Similarly turn and turn about they benefit by the peep-hole (those who care to). While one speaks another peeps: the one no doubt whose voice is next due and whose remarks may possibly have reference to what he may possibly have seen - this depending on whether what he has seen has aroused his interest to the extent of appearing worthy of remark (even indirectly).
But what hope has sustained them, all the time they have been thus employed? For it is difficult not to suppose them sustained by some form of hope. And what is the nature of the change they are on the look out for, gluing one eye to the hole and closing the other?
They have no pedagogic purpose in view, that's definite. There is no question of imparting to him any instruction whatsoever, for the moment. This catechist's tongue, honeyed and perfidious, is the only one they know. Let him move, try and move - that's all they ask, for the moment. No matter where he goes: being at the centre, he will go towards them.
So he is at the centre! There is a clue of the highest interest! (It matters little to what.)
They look, to see if he has stirred. He is nothing but a shapeless heap, without a face capable of reflecting the niceties of a torment, but the disposition of which (its greater or lesser degree of crouch and huddledness) is no doubt expressive, for specialists, and enables them to assess the chances of its suddenly making a bound, or dragging its coils faintly away, as if stricken to death. Somewhere in the heap an eye, a wild equine eye, always open. (They must have an eye, they see him possessed of an eye.)
No matter where he goes he will go towards them: towards their song of triumph (when they know he has moved), or towards their sudden silence (when they know he has moved) - to make him think he did well to move. Or towards the voice growing softer, as if receding, to make him think he is drawing away from them, but not yet far enough (whereas he is drawing nearer, nearer and nearer). No, he can't think anything, can't judge anything. But the kind of flesh he has is good enough, will try and go where peace seems to be, drop and lie where it suffers no more (or less), or can go no further.
Then the voice will begin again (low at first, then louder), coming from the quarter they want him to retreat from - to make him think he is pursued and struggle on, towards them. In this way they'll bring him to the wall - and even to the precise point where they have made other holes through which to pass their arms and seize him. (How physical all this is!) And then, unable to go any further, because of the obstacle (and unable to go any further in any case, and not needing to go any further for the moment, because of the great silence which has fallen), he will drop. Assuming he had risen. But even a reptile can drop, after a long flight (the expression may be used without impropriety). He will drop. It will be his first corner, his first experience of the vertical support, the vertical shelter (reinforcing those of the ground). That must be something, while waiting for oblivion: to feel a prop and buckler, not only for one of one's six planes, but for two, for the first time.
But Worm will never know this joy but darkly (being less than a beast) before he is restored (more or less) to that state in which he was before the beginning of his prehistory. Then they will lay hold of him and gather him into their midst. (For if they could make a small hole for the eye, then bigger ones for the arms, they can make one bigger still for the transit of Worm, from darkness to light.)
But what is the good of talking about what they will do as soon as Worm sets himself in motion (so as to gather him without fail into their midst) - since he cannot set himself in motion, though he often desires to? (If when speaking of him one may speak of desire. And one may not, one should not. But there it is, that is the way to speak of him, that is the way to speak to him: as if he were alive, as if he could understand, as if he could desire, even if it serves no purpose - and it serves none.) And it is a blessing for him he cannot stir, even though he suffers because of it. For it would be to sign his life-warrant, to stir from where he is, in search of a little calm and something of the silence of old.
But perhaps one day he will stir: the day when the little effort of the early stages, infinitely weak, will have become (by dint of repetition) a great effort, strong enough to tear him from where he lies. Or perhaps one day they will leave him in peace - letting go their hands, filling up the holes and departing, towards more profitable occupations, in Indian file. For a decision must be reached, the scales must tilt, to one side or the other. (No, one can spend one's life thus, unable to live, unable to bring to life, and die in vain, having done nothing, been nothing.)
It is strange they do not go and fetch him in his den, since they seem to have access to it? They dare not: the air in the midst of which he lies is not for them (and yet they want him to breathe theirs). They could set a dog on him perhaps, with instructions to drag him out. But no dog would survive there either, not for one second. With a long pole perhaps, with a hook at the end? But the place where he lies is vast (that's interesting). He is far, too far for them to reach him even with the longest pole. That tiny blur, in the depths of the pit, is he. (There he is now in a pit: no avenue will have been left unexplored.) They say they see him. The blur is what they see. (They say the blur is he, perhaps it is.) They say he hears them. (They don't know: perhaps he does.) Yes, he hears: nothing else is certain. Worm hears. (Though hear is not the word. But it will do, it will have to do.)
They look down upon him then, according to the latest news: he'll have to climb to reach them. Bah, the latest news is not the last. The slopes are gentle that meet where he lies, they flatten out under him. It is not a meeting. It is not a pit. (That didn't take long: soon we'll have him perched on an eminence.) They don't know what to say, to be able to believe in him, what to invent, to be reassured. They see nothing. They see grey (like still smoke, unbroken) where he might be (if he must be somewhere), where they have decreed he is. Into which they launch their voices, one after another, in the hope of dislodging him, hearing him stir, seeing him loom within reach of their gaffs, hooks, barbs, grapnels: saved at last, home at last.
