THEOFFICE Alice Munro Para.1:The solution to my life occurred to me one evening while I was ironing a shirt.It was simple but audacious.I went into the living room where my husband was watching television and I said,"I think I ought to have an office." Para.2:It sounded fantastic,even to me.What do I want an office for?I have a house;it is pleasant and roomy and has a view of the sea;it provides appropriate places for eating and sleeping and having baths and conversations withone's friends.Also Ihaveagarden;there is no lack of space. Para.3:No.Butherecomesthedisclosurewhichisnoteasyforme:lama writer.That does not sound right. Too presumptuous;phony,or at least unconvincing Try again.I write.Is that better?I try to write.That makes it worse.Hypocritical humility.Well then? Para.4:It doesn't matter.However I put it,the words create their space of silence,the delicate moment of exposure.But people are kind,the silence is quickly absorbed by the solicitude of friendly voices,crying variously how wonderful,and good for you,and well,that is intriguing And what do you write,they inquire with spirit.Fiction,I reply,bearing my humiliation by this time with ease,even a suggestion of flippancy which was not always mine,and again,again,the perceptible circles of dismay are smoothed out by such ready and tactful voices-which have however exhausted their stock of consolatory phrases,and can say only, “Ah.P Para.5:So this is what I want an office for(I said to my husband):to write in.I was at once aware that it sounded like a finicky requirement,a pieceof rareself-indulgence.Towrite,aseveryone knows,youneeda typewriter or atleastapencil,some paper,atableand chair;Ihaveall these things in a corner of my bedroom.But now I want an office as well. Para.6:AndI was notevensure thatI was going to write in it,if we come down to that.Maybe I would sit and stare at the wall;even that prospect was not unpleasant to me.It was really the sound of the word "office"that I liked,its sound of dignity and peace.And purposefulnessandimportance.ButIdidnot care to mention this to my husband.so I launched instead into a high-flown explanation which went,as I remember like this: Para.7:A house is all right for a man to work in.He brings his work into the house,a place is cleared for it,the house rearranges itself as best it can around him.Everybody recognizes that his work exists.He is not expected to answer the telephone,to find things that are lost,to see why the children are crying or feed the cat.He can shut his door.Imagine (I said)a mother shutting her door,and the children knowing she is behind it;why the very thought of it is outrageous to them.A woman who sits staring into space,into a country that is not her husband's or her children's is likewise known to be an offence against nature.So a house is not the same for a woman.She is not someone who walks into the house,to make use of it,and will walk out again.She is the house;there is no separation possible. Para.8:(And this is true,though as usual when arguing for something I am afraid I do not deserve,I put it in too emphatic and emotional terms.At certain times,perhaps on long spring evenings,still rainy and sad, with the cold bulbs in bloom and a light too mild for promise drifting over the sea,I have opened the windows and felt the house shrink back into wood and plaster and those humble elements of which is it made,and the life in it subside,leaving me exposed,empty-handed,but feeling a fierce and lawless quiver of freedom,of loneliness too harsh and perfect for me now to bear.Then I know how the rest of the time I
THEOFFICE Alice Munro Para.1: The solution to my life occurred to me one evening while I was ironing a shirt. It was simple but audacious. I went into the living room where my husband was watching television and I said, “I think I ought to have an office.” Para.2: It sounded fantastic, even to me. What do I want an office for? I have a house; it is pleasant and roomy and has a view of the sea; it provides appropriate placesfor eating and sleeping, and having baths and conversationswith one’sfriends.Also Ihave a garden;there isno lack of space. Para.3: No.Butherecomesthedisclosurewhichisnoteasyforme:Iama writer. That does not sound right. Too presumptuous; phony, or at least unconvincing. Try again. I write. Is that better? I try to write. That makes it worse. Hypocritical humility. Well then? Para.4: It doesn’t matter. However I put it, the words create their space of silence, the delicate moment of exposure. But people are kind, the silence is quickly absorbed by the solicitude of friendly voices, crying variously, how wonderful, and good for you, and well, that is intriguing. And what do you write, they inquire with spirit. Fiction, I reply, bearing my humiliation by this time with ease, even a suggestion of flippancy, which was not always mine, and again, again, the perceptible circles of dismay are smoothed out by such ready and tactful voices—which have however exhausted their stock of consolatory phrases, and can say only, “Ah!”Para.5: So this is what I want an office for (I said to my husband): to write in. I was at once aware that it sounded like a finicky requirement, a pieceof rareself-indulgence.Towrite,aseveryoneknows,youneeda typewriter, or atleast a pencil,some paper, a table and chair;Ihave all these