BY THE PRESS SYNDICATE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
The Putt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge, United Kingdom

First Published 1985
Reprinted 1988(twice), 1989, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1997, 1999, 2000, 2001
Updated edition 2003
Reprinted 2003


Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press Cambridge

Bolaño Correspondence @ n+1

http://nplusonemag.com/i-never-went-to-blanes

Pilate at Fortingall

A Latin harsh with Aramaicisms
poured from his lips incessantly; it made
no sense, for surely he was mad. The glade
of birches shamed his rags, in paroxysms
he stumbled, toga’d, furred, blear, brittle, grey.
They told us he sat here beneath the yew
even in downpours; ate dog-scraps. Crows flew
from prehistoric stone to stone all day-
‘See him now.’ He crawled to the cattle-trough
at dusk, jumbled the water till it sloshed
and spilled into the hoof-mush in blue strands,
slapped with useless despair each sodden cuff,
and washed his hands, and watched his hands, and washed
his hands, and watched his hands, and washed his hands.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 123

"A corn-husker in heaven! (turning up the whites of his eyes). Respected sir, this way of talking as if heaven were a kind of Washington patent-office museum -- oh, oh, oh! -- as if mere machine-work and puppet work went to heaven -- oh, oh, oh! Things incapable of free agency, to receive the eternal reward of well-doing -- oh, oh, oh!"

The Confidence-Man - pg. 118

"Yes, when, as with this old man, your evil days of decay come on, when a hoary captive in your chamber, then will you, something like the dungeoned Italian we read of, gladly seek the breast of that confidence begot in the tender time of your youth, blessed beyond telling if it return to you in age."
"Go back to nurse again, eh? Second childhood, indeed. You are soft."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 115

"I have confidence in nature? I? I say again there is nothing I am more suspicious of. I once lost ten thousand dollars by nature. Nature embezzled that amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars' worth of my property; a plantation on this stream, swept clean away by one of those sudden shiftings of the banks in a freshet; ten thousand dollars' worth of alluvion thrown broad off upon the waters."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 113

It was a rather eccentric-looking person who spoke; somewhat ursine in aspect; sporting a shaggy spencer of the cloth called bear's-skin; a high-peaked cap of raccoon-skin, the long bushy tail switching over behind; raw-hide leggings; grim stubble chin; and to end, a double-barreled gun in hand -- a Missouri bachelor, a Hoosier gentleman, of Spartan leisure and fortune, and equally Spartan manners and sentiments; and, as the sequel may show, not less acquainted, in a Spartan way of his own, with philosophy and books, than with wood-craft and rifles.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 88

"From evil comes good. Distrust is a stage to confidence. How has it proved in our interview? But your voice is husky; I have let you talk too much. You hold your cure; I leave you. But stay -- when I hear that is yours, I will not, like some I know, vainly make boasts; but, giving glory where all glory is due, say, with devout herb-doctor, Iapis in Virgil, when, in the unseen but efficacious presence of Venus, he with simples healed the wound of Aeneas: --

'This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
Nor art's effect, but done by power divine.'"

The Confidence-Man - pg. 81

Chapter 16

A SICK MAN, AFTER SOME IMPATIENCE, IS INDUCED
TO BECOME A PATIENT

THE SKY SLIDES into blue, the bluffs into blood; the rapid Mississippi expands; runs sparkling and gurgling, all over in eddies; one magnified wake of a seventy four. The sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his tent, flashing his helm on the world. All things, warmed in landscape, leap. Speeds the daedal boat as a dream.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 71

Without sending a single fume to his head, the wine seemed to shoot to his heart, and begin soothsaying there. "Ah," he cried, pushing his glass from him, "Ah, wine is good, and confidence is good; but can wine or confidence percolate down through all the stony strata of hard considerations, and drop warmly and ruddily into the cold cave of truth? Truth will not be comforted. Led by dear charity, lured by sweet hope, fond fancy essays this feat; but in vain; mere dreams and ideals, they explode in your hand, leaving naught but the scorching behind!"

