William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— They don't die in winter, the voice murmured from the reflection in the glass, which held the blackness of the night right up against it.

— What?

— But when the leaves come to the trees, the bartender told me, then they die, quando vienen las hojas. .

— That's t.b., they got a lot of t.b. here. The kids especially. Now listen, when we get into the station. . Look out! Look what you're doing!. . Mr. Yak bent down so fast he almost fell. — You throw your cigarette on her feet like that, she's liable to go up in a cloud of smoke. See? When he straightened up from blowing the ashes away, he went on, — Now from now on, we've got a lot of work to do, see? And you got to settle down now and be more. . more serious, see? All this drinking, and these girls, you want to forget all that, you're not a bum. All that kind of thing, he continued, with no response, — it's a waste, it's sinful, living like that.

— Yes, I know. I know…

— What? See what I mean? It's sinful.

— I know.

— See? And if you go on like that…

— But. .

— What?. . See? What fun is it.

— But. . it's not the sin itself that's what is… Good God

., the voice went on dully, and distant, — staggering into one after another. . and then. . and lying in the dark knotted up in wet sheets, and. .

— See? What good is it? Mr. Yak demanded, leaning across and resting an elbow on the brittle lap between them for the moment before he realized it, then he drew up, — it's always the same, isn't it, so why do you want to do it again.

— Yes, but. . it's not the thing itself, it's not sin itself. It's never the thing itself, it's always the possibility that. . It's always the prospect of sin that draws. . draws us on.

Mr. Yak straightened up from his strained position, peering round the back of the head as he'd been doing, trying to reach the face if only in its reflection against the black surface of the night. — See? he confirmed. — After awhile you get tired of it, after awhile you get to the place where it doesn't satisfy anything inside you like. You get to the place, he went on, staring at the shivering floor, — where no matter how much you've got mixed up with all kinds of the wrong things, that they don't gratify you any more to do them, see? So then you have to kind of look up, and look for something bigger. See? See what I mean? He looked anxiously up at the window.

— Yes but… if you've done things… if you've done things to people, and they. . and you can't atone to them for. . for what you've done. .

— No, you can't! You can't!. . not to them, but you… if you've like sinned against one person then you make it up to another, that's all you can do, you never know when you. . until the time comes when you can make it up to another. Like I once. . this woman, I…

They paused, rocking together all staring in different vacant directions of the past.

— What?

— Nothing.

— What woman?

— You. . Mr. Yak jerked his head up, to see only Mr. Yak's face on the glass. — I'm going out to the gents' a minute. . He faltered a pause in the door to the corridor. — If anybody comes in to sit down, you want to kind of talk to her, see?. . Then the door slid closed, and he left them together, steadying himself down the corridor like an old man.

Almost immediately, lights appeared in the darkness outside, moving past the windows slowly, lights so dim that they seemed to do no more than illuminate themselves. The train stopped.

— Well I would have thought the name of the town was Urinarios, a tall woman said getting on, — it's the only word you can see on the station out there. She stopped while her husband opened the door of a compartment, and they went in. They sat down side by side, and she stared at the couple sitting side by side across from them. — So much smoke, she whispered to her husband. He offered her a cigarette. The train started. — And if we ever go all the way to a town like that again, if you could call it a town, just to see a church or whatever it was… I don't see how you ate a bite of that lunch. You'll regret it too, she added, trying to arrange her feet round the wrapped legs stretched before her. The spike of her heel caught the edge of the shawl, and she gasped. At that, the man across from her appeared to recover some long-lost consciousness, and he did so with a wild light in his eyes, darting down as though he were going to grab the tall woman's feet and pull her off her cushion. But he very busily brought the ends of the shawl back where they'd been wrapped, and then, lighting a ferocious-looking yellow cigarette, started chattering to the hooded figure beside him. — Dime lo, he said, — aunque no es. . dime que tu me quieres, aunque no es. . The tall woman cleared her throat, drew her feet together carefully, managed a prim smile across the way, and gripped her husband's arm. — Let's get out of here, she whispered, — this. . She stood, straining her smile, sustaining it until her husband was up, fomenting it with embarrassment of being polite, whispering, as the door slid open, — And my God!. . did you see her face? — Syphilis, her husband said, — they've got a lot of syphilis here, even in the children, it's inherited… as he closed the door, and Mr. Yak, coming down the corridor behind him, opened it and entered.

— Who was that? he asked, seating himself, squaring his hair as he did so.

— I told you, people. . people will disdain no ruses, no ruse ai all to prove their own existence.

— Listen, you. . But Mr. Yak found that he was again speaking to the back of a pair of shoulders, and he wilted back.

— Good God, the desolation of that place, that station we just stopped at. The window again held off the black surface of the night.

— I feel like we been riding on this thing all my life.

— Yes, yes that's it, that's it, you know? It's like. . like being at sea. Somebody's said that going to sea is the best substitute for suicide. Why, in this country… in this country. .

— Suicide?. .

— Look, what if we're caught?

— With this? Mr. Yak shrugged. He had recovered his composure. — No, I mean. . whatever you. . whatever we're. . wanted for.

Mr. Yak looked up quickly, to see him turning back to the window. — What's the matter, you scared now? he said, and then repeated, — Wanted for?

— Yes, I… I am. I am scared.

— Sometimes I think I ought to have gone to Brazil. But that's the thing, a place like that, Brazil, everything's too new, what you want to do, you always want to go to the mother country of the place you maybe should have gone to… His voice tailed off. He had recovered his composure, but he looked weary, and older, jouncing back against the seat cushion, his hair slightly crooked on his brow, staring vaguely straight ahead, and the shaking of the train kept him nodding thoughtfully. — But now you go one place, and then you go somewheres else. . His own tone was vague now, as he turned his attention to the reflection in the glass.

— Sail on, sail on, like the Flying Dutchman. Why good God, in this country. .

— Who?

— It was Herr von Falkenberg, sailing without a steersman around the North Sea condemned to never make port, while he and the Devil played dice for his soul.

Suddenly they were face to face, and Mr. Yak found the hand mounting the two diamonds clutching his wrist. The eyes he stared into were burning green, the face even more knotted than that first day he had seen its confusion in the cemetery, and the voice more strained with desperation. — Why, in this country you could. . just sail on like that, without ever leaving its boundaries, it's not a land you travel in, it's a land you flee across, from one place to another, from one port to another, like a sailor's life where one destination becomes the same as another, and every voyage the same as the one before it, because every destination is only another place to start from. In this country, without ever leaving Spain, a whole Odyssey within its boundaries, a whole Odyssey without Ulysses. Listen. .