And now that's enough about them. Their usefulness is over.
No, not yet, let them stay. They may still serve. Stay where they are, turning in a ring, launching their voices, through the hole (there must be a hole for the voices too). But is it them he hears? Are they really necessary that he may hear, they and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit of geometry. He hears, that's all about it: he who is alone, and mute, lost in the smoke. (It is not real smoke, there is no fire. No matter.)
Strange hell that has no heating, no denizens. Perhaps it's paradise? Perhaps it's the light of paradise (and the solitude)? And this voice the voice of the blest interceding invisible, for the living, for the dead? All is possible. (It isn't the earth, that's all that counts: it can't be the earth. It can't be a hole in the earth, inhabited by Worm alone - or by others if you like, huddled in a heap like him, mute, immovable.) And this voice the voice of those who mourn them, envy them, call on them and forget them? (That would account for its incoherence.) All is possible. (Yes, so much the worse.) He knows it is a voice (how it is not known: nothing is known). He understands nothing it says (just a little, almost nothing). It's inexplicable, but it's necessary (it's preferable) that he should understand just a little, almost nothing: like a dog that always gets the same filth flung to it, the same orders, the same threats, the same cajoleries.
That settles that. The end is in sight.
But the eye: let's leave him his eye too. (It's to see with. It's to practise with, before he goes to Killarney.) What does he do with it? He does nothing with it. The eye stays open: it's an eye without lids. No need for lids here, where nothing happens, or so little. (If he could blink he might miss the odd sight.) If he could close it, the kind he is, he'd never open it again. Tears gush from it practically without ceasing. (Why is not known: nothing is known.) Whether it's with rage, or whether it's with grief, the fact is there. Perhaps it's the voice that makes it weep: with rage (or some other passion), or at h
aving to see (from time to time) some sight or other. Perhaps that's it: perhaps he weeps in order not to see. (Though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative of this complexity.)
The rascal, he's getting humanized! He's going to lose if he doesn't watch out, if he doesn't take care. And with what could he take care? With what could he form the faintest conception of the condition they are decoying him into? With their ears, their eyes, their tears and a brainpan where anything may happen? That's his strength, his only strength: that he understands nothing, can't take thought, doesn't know what they want, doesn't know they are there, feels nothing.
Ah but just a moment! He feels, he suffers: the noise makes him suffer. And he knows: he knows it's a voice. And he understands: a few expressions here and there, a few intonations. Ah it looks bad, bad.
No, perhaps not. For it's they who describe him thus. Perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing. And this eye? More mere imagination. He hears, true (though it's they again who say it). But this can't be denied (this is better not denied). Worm hears, that's all can be said for certain. Whereas there was a time he didn't - the same Worm, according to them. He has therefore changed. That's grave (gravid). Who knows to what lengths he may be carried? No, he can be relied on.
The eye too, of course, is there to put him to flight, make him take fright - badly enough to break his bonds. (They call them bonds!) They want to deliver him. (Ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to!) Perhaps it's tears of mirth. Well, no matter: let's drive on now to the end of the joke (we must be nearly there), and see what they have to offer him, in the way of bugaboos.
Who "we"?
Don't all speak at once! There's no sense in that either. All will come right, later on in the evening, everyone gone and silence restored. In the meantime no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather. (The subject doesn't matter: there is none.) Worm being in the singular (as it turned out), they are in the plural - to avoid confusion. (Confusion is better avoided, pending the great confounding.) Perhaps there is only one of them: one would do the trick just as well. But he might get mixed up with his victim: that would be abominable, downright masturbation.
We're getting on.
Nothing much then in the way of sights for sore eyes. But who can be sure who has not been there, has not lived there? (They call that living!) For them the spark is present, ready to burst into flame, all it needs is preaching on, to become a living torch (screams included). Then they may go silent - without having to fear an embarrassing silence (when steps are heard on graves as the saying is), genuine hell.
Decidedly this eye is hard of hearing. Noises travel, traverse walls. But may the same be said of appearances? By no means, generally speaking - but the present case is rather special. But what appearances? It is always well to try and find out what one is talking about, even at the risk of being deceived.
This grey to begin with: meant to be depressing no doubt. And yet there is yellow in it, pink too apparently. It's a nice grey, of the kind recommended as going with everything, urinous and warm. In it the eye can see (otherwise why the eye?), but dimly. (That's right: no superfluous particulars, later to be controverted.)
A man would wonder where his kingdom ended: his eye strive to penetrate the gloom, and he crave for a stick, an arm, fingers apt to grasp and then release (at the right moment) a stone, stones. Or for the power to utter a cry and wait, counting the seconds, for it to come back to him. And suffer, certainly, at having neither voice nor other missile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and unbending at the word of command. And perhaps even regret being a man, under such conditions (that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources). But Worm suffers only from the noise which prevents him from being what he was before. (Admit the nuance!) If it's the same Worm (and they have set their heart on it). And if it is not it makes no difference: he suffers as he has always suffered, from this noise that prevents nothing. (That must be feasible.)