The Enigma Of Arrival - Closing

Our sacred world -- the sanctities that had been handed down to us as children by our families, the sacred places of our childhood, sacred because we had seen them as children and had filled them with wonder, places doubly and trebly sacred to me because far away in England I had lived in them imaginatively over many books and had in my fantasy set in those places the very beginning of things, had constructed out of them a fantasy of home, though I was to learn that the ground was bloody, that there had been aboriginal people there once, who had been killed or made to die away -- our sacred world had vanished. Every generation now was to take us further away from those sanctities. But we remade the world for ourselves; every generation does that, as we found when we came together for the death of this sister and felt the need to honour and remember. It forced us to look on death. It forced me to face the death I had been contemplating at night, in my sleep; it fitted a real grief where melancholy had created a vacancy, as if to prepare me for the moment. It showed me life and man as the mystery, the true religion of men, the grief and the glory. And that we when, faced with a real death, and with this new wonder about men, I laid aside my drafts and hesitations and began to write very fast about Jack and his garden.


October 1984 -- April 1986

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 316

We were immemorially people of the countryside, far from the courts of princes, living according to rituals we didn't always understand and yet were unwilling to dishonour because that would cut us off from the past, the sacred earth, the gods. Those earth rites went back far. They would always have been partly mysterious. But we couldn't surrender to them now. We had become self-aware. We would have accepted; we would have felt ourselves to be more whole, more in tune with the land and the spirit of the earth.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 264

The man had changed. And -- he was in my cottage, sitting in my wing chair, half reclined, looking small, the upholstered wings above his head, his knees neatly together -- it was a little as if (this was the idea that came to me) the man that one knew had been subjected almost to a moral attack by the unacknowledge personality within; that the man had been pulled down by this inner personality, which now sat like a watchful guardian on the man's shoulder and was the only entity with whom Alan could now have a true dialogue. Of the old personality there remained only the clothes that made the upholstery of the chair look grimy. These clothes were as carefully chosen as ever; but the man within was so quiet, so little ebullient, his movements were so slow and considered, that the clothes did not suggest the old personality.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 252

Pitton's difficulty -- as I understood when I put myself in his place, and examined myself and my own fears -- was that he had lost touch with the idea of work. In fact, after the manor, the freedom there, the routine he had created, the calm he had established for himself, his relationship with the seasons, the year, time itself, what he feared was not work but employment -- and perhaps not employment so much as the idea of the employer.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 243

In 1857, in Madame Bovary, Flaubert could write of the pedlar's six percent interest charge as extortionate, blood-letting. Now we lived easily with that kind of charge. In 1955, when I was very young and new to London and trying to write, I wanted nothing more than five hundred pounds a year; and, more modest than Virginia Woolf thirty years before, I would have undertaken to pay for my own rented room out of those five hundred pounds. In 1962, at a lunch in a London club with a humorous writer and a cartoonist, I put my needs -- the two other men had asked -- at two thousand pounds a year: I had moved up from the rented room to the rented, self-contained flat. This figure had scandalized my fellow lunchers, older men, as far too low. And indeed, just three years later, when I had bought a house and taken on a mortgage, I would have considered five thousand pounds a year as just about fair. Now that was a figure that could be talked about as a heating charge. Not many fortunes would have been able to stand that kind of expense, one among many; and my landlord had retired from the world in 1949 or 1950, some years before I had thought five hundred pounds a year enough for my needs.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 60

Goneril was young, in person lithe and straight, too straight, indeed, for a woman, a complexion naturally rosy, and which would have been charmingly so, but for a certain harness and bakedness, like that of the glazed colors on stone-ware. Her hair was of a deep, rich chestnut, but worn in close, short curls all round her head. Her Indian figure was not without its impairing effect on her bust, which her mouth would have been pretty but for a trace of moustache. Upon the whole, aided by the resources of the toilet, her appearance at distance was such, that some might have thought her, if anything, rather beautiful, thought of a style of beauty rather peculiar and cactus-like.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 48

"Grieve not for that, madam," rising and folding up the bank-notes, "This is an inconsiderable sum, I admit, but," taking out his pencil and book, "though I here but register the amount, there is another register, where is set down the motive. Good-bye; you have confidence. Yea, you can say to me as the apostle said to the Corinthians, 'I rejoice that I have confidence in you in all things.'"

