Hunger Read Online Free Page B

wretched bag of worms called my earthly body? Had not my heavenly Father provided for me as he had for the sparrows of the air, and had he not shown me the grace of pointing at his humble servant? God had stuck his finger down into the network of my nerves and gently, quite casually, brought a little confusion among the threads. And God had withdrawn his finger and behold!—there were fibers and delicate filaments on his finger from the threads of my nerves. And there was a gaping hole after his finger, which was God’s finger, and wounds in my brain from the track of his finger. But where God had touched me with the finger of his hand he let me be and touched me no more, and allowed no evil to befall me. He let me go in peace, and he let me go with that gaping hole. And no evil shall befall me from God, who is the Lord through all eternity. . . .
    Gusts of music are borne on the wind toward me from the Students’ Promenade. So it must be past two. I got out my paper and things to try and write something, and as I did so my book of shaving coupons fell out of my pocket. I opened it and counted the pages—there were six coupons left. Thank God! I burst out; I could still get myself a shave for several weeks and look good! My spirits rose immediately because of this little possession that I still had left; I smoothed the coupons out carefully and put the book away in my pocket.
    But write—no, I couldn’t do it. After a few lines nothing more occurred to me; my thoughts were elsewhere and I couldn’t pull myself together to make any definite effort. I was acted on and distracted by everything around me, all that I saw gave me new impressions. Flies and gnats stuck to the paper and disturbed me; I blew on them to make them go away, then blew harder and harder, but it was no use. The little pests lean back and make themselves heavy, putting up such a struggle that their thin legs bend. They just cannot be made to budge. Having found something to latch on to, they brace their heels against a comma or an unevenness in the paper and stand stock-still until they find it convenient to go away.
    Those little monsters continued to occupy me for quite a while, and I crossed my legs and took my time observing them. All at once a couple of loud, piercing clarinet notes reached me from the Students’ Promenade, giving my thoughts a fresh impetus. Discouraged at not being able to prepare my article, I stuck the papers in my pocket again and leaned back on the bench. At this moment my head is so clear that I can think the most subtle thoughts without tiring. As I lie there in this position, letting my eyes wander down my breast and legs, I notice the twitching motion made by my foot at each beat of my pulse. I sit up halfway and look down at my feet, and at this moment I experience a fantastic, alien state I’d never felt before; a delicate, mysterious thrill spreads through my nerves, as though they were flooded by surges of light. When I looked at my shoes, it was as though I had met a good friend or got back a torn-off part of me: a feeling of recognition trembles through all my senses, tears spring to my eyes, and I perceive my shoes as a softly murmuring tune coming toward me. Weakness! I said harshly to myself, and I clenched my fists and said: Weakness. I mocked myself for these ridiculous feelings, made fun of myself quite consciously; I spoke very sternly and reasonably, and I fiercely squeezed my eyes shut to get rid of my tears. Then I begin, as though I’d never seen my shoes before, to study their appearance, their mimicry when I move my feet, their shape and the worn uppers, and I discover that their wrinkles and their white seams give them an expression, lend them a physiognomy. Something of my own nature had entered into these shoes—they affected me like a breath upon my being, a living, breathing part of me. . . .
    I sat there indulging my fancy with these perceptions for quite a