The Sheltering Sky

by Paul Bowles

Tunner smiled. “Dreams are my cup of tea. I know my La Hiff by heart.”

A great part of her life was dedicated to the categorizing of omens. And so it is not surprising that when she found it impossible to exercise that function, because of her doubt, her ability to go through the motions of everyday existence was reduced to a minimum. It was as if she had been stricken by a strange paralysis. She had no reactions at all; her entire personality withdrew from sight; she had a haunted look.

On these days of doom friends who knew her well would say: “Oh, this is one of Kit’s days.” If on these days she was subdued and seemed most reasonable, it was only because she was imitating mechanically what she considered rational behavior.

She pursed her lips angrily; she was furious, not so much because of what he was saying, although she considered it all idiotic, but because the idea of having to converse with him at all right now seemed almost more than she could bear. “Probably,” she said.

“Since he has no shame,” thought Port, “I’ll have no mercy.”

It takes energy to invest life with meaning, and at present this energy was lacking. He knew how things could stand bare, their essence having retreated on all sides to beyond the horizon, as if impelled by a sinister centrifugal force.

“When I was young—” “How young?” “Before I was twenty, I mean, I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. It would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth—” She hesitated.

“And now you know it’s not like that. Right? It’s more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. And then’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.”

“But you complain so all the time.” “Oh, not about life; only about human beings.” “The two can’t be considered separately.” “They certainly can. All it takes is a little effort. Effort, effort! Why won’t anybody make any? I can imagine an absolutely different world. Just a few misplaced accents.”

“Ah, I’m disgusted and miserable!” he cried in a sudden burst of fury. “I should never take a drop because it always knocks me out. But it’s not weakness the way it is with you. Not at all. It takes more will power for me to make myself take a drink than it does for you not to. I hate the results and I always remember what they’ll be.” “Then why do you do it? Nobody asks you to.” “I told you,” he said. “I wanted to be with you. And besides, I always imagine that somehow I’ll be able to penetrate to the interior of somewhere. Usually I get just about to the suburbs and get lost. I don’t think there is any interior to get to any more. I think all you drinkers are victims of a huge mass hallucination.”