The Confidence-Man - pg. 42

"Yes, I am no Fourier, the projector of an impossible scheme, but a philanthropist and a financier setting forth a philanthropy and a finance which are practicable."

The Confidence-Man - pg. 39

Not that he looked as if he were a kind of Wilberforce at all; that superior merit, probably, was not his; nothing in his manner bespoke him righteous, but only good, and thought to be good is much below being righteous, and though there is a difference between the two, yet not, it is to be hoped, so incompatible as that a righteous man can not be a good man; though, conversely, in the pulpit it has been with much cogency urged, that a merely good man, that is, one good merely by his nature, is so far from thereby being righteous, that nothing short of a total change and conversion can make him so; which is something which no honest mind, well read in the history of righteousness, will care to deny; nevertheless, since St. Paul himself, agreeing in a sense with the pulpit distinction, though not altogether in the pulpit deduction, and also pretty plainly intimating which of the two qualities in question enjoys his apostolic preference; I say, since St. Paul has so meaningly said, that, "scarcely for a righteous man will one die, yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die;" therefore, when we repeat of this gentleman, that he was only a good man, whatever else by severe censors may be objected to him, it is still to be hoped that his goodness will not at least be considered criminal in him. At all events, no man, not even a righteous man, would think it quite right to commit this gentleman to prison for the crime, extraordinary as he might deem it; more especially, as, until everything could be known, there would be some chance that the gentleman might after all be quite as innocent of it as he himself.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 27

"Trust me, Now, young friend, perhaps you think that Tacitus, like me, is only melancholy; but he's more -- he's ugly. A vast difference, young sir, between the melancholy view and the ugly. The one may show the world still beautiful, not so the other. The one may be compatible with benevolence, the other not. The one may deepen insight, the other shallows it. Drop Tacitus. Phrenologically, my young friend, you would seem to have a well-developed head, and large; but cribbed within the ugly view, the Tacitus view, your large brain, like your large ox in the contracted field, will but starve the more. And don't dream, as some of you students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the deeper meanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. Drop Tacitus. His subtlety is falsity. To him, in his double-refined anatomy of human nature, is well applied the Scripture saying -- 'There is a subtle man, and the same is deceived.' Drop Tacitus. Come, now, let me throw the book overboard."

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 239

Talking about the dereliction he had seen in the back garden, the young man said, 'It's a cruel thing to say. But the best thing would be to cut down all the beeches and plant afresh.'

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 233

It was a Sunday morning, and the Indian was dressed as formally as Pitton was now dressed. The Indian was in blue serge trousers and a white shirt. He had gone to the Sunday morning servce in the mission chapel. The settlement was in a new clearing; the stumps of felled trees still looked raw; the forest still pressed on three sides. And now after that morning service the Indian was on his way back to his forest village, taking the path at the edge of the clearing, just above the river, which in sunlight was the colour of pale wine, and at dusk became black. Night here made for anxiety. Daylight was always reassuring.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 227

Something of this -- some whiff of huts and damp and the swamplands of my childhood -- came to me at Christmas, in the Wiltshire valley, in Pitton's improved agricultural cottage. He was poor. I discovered now that his nerves were rawer than those of the Phillipses or Bray. He was much more vulnerable than they were.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 221

The noblest impulse of all -- the wish to be a writer, the wish that ruled my life -- was the impulse that was the most imprisoning, the most insidious, and in some ways the most corrupting, because, refined by my half-English half-education and ceasing then to be a pure impulse, it had given me a false idea of the activity of the mind. The noblest impulse, in that colonial setting, had been the most hobbling. To be what I wanted to be, I had to cease to be or to grow out of what I was. To become a writer it was necessary to shed many of the early ideas that went with the ambition, and the concept my half-education had given me of the writer.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 219

Service -- a world dead and gone. But not to Bray; his childhood lay there, just as my childhood lay in the vanished world of sugar-cane fields and huts and barefoot children; and ditches and hibiscus hedges; and religious ceremonies which I accepted but didn't understand; and the beauty of the lighting of the lamps after the prayer in the evening; and the fear of the run-shops and the quarrels and fierce fights. Just as 'estate', 'labourer', 'gardeners' called up special pictures for me, so Bray lived with pictures of the valley I could only dimly visualize.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 215

