running. I don’t feel I spent my
Happy Days
like a human being running, I was more like one of these little boars with a giant head and spindly legs and a huge mouth clamped cruelly shut in a melancholy face. I even imagine there must have been bright melon stripes down my back in those days. I’d like to put a belt around this baby boar’s middle and hang a bayonet on it from the Russo-Japanese war, I bet he’d manage the heavy, clanking thing somehow and keepright on running, even if he had to shorten his stride a little. Ha! Ha! Ha! Under cover of the animal pictures, “he” speaks obliquely about his
Happy Days
and seems about to resume his account, but continues to say nothing about actual life in the storehouse. There is a constant feeling of bloating as his liver fattens, and although precious little flesh or fat remain around his stomach it is as if, “he” complains, a bomb of gradually increasing size were biting into the soft layer beneath his skin, making concentration impossible. It would be so refreshing if this hard bomb that used to be my liver would just fall out of its present location by mistake! The way things stand, the bloated feeling of this rock maturing inside me even governs my subconscious while I sleep, not even my own sleep belongs to me! The “acting executor of the will” is becoming actively interested in the history. I wonder if the difficulty you’ve begun to experience in telling your story might have nothing to do with your illness. I wonder if there’s something hidden in your life in the storehouse that you don’t want to talk about, even though you speak of
Happy Days.
Could it be, she speculates, prodding at the same time, that those unpleasant memories are creating the bloated feeling that’s making even your subconscious uncomfortable? Ha! Ha! Ha! I consider that period in my life the first
Happy Days
in my thirty-five years, alongside these final
Happy Days
as I lie here dying unhurriedly but swiftly of cancer, “he” says. Will you ask the doctor to give me an injection to concentrate the life-force left in me and make it burn up quickly? Don’t you agree the patient should have the freedom to choose diluted life over a long period or concentrated life briefly? Anyway, tomorrow I may feel rested and my fever may be down, let’s start again then, “he” says, beginning to sleep.]]
He helped
a certain party
build a radio receiver the size of a horse. In Shanghai in the 1930’s,
a certain party
had shipped home two of the finest European receivers available there at the time. Now he installed in front of his mechanical barber’s chair a broad, rectangular platform which had been used originally in the breeding of silkworms and still reeked of their body fluid, and on top of this he took apart the two sets and reassembled them as one receiver. When he was finished, he attached headphones to his large head and sat listening to the radio all day. The construction of the receiver took three months to complete. Once it had been assembled
a certain party
scarcely ever removed his underwater goggles for observing solar eclipses and the headphones which made his large head bulk even larger. Trapped in the paranoid certainty that to someone peeking into the storehouse
a certain party
would look like a spy transmitting secret messages, he walked careful rounds around the building with the bayonet at his side.
[[So you couldn’t hear the radio yourself? the “acting executor of the will” inquires after waiting in silence for a considerable interval while his shoulders heave and “he” labors to regain the energy which even this short fragment of narration has cost him. I had no desire to listen to the radio, my main tasks during those
Happy Days,
as
a certain party
sat there listening to the radio and pondering, were to gaze at the back of his giant head and to guard him from the volunteer informers in the valley who would have loved to discover a spy or two for the
Happy Days
like a human being running, I was more like one of these little boars with a giant head and spindly legs and a huge mouth clamped cruelly shut in a melancholy face. I even imagine there must have been bright melon stripes down my back in those days. I’d like to put a belt around this baby boar’s middle and hang a bayonet on it from the Russo-Japanese war, I bet he’d manage the heavy, clanking thing somehow and keepright on running, even if he had to shorten his stride a little. Ha! Ha! Ha! Under cover of the animal pictures, “he” speaks obliquely about his
Happy Days
and seems about to resume his account, but continues to say nothing about actual life in the storehouse. There is a constant feeling of bloating as his liver fattens, and although precious little flesh or fat remain around his stomach it is as if, “he” complains, a bomb of gradually increasing size were biting into the soft layer beneath his skin, making concentration impossible. It would be so refreshing if this hard bomb that used to be my liver would just fall out of its present location by mistake! The way things stand, the bloated feeling of this rock maturing inside me even governs my subconscious while I sleep, not even my own sleep belongs to me! The “acting executor of the will” is becoming actively interested in the history. I wonder if the difficulty you’ve begun to experience in telling your story might have nothing to do with your illness. I wonder if there’s something hidden in your life in the storehouse that you don’t want to talk about, even though you speak of
Happy Days.
Could it be, she speculates, prodding at the same time, that those unpleasant memories are creating the bloated feeling that’s making even your subconscious uncomfortable? Ha! Ha! Ha! I consider that period in my life the first
Happy Days
in my thirty-five years, alongside these final
Happy Days
as I lie here dying unhurriedly but swiftly of cancer, “he” says. Will you ask the doctor to give me an injection to concentrate the life-force left in me and make it burn up quickly? Don’t you agree the patient should have the freedom to choose diluted life over a long period or concentrated life briefly? Anyway, tomorrow I may feel rested and my fever may be down, let’s start again then, “he” says, beginning to sleep.]]
He helped
a certain party
build a radio receiver the size of a horse. In Shanghai in the 1930’s,
a certain party
had shipped home two of the finest European receivers available there at the time. Now he installed in front of his mechanical barber’s chair a broad, rectangular platform which had been used originally in the breeding of silkworms and still reeked of their body fluid, and on top of this he took apart the two sets and reassembled them as one receiver. When he was finished, he attached headphones to his large head and sat listening to the radio all day. The construction of the receiver took three months to complete. Once it had been assembled
a certain party
scarcely ever removed his underwater goggles for observing solar eclipses and the headphones which made his large head bulk even larger. Trapped in the paranoid certainty that to someone peeking into the storehouse
a certain party
would look like a spy transmitting secret messages, he walked careful rounds around the building with the bayonet at his side.
[[So you couldn’t hear the radio yourself? the “acting executor of the will” inquires after waiting in silence for a considerable interval while his shoulders heave and “he” labors to regain the energy which even this short fragment of narration has cost him. I had no desire to listen to the radio, my main tasks during those
Happy Days,
as
a certain party
sat there listening to the radio and pondering, were to gaze at the back of his giant head and to guard him from the volunteer informers in the valley who would have loved to discover a spy or two for the
Similar Books
