Three Novels

t it looks like, what it's all

not a word of the stories it spews, like gobbets in a vomit.

It's a poor trick that consists in ramming a set of words down your gullet on the principle that you can't bring them up without being branded as belonging to their breed

But enough of this nonsense: I was never anywhere but here, no one ever got me out of here. Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage leaf that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.

They have even killed me off, with the friendly remark that having reached the end of my endurance I had no choice but to disappear

Mahood must have remarked that I remained sceptical, for he casually let fall that I was lacking not only a leg, but an arm also

The simplest thing then is to fling away the crutches and collapse.

It was swarming with them

that old trick is worn to a thread.

It's gone, it'll come back, no regrets (as good as new? unrecognizable? let's hope so), some day when I feel more on for high-class nuts to crack.