31
Night wakes up. Hear the wind is blowing hard. My bed has been so warm. Shut my window, curtains trembling. My dream was all lament. But the white thin skins of new potatoes washed up in the clay and marrows big as zeppelins hiding in the leaves and tips of willow trees. I was wearing boots in a frog pond. At the end there was a horde coming across the fields with hooks so I swam away to sea.
Rub the chill out of my hands, slap them for heat. I think a sup of my electric fire would be very cordial. Right, ripe, ready, quick like that. Hurry up the hot water to me in the pipes before I pull them out of the house altogether. To wash my face is a great relief and my teeth too. I'll not wear this underwear but get into my suit nude. When I die I want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Dublin. I wonder would they know it was me?
It's good to be up in the early morning, dressed and off on a journey walking. Did you say I tied your towel in knots, Mary? Did you say that? Is it true? Tell me. Is it? That they bring children down upon us by the wrath of God. For fucking.
Coming down the stairs guiding on the smooth banister, stopping in the hall to smell breakfast. Opening the door and coming out into the fierce wind where there is a weak sun in the sky. Turning up this road, a long empty gray. It's cold around my throat. I think I'm weary of my terrifying heart. But not let the cold get to it now because I must keep it hot for hours yet. Now this bridge. Curving up over the trains and their tracks. The grass down there is black. From here 1 can see that massive roof. And Mary, I'm on my way. I never thought I would see elegance again, like the fit crack of my cane on this bridge. Sure it was good of Percy to see me right. How are you now, Mary? Still in the bed? Or up over me rashers? Toast too. Hot bowls of tea. This warehouse badly needing repair. I must stop and look through these busted grimy windows and see what is being stored away. The sun is weak, Mary. The city suffering from emptiness. Can they really all be in the houses? In there is Christmas and fire and the kids having a time with tinny toys. This is the strangest part of London being not one thing and certainly not another.
He was walking down the slope side of the bridge past this broken building, a straight dark figure and stranger. Come here till I tell you. Where is the sea high and the winds soft and moist and warm, sometimes stained with sun, with peace so wild for wishing where all is told and telling. On a winter night I heard horses on a country road, beating sparks out of the stones. I knew they were running away and would be crossing the fields where the pounding would come up into my ears. And I said they are running out to death which is with some soul and their eyes are mad and teeth out.
God's mercy
On the wild
Ginger Man.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
J. P. Donleavy, The Ginger Man
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