...of circumspection

Everyone was in agreement about Ludi’s group and about the heat. The heat counted a great deal in these ruined holidays. Ludi came along when people were discussing this and he made it clear that he was not in agreement, neither about the heat nor about the holidays. He said he liked his holiday, he liked this place, and he liked the heat. He said that when it started to get cold in a few months, the memory of this place and its heat, the recollection of these lifeless, breathless afternoons, would help him to stand the fog and the wind better.
After Ludi came along and spoke about the heat, the man declared that in general he agreed with Ludi. The heat was not as unbearable as people said it was. So far as the holiday was concerned, it was a rather good holiday, especially insofar as it was a change from the kind of holiday one generally took. Someone asked him what was good about it and in what way it was so different and he said that it was especially because of the people here. What was different about them, Jacques wanted to know. The man said they were quite different, one from another, but they all had something in common, something he had never encountered before - he laughed - something he would be very careful not to speak about at this time. Jacques laughed along with the man, and Ludi seemed happy. Was it that they were all friends, Jacques asked. The man said that he wasn’t sure it was only that. Jacques did not insist.

[The Little Horses of Tarquinia, Duras, M.]

...of displacement

During the meal, there was no discussion, or very little, about the parents of the mine searcher. There was probably several reasons for this silence. People at the hotel and in the whole neighborhood knew that Gina, Ludi, Jacques, Sara, and Diana went up the mountain to see them every day, and that Gina, all by herself, took care of feeding them. For this reason, the others felt they could not take initiative in the matter. They felt that any other effort would be superfluous, since these people, with Gina taking the lead, had concerned themselves with the parents of the mine searcher from the very beginning. Everyone disapproved of these daily visits, some because they simply found them out of place, others because they regarded them as evidence of an unwholesome curiosity about miserable spectacles, and still others because they were annoyed at so much initiative. But there was also undoubtedly another cause for this silence about the event - the fact that it had happened three days ago, and already seemed to be lacking in current interest. The fire on the mountainside had already replaced it.
Since the man had just become acquainted with everyone, and had only arrived at the time of the catastrophe, there was no reason for him to hesitate to talk about it,. Nevertheless he didn’t talk about it any more than the others did. He must have suspected, especially since the talk on the beach, that it wasn’t an easy thing to talk about.

[The Little Horses of Tarquinia, Duras, M.]

...of reticence

‘Sometimes I think that you don’t say what you think, Sara,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t think anything,’ said Sara. ‘Sometimes it even seems to me that I don’t even know what it is to think.’
‘Everyone is a little bit like that,’ said Ludi. ‘But that;s not what I mean. You know very well what I mean. Why do you act as if you didn’t understand?
‘I don’t think about it anymore,’ said Sara.
‘It hurts to keep things to yourself. I don’t want you to suppress what you feel against me.’
‘Since I understand you were right to say it, it’s not worth talking about.’
‘Oh, what a bother,’ said Ludi plaintively, ‘I knew very well that you still had it in for me.’
‘I don’t have it in for you at all, Ludi.’
‘I know very well you do. Try and understand me. I agree that people should keep quiet - up to the very point where keeping quiet is going to be misleading - but only up that point and no farther than that. Even then, I like those who force themselves to speak rather than those who force themselves to be silent. Yes, all in all, I like them better. Right now, you have been holding back things you wanted to say to against me for at least four days. I don’t like that. And those words you’re holding back are hurting you, I’m sure of it.’
‘Maybe you can do something else but talk,’ said Sara, ‘maybe you can do something else which does the same for you that talking does, that frees you in the same way.’
‘Sometimes I like how stupid you are,’ said Ludi.
They were beneath the lighted windows of a large villa and they looked at one another.

[The Little Horses of Tarquinia, Duras, M.]

...of authority

He looked at the publisher, and Stacey Lowry, as he leaned slightly forward in his chair. Well, frankly, so am I. It is all so nightmarish that I do not fully understand it. Their motivation that is. One minute I was free and the next incarcerated. At first I thought perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity or some such thing. Then, after I went through the ordeal of interrogation and being booked, I started to becoming paranoid. It seemed as if they had simply, and arbitrarily, decided to subject me to these flagrant indignities for no other reason than that I was there - like the mountain and mountain climber. He smiled as they recognised the appropriateness of the analogy. It was not until I spoke to some of the other inmates, and observed what was happening, that I realised that this was simply an extension and manifestation of a higher, unseen and unheard, authority. Well, I guess I should say unheard except through the lower echelon.
That manifestation, as you so aptly put it, is something we have been combating - or at least attempting to - for years. But, unfortunately, most people think that police brutality is autonomous, that it is simply an error of overzealousness, or corruption by association with criminals, on the part of a few officers. They don’t seem to be cognizant of the real basis of this brutality. We have tried, Donald and myself, to make the public aware of what the real causes are and, of course, their ultimate and logical conclusion. But, of course, I do not have to tell you this. You have already outlined the genealogy of this structure clearly and succinctly.
The world-renowned criminal lawyer smiled at him and he allowed a slight smile to soften the gravity of his expression as he silently accepted the compliment.
True. True. Stacey has been lecturing for years on this selfsame subject and I have tried, from time to time, to awaken the public to the inherent dangers in this situation through editorials, but for the most part our words, or perhaps I should say, pleas, have fallen on deaf ears.
Well, the grave expression once again on his face, I do not know if its deafness or smugness. The it-can’t-happen-here attitude. The old ostrich-in-the-sand routine.

