James Joyce

Dubliners James Joyce

There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passedthe house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night afternight I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, Iwould see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles mustbe set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and Ihad thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at thewindow I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in myears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now itsounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, andyet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While myaunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: "No, I wouldn't say he was exactly ... but there was something queer ... there wassomething uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...."He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome oldfool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms;but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery