Read Online Whatever: a novel by Michel Houellebecq - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michel Houellebecq
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face and my perspiring I can't have a very healthy appearance, that's for sure. I explain to him what a pericardial is, that it's nothing at all, I'll be back to rights in less than two weeks. He wants to have the diagnosis confirmed by a nurse, who knows nothing about it; he demands to see a doctor, the top man, whoever ... Finally the intern on duty will give him the the necessary assurances.
He comes back over to me. He promises to do the training on his own, to phone the company to tell them, to take care of everything; he asks me if I need anything. No, not for the moment. Then he leaves, with a friendly and encouraging grin on his face. I go back to sleep almost straightaway.
5
`These children belong to me, these riches belong to me.' Thus says the foolish man, and he is full of woe. Truly, one does not belong to oneself. Wherefore the children?
Wherefore the riches?
- Dhammapada
One soon gets used to hospital. For a whole week I have been quite seriously ill, I haven't wanted to move or to speak; but I was seeing people around me who were chatting, who were speaking to each other of their illnesses with that febrile interest, that delectation which appears somewhat improper to those in good health; I was also seeing their families coming to visit. Well, nobody was complaining, anyway; all had an air of being rather satisfied with their lot, despite the scarcely natural way of life being forced on them; despite, too, the danger hanging over them; because at the end of the day the life of most of the patients on a cardiology ward is at risk.
I remember this fifty-five-year-old worker, it was his sixth stay: he greeted everyone, the doctor, the nurses ... He was visibly delighted to be there. And yet here was a man who in private led an extremely active life: he was fixing up his house, doing his garden, etc. I saw his wife, she seemed very nice; they were rather touching in their way, loving each other like that at fifty-odd. But the moment he arrived in hospital he abdicated all responsibility; he happily placed his body in the hands of science. From then on everything was arranged. Some day or other he'd be staying for keeps in this hospital, that much was clear; but that too was arranged. I can see him now, addressing the doctor with a kind of gluttonous impatience, dropping in the odd familiar abbreviation which I didn't understand: `You're gonna do my pneumo and my venous cath then?' Oh yes, he swore by his venous cath; he talked about it every single day.
By comparison I was conscious of being a rather difficult patient. In point of fact I was experiencing some difficulty getting a grip on myself once again. It's an odd experience seeing one's legs as separate objects, a long way off from one's mind, to which they would be reunited more or less by chance, and badly at that. To imagine oneself, incredulously, as a heap of twitching limbs. And one has need of them, these limbs, one has terrible need of them. All the same they seemed truly bizarre at times, truly strange. Above all the legs.
Tisserand has been to see me twice, he has been wonderful, he has brought me books and pastries. He really wanted to cheer me up, I knew; so I listed some books for him. But I didn't actually fancy reading. My mind was drifting, hazy, somewhat perplexed.
He has made a few erotic wisecracks about the nurses, but that was inevitable, quite natural, and I'm not miffed with him about it. Plus it's a fact that, what with the room temperatures, the nurses are usually half naked beneath their uniforms; just a bra and pants, easily visible through their light clothing. This undeniably maintains a slight but constant erotic tension, all the more so since they are touching you, one is oneself almost naked, etc. And the sick body still wants for sensual pleasure, alas. If the truth be told, I cite this from memory; I was myself in a state of almost total erotic insensitivity, at least during the first week.
I really got
He comes back over to me. He promises to do the training on his own, to phone the company to tell them, to take care of everything; he asks me if I need anything. No, not for the moment. Then he leaves, with a friendly and encouraging grin on his face. I go back to sleep almost straightaway.
5
`These children belong to me, these riches belong to me.' Thus says the foolish man, and he is full of woe. Truly, one does not belong to oneself. Wherefore the children?
Wherefore the riches?
- Dhammapada
One soon gets used to hospital. For a whole week I have been quite seriously ill, I haven't wanted to move or to speak; but I was seeing people around me who were chatting, who were speaking to each other of their illnesses with that febrile interest, that delectation which appears somewhat improper to those in good health; I was also seeing their families coming to visit. Well, nobody was complaining, anyway; all had an air of being rather satisfied with their lot, despite the scarcely natural way of life being forced on them; despite, too, the danger hanging over them; because at the end of the day the life of most of the patients on a cardiology ward is at risk.
I remember this fifty-five-year-old worker, it was his sixth stay: he greeted everyone, the doctor, the nurses ... He was visibly delighted to be there. And yet here was a man who in private led an extremely active life: he was fixing up his house, doing his garden, etc. I saw his wife, she seemed very nice; they were rather touching in their way, loving each other like that at fifty-odd. But the moment he arrived in hospital he abdicated all responsibility; he happily placed his body in the hands of science. From then on everything was arranged. Some day or other he'd be staying for keeps in this hospital, that much was clear; but that too was arranged. I can see him now, addressing the doctor with a kind of gluttonous impatience, dropping in the odd familiar abbreviation which I didn't understand: `You're gonna do my pneumo and my venous cath then?' Oh yes, he swore by his venous cath; he talked about it every single day.
By comparison I was conscious of being a rather difficult patient. In point of fact I was experiencing some difficulty getting a grip on myself once again. It's an odd experience seeing one's legs as separate objects, a long way off from one's mind, to which they would be reunited more or less by chance, and badly at that. To imagine oneself, incredulously, as a heap of twitching limbs. And one has need of them, these limbs, one has terrible need of them. All the same they seemed truly bizarre at times, truly strange. Above all the legs.
Tisserand has been to see me twice, he has been wonderful, he has brought me books and pastries. He really wanted to cheer me up, I knew; so I listed some books for him. But I didn't actually fancy reading. My mind was drifting, hazy, somewhat perplexed.
He has made a few erotic wisecracks about the nurses, but that was inevitable, quite natural, and I'm not miffed with him about it. Plus it's a fact that, what with the room temperatures, the nurses are usually half naked beneath their uniforms; just a bra and pants, easily visible through their light clothing. This undeniably maintains a slight but constant erotic tension, all the more so since they are touching you, one is oneself almost naked, etc. And the sick body still wants for sensual pleasure, alas. If the truth be told, I cite this from memory; I was myself in a state of almost total erotic insensitivity, at least during the first week.
I really got
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