quid pro quo

[Guest guest]

He sat naked in his rocking-chair of undressed teak, guaranteed not to crack,

warp, shrink, corrode, or creak at night. It was his own, it never left him. The

corner in which he sat was curtained off from the sun, the poor old sun in the

Virgin again for the billionth time. Seven scarves held him in position. Two

fastened his shins to the rockers, one his thighs to the seat, two his breast

and belly to the back, one his wrists to the strut behind. Only the most local

movements were possible. Sweat poured off him, tightened the thongs. The breath

was not perceptible . The eyes, cold and unwavering as a gull's, started up at

an iridescence splashed over the cornice moulding, shrinking and fading.

Somewhere a cuckoo-clock, having struck between twenty and thirty, became the

echo of a street-cry, which now entering the mew gave Quid pro quo! Quid pro

quo! directly. These were sights and sounds that he did not like. They detained

him in the world to which they belonged, but not he, as he

fondly hoped. He wondered dimly what was breaking up his sunlight, what wares

were being cried. Dimly, very dimly. He sat in his chair in thi way because it

gave him pleasure! First it gave his body pleasure, it appeased his body. Then

it set him free in his mind. For it was not until his body was appeased that he

could come alive in his mind, as described in section six. And life in his mind

gave him pleasure, such pleasure that pleasure was not the word.

 

 

- Murphy

 

 

 

Samuel Beckett

 

 

 

 

 

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