And in this rebuke or resentment of Pitton there was contained an idea of the gardener which I felt to be very old, going beyond the idea of the gardener which I had found at my Oxford college, going back to the beginning of worship and the idea of fertility, the idea even of the god of the node: the gardener as the man who caused the unremarkable seed to grow into leaves, stalks, buds, flowers, fruit, called this all up from the seed, where it has lain in small, the gardener as magician, herbalist, in touch with the mystery of seed and root and graft, which (with the mystery of cooking) is one of the earliest mysteries that the child discovers -- one of the earliest mysteries that I, my sister and my cousins discovered when in the hard yellow earth of our Port of Spain yard, we, taking example one from the other, and just for the sake of magic, planted hard dry corn, maize, three seeds in a shallow hole, fenced the hole round with a little palisade of sticks (to protect it from the chickens that ran free in the yard), and then three days later, in the morning, before going to school, discovering the miracle: the maize shoots the morning breaking the earth, the green outer sheath developing quickly into a thin leaf curling back on itself, like a blade of grass, like sugar-cane, developing until the child became bored, ceased to watch and protect, and the chickens knocked the stick palisade down and pecked the still tender plant down to nothing.

the hot slow head of suicide

To conceive death as death
Is difficulty come by easily,
A blankness fallen among
Images of understanding,
Death like a quick cold hand
On the hot slow head of suicide.
So is it come by easily
For one instant. Then again furnaces
Roar in the ears, then again hell revolves,
And the elastic eye holds paradise
At visible length from blindness,
And dazedly the body echoes
“Like this, like this, like nothing else.”

Like nothing – a similarity
Without resemblance. The prophetic eye,
Closing upon difficulty,
Opens upon comparison,
Halving the actuality
As a gift too plain, for which
Gratitude has no language,
Foresight no vision.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 201

In the middle of farmyard dereliction and his own insecurity in his job and cottage, Jack kept his elaborate gardens and did his digging for vegetables and flowers and kept his plots in good heart. So, in the middle of an equal insecurity -- since at any time their employer might die, and they would have to move on with their possessions to another job and another set of rooms -- the Phillipses made their cosy home. Jack was anchored by the seasons and the corresponding labours of his gardens. The Phillipses had a different kind of stability. It was events outside their home, festivities outside, that gave rhythm and pattern and savour to their townish life: the outings, the visit two or three times a week to their pub, their annual holiday in the same hotel in the south.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 195

That wouldn't have been too fanciful. It would have been like my own wish, coming to the cottage in his grounds, not to interfere, to take things as I found them; and then my later wish, out of my own delight in the place, not to see decay, not to be saddened by that too ready idea of decay, to see instead flux, constant change; and the feeling which I grew to cherish, that in the very dereliction of the grounds I had come upon them at their peak, that the order created by sixteen gardeners would have been too much, would have made for strain and anxiety, that the true beauty of the place lay in accidental, unintended things: the peonies coming out very slowly below the thick dark green of the yews; the single blue iris among the tall nettles; the young deer that for many months lived among the reeds beside the rotting bridges over the water-channels, having learned that th eplace was not frequented by men.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 190

On this walk, as on the longer walk on the downs past Jack's cottage, I lived not with the idea of decay -- that idea I quickly shed -- so much as with the idea of change. I lived with the idea of change, of flux, and learned, profoundly, not to grieve for it. I learned to dismiss this easy cause of so much human grief. Decay implied an ideal, a perfection in the past. But would I have cared to be in my cottage while the sicteen gardeners worked? When every growing plant aroused anxiety, every failure pain or criticism? Wasn't the place now, for me, at its peak? Finding myself where I was, I thought -- after the journey that had begun so long before -- that I was blessed.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 143

These references -- to the Spanish Empire and the Haitian revolution -- would not have occured to me when I had lived on the street. Even when at school I had got to know (as part of school learning) the historical facts about the region, they did not have any imaginative force for me. The squalor and pettiness and and dinginess -- the fowl-coops and back yards and servant rooms and the many little houses on one small plot and the cesspits -- seemed too new; everything in Port of Spain seemed to have been recently put together; nothing suggested antiquity, a past. To this there had to be added a child's ignorance; and the special incompleteness of the Indian child, grandson of immigrants, whose past suddenly broke off, suddenly fell away into the chasm between the Antilles and India.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 139

