It would be nice to die; but no, it wouldn’t be, and that was very unreasonable. But no, it wasn’t, there was his book.
He was so clever that he had always been bottom at school—all great men had been bottom at school. Then he had lost his way in the world. No, that wasn’t true, he had found it—this, this gin was his triumph. It was the only thing that did his health any good, and one had to be in good spirits if he was to think out the book, the great book that was to link everything into a circle and that would bring him recognition at last, perhaps even a letter from the Bishop. It would justify his taking something now and again as he did. But one doubted, there were days when one could not see it at all. How ill he felt. Some deep-seated disorder. How dreadful a disease, cancer. Why could not the doctors do something about it? Oh, for a pulpit to say it from.
Terrible, terrible.
“Father, where did you put the tin-opener for these sardines?”
“I don’t know. My pain. Never had it.”
“But it must be somewhere. It isn’t in the cupboard here.”
“Can’t you open it with a fork? It’s all laziness. Why bother me? Oh, here it is in my pocket. How funny.”
“You are drinking all the gin. No, look here, you mustn’t have any more. There will be none for this evening at this rate.”
“But I’m not going to drink any more, I tell you. Leave me alone.”
“Oh, yes. Here, give me that bottle.”