In any case this grey can hardly be said to add to his misery: brightness would be better suited for that purpose, since he cannot close his eye. He cannot avert it either, nor lower it, nor lift it up. It remains trained on the same tiny field, a stranger forever to the boons and blessings of accommodation. But perhaps one day brightness will come (little by little, or rapidly, or in a sudden flood). And then it is hard to see how Worm could stay. And it is hard to see how he could go. But impossible situations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well known. Either they disperse, or else they turn out to be possible after all (it's only to be expected). Not to mention other possibilities.
Let there then be light: it will not necessarily be disastrous. Or let there be none: we'll manage without it.
But these lights (in the plural) which rear aloft, swell, sweep down and go out hissing, reminding one of the naja? Perhaps the moment has come to throw them into the balance and have done with this tedious equipoise, at last.
No, the moment has not yet come, to do that. Ha.
None of your hoping here, that would spoil everything. Let others hope for him (outside, in the cool, in the light) if they have a wish to. Or if they are obliged to. Or if they are paid to. (Yes, they must be paid to hope.) They hope nothing, they hope things will continue as they are. It's a soft job. Their thoughts wander as they call on Jude. It's praying they are, praying for Worm, praying to Worm, to have pity: pity on them, pity on Worm. (They call that pity! Merciful God, the things one has to put up with!) Fortunately it all means nothing to him.
Currish obscurity! To thy kennel, hell-hound!
Grey. What else?
Calm, calm. There must be something else, to go with this grey, which goes with everything. There must be something of everything here, as in every world: a little of everything.
Mighty little, it seems. Beside the point in any case. What balls is going on before this impotent crystalline: that's all that needs to be imagined.
A face! How encouraging that would be! If it could be a face, every now and then! Always the same, methodically varying its expression, doggedly demonstrating all a true face can do, without ever ceasing to be recognizable as such. Passing from unmixed joy to the sullen fixity of marble, via the most characteristic shades of disenchantment. How pleasant that would be! Worth ten of Saint Anthony's pig's arse! Passing by at the right distance, the right level (say once a month, that's not exorbitant) - full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open its mouth, raise its eyebrows, bless its soul, stutter, mutter, howl, groan and finally shut up (the chaps clenched to cracking point - or fallen, to let the dribble out).
That would be nice! A presence at last! A visitor, faithful - with his visiting-day, his visiting-hour. Never staying too long (it would be wearisome) or too little (it would not be long enough), but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow, languish and die. (Say five minutes.) And even should the notion of time dawn on his darkness, at this punctual image of the countenance everlasting, who could blame him? (Involving very naturally that of space: they have taken to going hand in hand, in some quarters, it's safer.) And the game would be won, lost and won. He'd be somehow suddenly among us, among the rendezvous. And people would say: "Look at old Worm, waiting for his sweetheart! And the flowers, looks at the flowers! You'd think he was asleep (you know old Worm), waiting for his love. And the daisies, look at the daisies! You'd think he was dead!" That would be worth seeing!
Fortunately it's all a dream. For here there is no face, nor anything resembling one: nothing to reflect the joy of living and succedeana. Nothing for it but to try something else. Some simple thing (a box, a piece of wood) to come to rest before him for an instant (once a year, once every two years). A ball, revolving one knows not how about one knows not what (about him?) every two years, every three years (frequency unimportant in the early stages), without stopping (it needn't stop): that would be better than nothing. He'd hear it approaching, hear it receding. It would be an event. He might lear
n to count (the minutes, the hours), to fret, be brave, have patience, lose patience, turn his head, roll his eye. A big stone, and faithful: that would be better than nothing (pending the hearts of flesh). And even should his start off (his heart that is), on its waltz, in his ear (tralatralay pom pom - again! - tralatralay pom pom, re mi re do bang bang), who could reprehend him?
Unfortunately we must stick to the facts. For what else is there (to stick to, to cling to) when all founders, but the facts (when there are any) still floating, within reach of the heart? (Happy expression that.) Of the heart crying out: "The facts are there, the facts are there." And then more calmly (when the danger is past), the continuation - namely (in the case before us): "Here there is no wood, nor any stone. Or if there is (the facts are there) it's as if there wasn't (the facts are there). No vegetables, no minerals - only Worm (kingdom unknown). Worm is there (as it were)." As it were.
But not too fast. It's too soon, to return, to where I am (empty-handed, in triumph), to where I'm waiting (calm, passably calm), knowing (thinking I know) that nothing has befallen me, nothing will befall me: nothing good, nothing bad, nothing to be the death of me, nothing to be the life of me. It would be premature. I see me, I see my place. There is nothing to show it, nothing to distinguish it, from all the other places. (They are mine, all mine, if I wish: I wish none but mine.) There is nothing to mark it (I am there so little). I see it, I feel it round me. It enfolds me, it covers me.
Three Novels: Malloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable Page 22