If there was a place, at this stage of my career, where I could
fittingly celebrate my freedom, the fact that I had made myself a writer and
could now live as a writer, it was here, on this island which had fed my panic
and my ambition, and nurtured my earliest fantasies. And just as, in 1956, at
that first return, I had moved from place to place, to see it shrink from the
place I had known in my childhood and adolescence, so now I moved from place to
place to touch it with my mood of celebration, to remove from it the terror I
had felt in these places for various reasons at different times. Far away, in
England, I had re-created this landscape in my books. The landscape of the books
was not as accurate or full as I had pretended it was; but now I cherished the
original, because of that act of creation.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 135

I wrote of the simplest things in my memory. I wrote about the
street in Port of Spain where I had spent part of my childhood, the street I had
intently studied, during those childhood months, from the security and distance
of my own family life and kouse. Knowledge came to me rapidly during the
writing. And with that knowledge, that acknowledgment of myself (so
hard before it was done, so very easy and obvious afterwards), my curiosity
grew fast. I did other work; and in this concrete way, out of work that cam e
easily to me because it was so close to me, I defined myself, and saw that my
subject was not my sensibility, my inward development, byt the world I contained
within myself, the worlds I lived in: my subject turning out to be a version of
the one that, unknown to me, I had stumbled upon two weeks after I had left home
and in the Earls Court boarding house had found myself in the too big house,
among the flotsam of Europe after the war.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 132

I was, in 1950, like the earliest Spanish travellers to the New World, medieval men with high faith: travelling to see wonders, parts of God's world, but then very quickly taking the wonders for granted, saving inquiry (and true vision) only for what they knew they would find even before they had left Spain: gold. True curiosity comes at a later stage of development. In England I was at that earlier, medieval Spanish stage -- my education and literary ambition and my academic struggles the equivalent of the Spanish adventurer's faith and traveller's endurance. And, like the Spaniard, having arrived after so much effort, I saw very little. And like the Spaniard who made a long, perilous journey down the Orinoco or Amazon, I had very little to record.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 120

Such a big judgement about a city I had just arrived in! But that
way of feeling was something I carried within myself. The older people in our
Asian-Indian community in Trinidad -- especially the poor ones, who could never
manage English or get used to the strange races -- looked back to an India that
became more and more golden in their memory. They were living in Trinidad and
were going to die there; but for them it was the wrong place. Something of that
feeling was passed down to me. I didn't look back to India, couldn't do so; my
ambition caused me to look ahead and outwards, to England; but it led to a
similar feeling of wrongness. In Trinidad, feeling myself far away, I had held
myself back, as it were, for life at the centre of things. And there were
aspects of the physical setting of my childhood which positively encouraged that
mood of waiting and withdrawal.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 102

I witnessed this change in my personality; but, not even aware of it as a
theme, wrote nothing of it in my diary. So that between the
man writing the diary and the traveller there was already a
gap, already a gap between the man and the writer.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 92

I didn't think of this as an historical story, but more as a free
ride of the imagination. There was to be no research. I would take pointers from
Virgil perhaps for the sea and travel and the seasons, from the Gospels and the
Acts of the Apostles for the feel of the municipal or provincial organization of
the Roman Empire; I would get moods and the idea of ancient religion from
Apuleius; Horace and Martial and Petronius would give me hints for social
settings.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 87

I had thought that because of my insecure past -- peasant India,
colonial Trinidad, my own family circumstances, the colonial smallness that
didn't consort with the grandeur of my ambition, my uprooting of myself for a
writing career, my coming to England with so little, and the very little I still
had to fall back on -- I had thought that because of this I had been given an
especially tender or raw sense of an unaccommodating world.

Shame - Opening

I
Escapes from the
Mother Country
CHAPTER ONE

The Dumb-waiter

In the remote border town of Q., which when seen from the air resembles nothing so much as an ill-proportioned dumb-bell, there once lived three lovely, and loving, sisters.

