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--Stinko! That's what he is. Always drunk. Funniest thing you ever did see to see him fall down the steps of his house! Look at his poor kid.
Griffin looked at the old man sprawled upon the stone steps. He looked at him again and turned to run away to tell his friends his father was drunk . . .
--God in the sky, what a stench! Black maggots, tasteless, fleshy matter. Food. Green food. Those hills he had read of, those places where the soil was rich, and good, clean, food grew. Stew! Brew, grew, stew, whew! . . .
--Griffin was alone in the fields, his little pack across his shoulder. It was a clear night, warm and silent, and the full moon the cynosure of all, and like the delicate, powdered nape of a woman it seemed to radiate an evening perfume, enticing the eye, cloying the nostril . . .
Time flew, and the world became wider and crueler. Over a bottle of cheap ale Griffin sat with a mawkish tramp.
--Yeah, I saw them, two of them, riding fast, and suddenly a tree Burp! (Pardon me, it's this stuff) loomed up from nowhere, smashed the car, and drew life's blood. Luckily they died outright, and they did not feel the blood trickle. The thought of the speeding, the sudden, final movements, and the dying, the passing . . . A cold slab, flesh cold, blood dried, eyes wide and staring dead. Have you ever--?
The college gates were pretty; a little deer sat on each head. Was one a female? Laughter, honking, odd noises of effort floated through his window. He really didn't know how he had got there . . . Winter had placed her cold hands upon the earth.
--I CAN FEEL myself rise to a tremendous pitch of emotion as I sense that in a moment, a shallow second, the mood of exaltation and solitude will burst, and I shall think of Economics, thinner (much better than the stew), work, Mr. Rotter, and the awful wretchedness of the day. . .
At eleven o'clock the Vagabond will hear Professor Howard Mumford Jones lecture on, in addition to D. H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, and Aldous Huxley, James Joyce in Emerson 211.
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