Read Online Hunger and Thirst by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Matheson
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vacillating and will-less.
But they wear away. His eyes were bright and almost feverish as he understood it at last; this fabulous secret. Yes, that was the weakness –
they wear away!
You lived like this, you were forced into grasping path and soon the layers wore away.
The bottom layer was the animal.
He’d almost reached it. He had just stripped off another layer. Sitting there in the bathroom, the last remnants of it had fallen off. Through the last week, month, year, he had been working it off, thread by thread, all unseen, until now, when he was walking from the bathroom to his room, the last fragment of morality had fluttered down and died.
And he realized for the first time that a man who had not should not cry out – pity!
A man who had not should take by any means, fair or foul.
Fair or foul!
The words suddenly enraged him and his face contorted into a bestial snarl.
Words! He thumped the mattress with his fist and almost gagged in fury. It was almost frightening how quickly and powerfully temper came to him now.
Fair or foul, bah! What idiot glue kept that asininity in his skull? What inane retention was this, this never-ending devotion to the black and white? Why had he not purged himself of words long before this? Had he not seen the light, the better way? Was he not committed to action now instead of words?
That was the question, newborn and crowding.
Never mind.
He calmed himself. Even in rage, he could not choke all reason lest his plans fall through. It’s all right, he told himself. Better late than never. A cliché but true. That was the charm of clichés. If they became clichés they were usually estimable if not pluperfect generalizations.
It was all simple, simple and direct. That too was the charm of the new layer he’d reached. It made all things straight and simple. If you needed, said the new rule, you
took
. If you hungered, you
ate
.
And if you hated…
He lay there shivering excitedly as the church bells rang out hollow throated above the cacophony of traffic and the blowing spatter of the beginning rain.
Ding dong ding dong. Ding dong ding dong
. Pause. One… two… three… four (Lost beneath the screech of someone’s brakes)… five… six…
Seven o’clock, getting dark.
He raised up on an elbow and looked out through the window.
Far away he saw a building outlined against the dull, grayish sky. He saw a tiny water tank against the sky too and thought of the plow that stood against the sunset in Willa Cather’s book.
Below the water tank was a single light in one of the building windows. It is the engineer, said his casual brain, and he is working overtime in order to complete the blueprints for that highway which runs through the tiles in the bathroom. He saw the man in his shirtsleeves, thin lipped, drawing and checking, elbow deep in cluttering slide rules and T-squares and triangles and half-moon protractors.
Lowering his gaze, he watched an elevated train pull into the station. He saw lights in the windows, saw blurs and decided they were people. He squinted. They
were
people. He watched them interestedly. The world was new again. With each new layer, the outlook changed. And the world was reborn, repainted in different colors by a new, more interesting landlord.
Lights from windows on Third Avenue reflected on the roof of the elevated platform, forming blurry, fluted gold streaks. They reminded him of the wristbands on the pawnshop watches.
He smiled darkly and fell back on the pillow.
How simple.
He shook his head and chuckled softly. How very simple. How could he have missed it all these months, through this last year of trial? How could he have overlooked the obvious, the insensately tabooed masterpieces of will?
No matter. He had it now.
He heard another train rumble into the station. It shrieked out as it stopped and set his heart to violent beating. He felt it thudding his body against the bed.
Afraid? Asked his enraging mind.
No! he screamed
But they wear away. His eyes were bright and almost feverish as he understood it at last; this fabulous secret. Yes, that was the weakness –
they wear away!
You lived like this, you were forced into grasping path and soon the layers wore away.
The bottom layer was the animal.
He’d almost reached it. He had just stripped off another layer. Sitting there in the bathroom, the last remnants of it had fallen off. Through the last week, month, year, he had been working it off, thread by thread, all unseen, until now, when he was walking from the bathroom to his room, the last fragment of morality had fluttered down and died.
And he realized for the first time that a man who had not should not cry out – pity!
A man who had not should take by any means, fair or foul.
Fair or foul!
The words suddenly enraged him and his face contorted into a bestial snarl.
Words! He thumped the mattress with his fist and almost gagged in fury. It was almost frightening how quickly and powerfully temper came to him now.
Fair or foul, bah! What idiot glue kept that asininity in his skull? What inane retention was this, this never-ending devotion to the black and white? Why had he not purged himself of words long before this? Had he not seen the light, the better way? Was he not committed to action now instead of words?
That was the question, newborn and crowding.
Never mind.
He calmed himself. Even in rage, he could not choke all reason lest his plans fall through. It’s all right, he told himself. Better late than never. A cliché but true. That was the charm of clichés. If they became clichés they were usually estimable if not pluperfect generalizations.
It was all simple, simple and direct. That too was the charm of the new layer he’d reached. It made all things straight and simple. If you needed, said the new rule, you
took
. If you hungered, you
ate
.
And if you hated…
He lay there shivering excitedly as the church bells rang out hollow throated above the cacophony of traffic and the blowing spatter of the beginning rain.
Ding dong ding dong. Ding dong ding dong
. Pause. One… two… three… four (Lost beneath the screech of someone’s brakes)… five… six…
Seven o’clock, getting dark.
He raised up on an elbow and looked out through the window.
Far away he saw a building outlined against the dull, grayish sky. He saw a tiny water tank against the sky too and thought of the plow that stood against the sunset in Willa Cather’s book.
Below the water tank was a single light in one of the building windows. It is the engineer, said his casual brain, and he is working overtime in order to complete the blueprints for that highway which runs through the tiles in the bathroom. He saw the man in his shirtsleeves, thin lipped, drawing and checking, elbow deep in cluttering slide rules and T-squares and triangles and half-moon protractors.
Lowering his gaze, he watched an elevated train pull into the station. He saw lights in the windows, saw blurs and decided they were people. He squinted. They
were
people. He watched them interestedly. The world was new again. With each new layer, the outlook changed. And the world was reborn, repainted in different colors by a new, more interesting landlord.
Lights from windows on Third Avenue reflected on the roof of the elevated platform, forming blurry, fluted gold streaks. They reminded him of the wristbands on the pawnshop watches.
He smiled darkly and fell back on the pillow.
How simple.
He shook his head and chuckled softly. How very simple. How could he have missed it all these months, through this last year of trial? How could he have overlooked the obvious, the insensately tabooed masterpieces of will?
No matter. He had it now.
He heard another train rumble into the station. It shrieked out as it stopped and set his heart to violent beating. He felt it thudding his body against the bed.
Afraid? Asked his enraging mind.
No! he screamed
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