FOR SAMEEN

First published 1983
Copyright Salman Rushdie 1983

Jonathan Cape Ltd, 30 Bedford Square, London WCI

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd, Frome and London

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 85

How expected a house looks when it becomes a site for builders, how stripped of sanctity, when a room, once intimate, becomes mere space! Jack's cottage (whose interior I had never seen until now) had been reduced -- without side wall of middle flooring -- to pure builder's space, and at this stage of building was still pure space, like the space within the ruined stone-walled house with the big sycamores further along the droveway. Somewhere in that space Jack had made his bravest decision, to leave his death-bed for the last Christmas season with his friends, in the so ordinary public house not far from the end of the droveway. And that was the space to which -- with what illness, delirium, resignation, or perhaps reconciliation -- he had returned to die.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 52

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century -- estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.

Book Cycle

1. Enigma Of Arrival
2. Twilight in Delhi
3. Aeschylus
4. Shame
5. Confidence Man
6. Parade's End
7. Hamlet
8. Muslim Women in India
9. India Wins Freedom
10. Pickwick Papers
11. Forum : Plato
12. Horace

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 51

THE CHURCH stood on an old site. I could believe that. Beyond the churchyard, and more or less hidden by the church itself, the old flint churchyard wall, and trees on the other side, were the sheds and buildings of the dairy. Did they also stand on an old site? I had no trouble believing that they did. Because the world -- in places like this -- is never absolutely new; there is always something that has gone before. Shrine or sacred place before church, farm before farm, on the site of an old fort set in a wood, first 'walden', then 'shaw', then Waldenshaw. A hamlet between the water meadows and the flinty downs; a hamlet, one of many, on the river-highway.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 50

The historical feeling that had caused the sign to be put up had also brought about the restoration of the chapels and abbeys of Amesbury, as well as of the church that lay across the lawn from my own cottage: history, like religion, or like an extension of religion, as an idea of one's own redemption and glory.

Yet there was an uncelebrated darkness before the foundation of that town of Amesbury in 979 A.D., as recorded by the sign. More than five hundred years before that, the Roman army had left Britain. And Stonehenge had been built and had fallen into ruin, and the vast burial ground had lost its sanctity, long before the Romans had come. So that history here, where there were so many ruins and restorations, seemed to be plateaux of light, with intervening troughs or disappearances into darkness.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 49

Between granary and mock farmhouse, and beyond the manor wall, was the church. To me in the beginning a church was a church, something built in a particular way, with windows of a particular shape: ideas given me by the Victorian Gothic churches I had seen in Trinidad. But I had that village church before my eyes every day; and quite soon -- this new world shaping itself about me in my lucky solitude -- I saw that the church was restored and architecturally was as artificial as the farmhouse. Once that was seen, it was seen; the church radiated its own mood, the mood of its Victorian-Edwardian restorers. I saw the church not as 'church', but as part of the wealth and security of Victorian-Edwardian times. It was like the manor to which my cottage was attached; like many of the other big houses around.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 31

I saw him more clearly when he worked in the garden at the front (or back) of his cottage, and most clearly of all when he worked in his wire-fenced bedding-out plot, turning over the soft, dark, much-sifted earth below the old hawthorn tree. That brought back very old memories to me, of Trinidad, of a small house my father had once built on a hill and a garden he had tried to get started in a patch of cleared bush; old memories of dark, wet, warm earth and green things growing, old instincts, old delights. And I had an immense feeling for Jack, for the strength and curious delicacy of his forking-and-sifting gesture, the harmony of hand and foot. I saw too, as the months went by, his especial, exaggerated style with clothes: bare-backed in summer at the first hint of sun, muffled up as soon as the season turned. I grew to see his clothes as emblematic of the particular season: like something from a modern Book of Hours.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 26

How sad it was to lose that sense of width and space! It caused me pain. But already I had grown to live with the idea changed; already I lived with the idea of decay. (I had always lived with this idea. It was like my curse: the idea, which I had had even as a child in Trinidad, that I had come into a world past its peak.) Already I lived with the idea of death, the idea, impossible for a young person to possess, to hold in his heart, that one's time on earth, one's life, was a short thing. These ideas, of a world in decay, a world subject to constant change, and of the shortness of human life, made many things bearable.