[The Room, Selby Jr., H.]

...of awkward questions

They sure were great battles. Days were spent making the guns, cutting every piece of cardboard that could be found, and then the street was packed with kids. And the battle would go on and on, and when you ran out of ammunition you just picked up what you needed from the street. There was cardboard all over. From curb to curb, hahahahahahahaha. The street cleaners sure must have hated it. Those old italian guys with their little hand trucks and brooms and shovels. But they probably didn’t mind sweeping up the cardboard as much they did the dog shit and horse manure. But old Mr Leone used to help them. He used to come out with his shovel and pail and select only the best pieces of manure. But he always waited until the birds had eaten what they wanted. Sometimes he/d stand there for an hour waiting until the birds had finished, then he/d inspect the pile, select the choicest lumps and carefully put them in the pail. He sure did have a nice front yard but it sure did stink sometimes, especially in the summer. Everybody said he had a real garden in the back Mostly tomatoes. But who knows. No one ever saw it. Anyway, the rosebush in front was nice. Smelled so good you couldn’t smell the manure in springtime. That was always a good time. But June sure was long. Waiting for school to be over. It seemed like years before it was time to sing, no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks. And then home to mother to show her the report card and tell her you got promoted. And she was always happy to see good marks, but then she wanted to know why the D in effort and D in conduct. And there was never an answer. You’re such a good boy. Why can’t you get A in effort and conduct, the hurt look on her face. And you try shrugging and mumbling the question away, but it doesn’t work. And you get all knotted up and sick to your stomach and you feel hotter and hotter and there’s nothing to say. Not a goddamn thing to say. Nothing that anyone would understand. You talk on line, or laugh in the classroom and some asshole teacher tells you to write a demerit slip, and you whisper again, or chuckle and dumb bitch hands you another one and another one and then you’re supposed to explain why those assholes give you a D in effort and D in conduct. As if it was your fault or something

[The Room, Selby Jr., H.]

...of conviction

He picked up his tray and passed along the line silently accepting the food then walking to a table and sitting at the end. He ate slowly almost ignoring the taste of the food, but enjoying the eating of it. He also enjoyed his hunger. It wasn’t a panicky hunger, but a very natural one that was easily satisfied, diminishing slowly with the swallowing of each mouthful of food. It was a hunger of strength, a strength that increased as the hunger ebbed.
As he ate he raised his head imperceptibly and glanced around the room and as his eyes passed from face to face he noticed their expression change to one of hope and understanding readily recognising the glimmer of understanding in the many pairs of eyes that met his. He allowed the faintest of smiles to alter his expression, knowing that those eyes were looking to him for reassurance, for strength. Even the eyes in the most distant corner of the mess hall were looking to him sensing somehow that he would be their salvation. He knew he was the focal point of their despair and frustration. And he knew, too, that though he sat there silently and slowly eating in the midst of the clanging of tin trays and cups that they found the reassurance they needed in his eyes. He was the hope of the hopeless.

[The Room, Selby Jr., H.]

...of infirmity

He slowly got closer and closer until his hand felt the warmth of the cold steel. He leaned against the door jamb for a brief second, looking at his bed, then tilted forward until he bumped into it. He scrambled onto it and let his body unbend in the soft warmth of the mattress. His right eye was buried in the pillow, the left peered at the wall. The left lid blinked when necessary. His lungs functioned. His arms hugged the body of the pillow, his hands gripping the edge. It seemed like a toe moved. He could smell and feel the warmth of his breath as it flowed into the pillow then billowed into his face. It was his breath. It was good to feel. And it was all he could hear. It flowed into the pillow, then billowed around his face. He could feel, too, his heart, and it seemed like he could hear it, but he only felt it. Could only feel the unheard beating. And he could feel his chest. His lungs functioned, but he felt his chest. He could feel the pressure on his right ear pressing into the pillow, and could feel the left exposed to the cooler air. He could feel the beat of his heart in his shoulders, could feel it beat down his arms and hands, into the cheek buried in the pillow. Warmly buried in the pillow. The other out in the air, quiet, still, seemingly cool, and free from the beating of the heart and the flowing of the blood as if the flowing and beating stopped at the neck and that cheek was just there, a companion of the other yet completely unattached even to the exposed and cool ear. Air was forced, almost thrust, into his chest, yet it was done silently. Everything was silent. The bodies moving in the corridoor. The trays being piled on carts. The flies buzzing around the commode in the corner. The only sound was the sound of his breath flowing into the pillow and filtering into his face.
He remained twisted into the mattress, silent and motionless, save for the needed blinking of an eyelid.

[The Room, Selby Jr., H.]