Samuel Beckett - Molloy
And I said there was little likelihood of my being molested and that it was more likely I should molest them, if they saw me.
Morning is the time to hide. They wake up, hale and hearty, their tongues hanging out for order, beauty and justice, baying for their due. Yes, from eight or nine till noon is the dangerous time. But towards noon things quiet down, the most implacable are sated, they go home, it might have been better but
they’ve done a good job, there have been a few survivors, but they’ll
give no more trouble., each man counts his rats. It may begin again
in the early afternoon, after the banquet, the celebrations, the congratulations, the orations, but it’s nothing compared to the morning, mere fun. Coming up to four or five of course there is the night-shift, the watchmen, beginning to bestir themselves. But al- ready the day is over, the shadows lengthen, the walls multiply, you hug the walls, bowed down like a good boy, oozing with obsequiousness, having nothing to hide, hiding from mere terror, looking neither right nor left, hiding but not provocatively, ready to come out, to smile, to listen, to crawl, nauseating but not pestilent,
less rat than toad. Then the true night, perilous too, but sweet to him who knows it, who can open to it like the flower to the sun, who himself is night, day and night. No there is not much to be said for the night either, but compared to the day there is much to be said for it, and notably compared to the morning there is everything to be said for it. For the night purge is in the hands of technicians, for the most part. They do nothing else, the bulk of the
population have no part in it, preferring their warm beds, all things considered. Day is the time for lynching, for sleep is sacred, and especially the morning, between breakfast and lunch. My first care then, after a few miles in the desert dawn, was to look for a place
to sleep, for sleep too is a kind of protection, strange as it may
seem. For sleep, if it excites the lust to capture, seems to appease
the lust to kill, there and then and bloodily, any hunter will tell you that. For the monster on the move, or on the watch, lurking in
his lair, there is no mercy, whereas he taken unawares, in his sleep,
may sometimes get the benefit of milder feelings, which deflect the
barrel r’.,eathe the kris. For the hunter is weak at heart and senti- mental, overflowing with repressed treasures of gentleness and compassion. And it is thanks to this sweet sleep of terror or exhaustion
that many a foul beast, and worthy of extermination, can live on
till he dies in the peace and quiet of our zoological gardens, broken
only by the innocent laughter, the knowiife laughter, of children and
their elders, on Sundays and Bank Holidays.
And I for my part have always preferred slavery to death, I mean being put to death.
For death is a condition I have never been able to conceive to my
satisfaction and which therefore cannot go down in the ledger of
weal and woe. Whereas my notions on being put to death inspired
me with confidence, rightly or wrongly, and I felt I was entitled to act on them, in certain emergencies. Oh they weren’t notions like yours, they were notions like mine, all spasm, sweat and trembling,
without an atom of common sense or lucidity. But they were the
best I had. Yes, the confusion of my ideas on the subject of death was such that I sometimes wondered, believe me or not, if it wasn’t a state of being even worse than life. So I found it natural not to rush into it and, when I forgot myself to the point of trying, to stop in time. It’s my only excuse.
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