Destroyer : New Ways Of Living

Maybe I should have loved you.
Maybe I should have sworn
Not to be born
Of this wretched glove too soon,
But a dragon needs room
A dragon needs room
A dragon needs room
To run, run, run, run...

I was a desert in love with extremes.
You married well, a gentlewoman of means who
Kept the word "Destroyer" embroidered on her jeans, too

(La la la)

I wore skins. I didn't care who survived.
The band foretold trends from Spring of '85.
They're calling it "The New Decay"...
Hey, so am I.

(La la la)

Treacherous fop, don't be embarrassed
For looking good at your table on the terrace
That you call home. I'm sold
Paris, London, Rome's too old for you
And your kind
Explosions want to see what they can find:
New ways of living...

It's you and your kind:
The New Ways of Living

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 25

Sheep were no longer the main animals of the plain. I saw a sheep-shearing only once. It was done by a big man, an Australian, I was told, and the shearing was done in one of the old buildings -- timber walls and a slate roof -- at the side of the cottage-row in which Jack lived. I saw the shearing by accident; I had heard nothing about it; it just happened at the time of my afternoon walk. But the shearing had clearly been news for some; the farm people and people from elsewhere as well had gathered to watch. A display of strength and speed, the fleecy animal lifted and shorn (and sometimes cut) at the same time, and then sent off, oddly naked -- the ceremony was like something out of an old novel, perhaps by Hardy, or out of a Victorian country diary. And it was as though, then, the firing ranges of Salisbury Plain, and the vapour trails of military aircraft in the sky, and the army houses and the roaring highways didn't lie around us. As though, in that little spot around the farm buildings and Jack's cottage, time had stood still, and things were easy as they had been, for a little while. But the sheep-shearing was from the past. Like the old farm buildings. Like the caravan that wasn't going to move again. Like the barn where grain was no longer stored.

The Enigma Of Arrival - pg. 15

Many of the farm building were no longer used. The barns and pens -- red-brick walls, roofs of slate or clay tiles -- around the muddy yard were in decay; and only occasionally in the pens were there cattle == sick cattle, enfeebled calves, isolated from the herd. Fallen tiles, holed roofs, rusted corrugated iron, bent metal, a pervading damp, the colours rust and brown and black, with a glittering or dead-green moss on the trampled, dung-softened mud of the pen-yard: the isolation of the animals in that setting, like things themselves about to be discarded, was terrible.

The Enigma Of Arrival - Opening

I. Jack's Garden

FOR THE first four days it rained. I could hardly see where I was. Then it stopped raining and beyond the lawn and outbuildings in front of my cottage I saw fields with stripped trees on the boundaries of each field; and far away, depending on the light, glints of a little river, glints which sometimes appeared, oddly, to be above the level of the land.

In loving memory
of my brother
SHIVA NAIPAUL
25 February 1945, Port of Spain
13 August 1985, London

First published 1987

Copyriught V. S. Naipaul, 1987

All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, reading or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book

Made and printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
Filmset in Monophoto Ehrhardt

Muslim Women in India: Political and Private Realities - Opening

Minority communities that are not politically dominant have traditionally evolved a relationship with the majority community that has been based on social, political and economic dependency. In India, the introduction of economic and ideological changes in the 19th century dislodged this pattern and consensus; economic changes dismantled traditional hierarchies as industry and trade replaced land as the primary source of wealth and prestige; ideological changes, necessitated by the need to accommodate emerging changes in the political, economic and social structures, produced political changes which radically altered the established order between communities.

Muslim Women in India
was originally published in India and S. Asia by

Kali for Women
A 36 Gulmohar Park
New Delhi 110 049, India

and by Zed Books Ltd. 57, Caledonian Road, London N1 9BU, UK
and 171, First Avenue, Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey 07716, USA in the rest of the world.

