...of music

A so-called Chamber Music Association famous for playing only ancient music on original instruments and for having only Rossini, Frescobaldi, Vivaldi, and Pergolesi in its repertoire was playing in an old castle on the Attersee and had its greatest success since it was founded. The applause continued until the Chamber Music Association did not have a single encore left on its program to play. It was not until the next day that the musicians were told that they had been playing in an institute for deaf-mutes.

[The Most Successful Concert, from The Voice Imitator, Bernhard, T.]

...of desolation

In the immediate neighbourhood of Aurach, after we had climbed the Hongar and then, beginning the descent, had walked along the ridge towards the Hollengebirge for five hours, we visited Haumer, the logger, of whom we had heard nothing for a long time. Haumer did not open his door to us even after we had knocked repeatedly, although we were sure our assumption that he was at home was correct. When we had already left his house, we suddenly had the impression he had now heard us and wanted to open up for us, and we went back to his house. Haumer - whom we had known from our earliest childhood and who had been closer to us than anyone - did, in fact, open the door and invited us to sit down in the so-called downstairs parlour. It was only after we had been sitting on the benches in the downstairs parlour for a while that we realised that Haumer had still not said a word to us. We stayed more than an hour with him and then we took our leave without his having uttered a single word. It was not until the next day, while talking to my cousin about the meeting, that I learned that Haumer had lost his hearing and his speech more than four years ago before as the result of a gun salute that he himself had fired in his daughter's wedding-day when she married a butcher's apprentice from Nussdorf. At the same time it became clear to me that it was over four years since I had visited Haumer, the very person, I thought, to whom I owe so much.

[Haumer The Logger, from The Voice Imitator, Bernhard, T.]

...of an army man

So we marched around in the sun and learned to dig latrines, cure snake-bite, tend the wounded, tie tourniquets, bayonet the enemy; we learned about hand grenades, infiltration, deployment of troops, manoeuvres, retreats, advances, mental and physical discipline; we got on the firing range, bang bang, and we got our marksmen's medals. We had actual field manoeuvres, we went out into the woods and waged mock war. We crawled on our bellies toward each other with our rifles. We were very serious. Even I was serious. There was something about it that got your blood going. It was stupid and we all knew it was stupid, most of us, but something clicked in our brains and we really wanted to get involved in it. We had an old retired army man, Col Sussex. He was getting senile and drooled, little trickles of saliva running out of the corners of his mouth and down, around and under his chin. He never said anything. He just stood around in his uniform covered with medals and drew his pay from the high school. During our mock manoeuvres he carried around a clipboard and kept score - probably. But he never told us who won. Each side claimed victory. It made for bad feelings.

[Ham On Rye, Bukowski, C.]

...of withstanding

'Pull down your shorts.'
I pulled them down.
Then he laid on the strop. The first blow inflicted more shock than pain. The second hurt more. Each blow which followed increased the pain. At first I was aware of the walls, the toilet, the tub. Finally I couldn't see anything. As he beat me, he berated me, but I couldn't understand the words. I thought about his roses, how he grew roses in the yard. I thought about his automobile in the garage. I tried not to scream. I knew that if I did scream he might stop, but knowing this, and knowing his desire for me to scream, prevented me. The tears ran from my eyes as I remained silent. After a while it all became just a whirlpool, a jumble, and there was only the deadly possibility of being there forever. Finally, like something jerked into action, I began to sob, swallowing and choking on the salt slime that ran down my throat. He stopped.

[Ham On Rye, Bukowski, C.]

...of culture

Connor described his golf game. There had been long silences all morning. Everyone in the foursome was polite and considerate, but spoken comments were rare and reserved. Most of the time, the men walked over the course in complete silence.
'And you had gone there for information?' I said. 'How could you stand it?'
'Oh, I was getting information.' But as he explained it, it was all unspoken. Basically, the Japanese have an understanding based on centuries of shared culture, and they are able to communicate feelings without words. It's the closeness that exists in America between a parent and child - a child often understands everything, just from a parent's glance. But Americans don't rely on unspoken communication as a general rule, and the Japanese do. It is as if all Japanese are members of the same family, and they can communicate without words. To a Japanese, silences have meaning.
'It's nothing mystical or wonderful,' Connor said. 'For the most part it is because the Japanese are so hemmed in by rules and conventions, they end up unable to say anything at all. For politeness, to save face, the other person is obliged to read the situation, the context, and the subtle signs of body posture and unstated feeling. Because the first person feels he can't actually put anything into words. Any speaking at all would be indelicate. So the point must be gotten across in other ways.'

[Rising Sun, Crichton, M.]

...of interruption

Gradually an equanimity of mood descended on him. His mission was simple and honourable, his primary object the redemption of his soul. What was wrong with that? Nothing. But the necessary declarations could be made courteously, losing nothing of force for that. Bawling or rude manners impressed nobody, except possibly a member of the brute creation. What if Mary created a scene? It was quite unthinkable. Her attitude of poise, intellectual maturity and sophistication may have been all humbug but one cannot discard a life-long affectation as if it were an old jacket. There would be no scene and as if to register that prediction, he ordered a final glass of what might very remotely be called his pleasure, soon to be spurned forever. The Cistercians? Simple: a glance at a telephone directory on the morrow would locate those saintly men at their best proximity. He murmured to himself a wise Irish proverb: God's help is nearer than the door.
When he opened the door of the Colza Hotel, he sensed that he had stumbled on a special silence, sensing also that he himself had been under discussion. Mary and Hackett were alone together at the far end. It was clear from Hackett's lolling attitude and glossy eyes that he had been filling himself with drink for a long time. Mary was not drunk - he had never seen her go any real distance on that path - but her face looked pale and excited. Mrs Laverty was behind the counter, silent, looking strangely chastened. Mick nodded to all in a pleasant but impassive way, sat at the counter and murmured that he would like a whiskey.

[The Dalkey Archive, O'Brien, F.]

...of bereft of speech

- Have you got somewhere to go? he asked.
- No I haven't. What did you make of that performance?
- I don't know what to say. You heard the conversation, and I presume both of us heard the same thing.
- Do you believe... it all happened?
- I suppose I have to.
- I need a drink.
They fell silent. Thinking about the seance (if that ill-used word will serve) was futile though disturbing and yet it was impossible to shout such thoughts out of the head. Somehow Mick saw little benefit in any discussion with Hackett. Hackett's mind was twisted in a knot identical with his own. They were as two tramps who had met in a trackless desert, each hopelessly asking the other the way.

[The Dalkey Archive, O'Brien, F.]