From "Bartleby the Scrivener" by Herman Melville

This is the ending of the book, that way you don't have to read the whole thing. Basically Bartleby is this character that works in a firm in Wall Street as a Scrivener. And although being effective at the beginning, he eventually starts to turn down work just saying 'I'd rather not' . He just stays in the office looking out the window which looks out to a brick wall. Classic of classics. I would strongly recommend too Vila-Mata's book, "Bartleby and Co." Which talks about writers who decided not to write.

Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying
on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted
Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him;
stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed
profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his
hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.

The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is
ready. Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?"

"Lives without dining," said I, and closed his eyes.

"Eh!--He's asleep, aint he?"

"With kings and counselors," murmured I.

Text for Nothing #8 (1958)

Sorry, I couldn't resist putting this one up, as I guess Beckett couldn't resist writing it either. Tell me if you finish listening to it, cause I haven't,
But I love the beginning.




From Aspen no. 5+6 Read by Jack MacGowan
written by Samuel Beckett

First Post

I don't know how the hell to start so I will let Franz Kafka start for me, so here it goes:

The Wish to be a Red Indian

If one were only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse, leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering ground, until one shed one’s spurs, for there needed no spurs, threw away reins, for there needed no reins, and hardly saw that the land before one was smoothly shorn heath when horse’s neck and head would be already gone.

and in Spanish

Deseo de ser un piel roja

"Si uno pudiera ser un piel roja siempre alerta, cabalgando sobre un caballo veloz, a través del viento, constantemente sacudido sobre la tierra estremecida, hasta arrojar las espuelas porque no hacen falta espuelas, hasta arrojar las riendas porque no hacen falta riendas, y apenas viera ante sí que el campo era una pradera rasa, habrían desaparecido las crines y la cabeza del caballo".

Kafka