Copyright Shahida Lateef, 1990

All rights reserved

Typeset by Wordtronic, 111/56 Nehru Place, New Delhi
and printed at Raj Press Pvt. Ltd., R-3, Inderpuri, New Delhi.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 8

As among Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, or those of oriental ones crossing the Red Sea towards Mecca in the festival month, there was no lack of variety. Natives of all sorts, and foreigners; men of business and men of pleasure; parlor men and backwoodsmen; farm-hunters and fame-hunters; heiress-hunters, gold-hunters; buffalo-hunters, bee-hunters, happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener hunters after all these hunters. Fine ladies in slippers, and moccasined squaws; Northern speculators and Eastern philosophers; English, Irish, German, Scotch, Danes; Santa Fe traders in striped blankets, and Broadway bucks in cravats of cloth of gold; fine-looking Kentucky boatmen, and Japanese-looking Mississippi cotton-planters; Quakers in full drab, and United States soldiers in full regimentals; slaves, black, mulatto, quadroon; modish young Spanish Creoles, and old-fashioned French Jews; Mormons and Papists; Dives and Lazarus; jesters and mourners, teetotalers and convivialists; deacons and blacklegs; hard-shell Baptists and clay-eaters; grinning negroes, and Siox chiefs solemn as high-priests. In short, a piebald parliament, an Anacharsis Cloots congress of all kinds of that multiform pilgrim species, man.

As pine, beech, birch, ash, hackmatack, hemlock, spruce, bass-wood, maple, interweave their foliage in the natural wood, so these varieties of mortals blended their varieties of visage and garb. A Tartar-like picturesqueness; a sort of pagan abandonment and assurance. Here reigned the dashing and all-fusing spirit of the West, whose type is the Mississippi itself, which, uniting the streams of the most distant and opposite zones, pours them along, helter-skelter, in one comsopolitan and confident stride.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 7

Though her voyage of twelve hundred miles extends from apple to orange, from clime to clime, yet, like any small ferryboat, to right and left, at every landing, the huge Fidele still receives additional passengers in exchange for those that disembark; so that, though always full of strangers, she continually, in some degree, adds to, or replaces them with strangers still more strange; like Rio Janeiro fountain, fed from the Corcovado mountains, which is ever overflowing with strange waters, but never with the same strange particles in every part.

The Confidence-Man - pg. 3

To some observers, the singularity, if not lunacy, of the stranger was heightened by his muteness, and, perhaps also, by the contrast to his proceedings afforded in the actions -- quite in the wonted and sensible order of things -- of the barber of the boat, whose quarters, under a smoking-saloon, and over against a bar-room, was next door but two to the captain's office. As if the long, wide, covered deck, hereabouts built up on both sides with shop-like windowed spaces, were some Constantinople arcade or bazaar, where more than one trade is plied, this river barber, aproned and slippered, but rather crusty-looking for the moment, it may be from being newly out of bed, was throwing open his premises for the day, and suitably arranging the exterior.

The Confidence-Man - Opening

Chapter I

A MUTE GOES ABOARD A BOAT ON THE MISSISSIPPI

AT SUNRISE on a first of April, there appeared, suddenly as Manco Capac at the lake Titicaca, a man in cream-colors, at the water-side in the city of St. Louis.

HARRISON HAYFORD

WROTE THE NOTES AND SELECTED

THE TEXTS FOR THIS VOLUME

The paper used in this publication meets the

minimum requirements of the American National Standard

of Information Sciences -- Permanence of Paper for

Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.4-8--1984

Distributed to the trade in the United States

and Canada by the Viking Press.

Published outside North America by the Press Syndicate

of the University of Cambridge,

The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge, England

Second Printing

Manufactured in the United States of America

Antony and Cleopatra - 1.4.105

ANTONY
Let us go. Come;
Our separation so abides and flies
That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away!

Exeunt

Antony and Cleopatra - 1.2.140

ENOBARBUS
Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were
pity to cast them away for nothing, though between them and a
great cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching
but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die
twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle
in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath
such a celerity in dying.

ANTONY
She is cunning past man's thoughts.

ENOBARBUS
Alack, sir, no, her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Agamemnon - Closing

Chorus
Crow and strut, brave cockerel by your hen; you have no threats to fear.

Clytaemestra
These are howls of impotent rage; forget them, dearest; you and I
have the power; we two shall bring good order to our house
at least.

(They enter the house. The doors close. All persons leave the stage.)

Agamemnon - V:1670

Aegisthus
Exiles feed on empty dreams of hope. I know it. I was one.

Agamemnon - V: 1305

Chorus
Woman, be sure your heart is brave; you can take much.

Cassandra
None but the unhappy people ever heard such praise.