things in a corner of my bedroom. But now I want an office as well. Para.6: AndIwas not even sure thatIwas going towrite in it, if we come down to that. Maybe I would sit and stare at the wall; even that prospect was not unpleasant to me. It was really the sound of the word “office” that I liked, its sound of dignity and peace. And purposefulnessandimportance.ButIdidnot care to mention thisto my husband, so I launched instead into a high-flown explanation which went, as I remember,like this: Para.7: A house is all right for a man to work in. He brings his work into the house, a place is cleared for it; the house rearranges itself as best it can around him. Everybody recognizes that his work exists. He is not expected to answer the telephone, to find things that are lost, to see why the children are crying, or feed the cat. He can shut his door. Imagine (I said) a mother shutting her door, and the children knowing she is behind it; why, the very thought of it is outrageous to them. A woman who sits staring into space, into a country that is not her husband’s or her children’s is likewise known to be an offence against nature. So a house is not the same for a woman. She is not someone who walks into the house, to make use of it, and will walk out again. She isthe house; there is no separation possible. Para.8: (And this is true, though as usual when arguing for something I am afraid I do not deserve, I put it in too emphatic and emotional terms. At certain times, perhaps on long spring evenings, still rainy and sad, with the cold bulbs in bloom and a light too mild for promise drifting over the sea, I have opened the windows and felt the house shrink back into wood and plaster and those humble elements of which is it made, and the life in it subside, leaving me exposed, empty-handed, but feeling a fierce and lawless quiver of freedom, of loneliness too harsh and perfect for me now to bear. Then I know how the rest of the time I
am sheltered and encumbered,how insistently I am warmed and bound.) Para.9:"Go ahead,if you can find one cheap enough,"is all my husband had to say to this.He is not like me,he does not really want explanations.That the heart of another person is a closed book,is something you will hear him say frequently,and without regret. Para.10:Even then I did not think it was something that could be accomplished.Perhaps at bottom it seemed to me too improper a wish to be granted.I could almost more easily have wished for a mink coat,for a diamond necklace;these are things women do obtain.The children,learning of my plans,greeted them with the most dashing skepticism and unconcern.Nevertheless I went down to the shopping centre which is two blocks from where I live;there I had noticed for several months,and without thinking how they could pertain to me,a couple of For Rent signs in the upstairs windows of a building that housed a drugstore and a beauty parlour.As I went up the stairs I had a feeling of complete unreality;surely renting was a complicated business,in the case of offices;you did not simply knock on the door of the vacant premises and wait to be admitted;it would have to be done through channels.Also,they would want too much money Para.11:As it turned out,I did not even have to knock.A woman came out of one of the empty offices, dragging a vacuum cleaner,and pushing it with her foot,towards the open door across the hall,which evidently led to an apartment in the rear of the building She and her husband lived in this apartment;their name was Malley; and it was indeed they who owned the building and rented out the offices.The rooms she had just been vacuuming were,she told me,fitted out for a dentist's office,and so would not interest me,but she would show me the other place.She invited me into her apartment while she put away the vacuum and got her key Her husband,she said with asighIcould not interpret,was notat home. Para.12:Mrs.Malley was a black-haired,delicate-looking woman,perhaps in her early forties,slatternly but still faintly appealing with such arbitrary touches of femininity as the thin line of bright lipstick,the pink feather slippers on obviously tender and swollen feet.She had the swaying passivity the air of exhaustion and muted apprehension,that speaks of a life spent in close attention on a man who is by turns vigorous, crotchety and dependent.How much of this I saw at first,how much decided on later is of course impossible to tell.But I did think that she would have no children,the stress of her life,whatever it was,did not allow it,and in this I was not mistaken. Para.13:Theroom whereI waited wasevidently acombinationlivingroom and office.The first things I noticed were models of ships-galleons,clippers,Queen Marys-sitting on the tables,the window sills,the television.Where there were no ships there were potted plants and a clutter of what are sometimes called "masculine"ornaments-china deer heads,bronze horses,huge ashtrays of heavy,veined,shiny material.On the walls were framed photographs and what might have been diplomas.One photo showed a poodle and a bulldog dressed in masculine and feminine clothing,and assuming with dismal embarrassment a pose of affection.Written across it was"Old Friends."But the room was really dominated by a portrait,with its own light and a gilded frame;it was of a good-looking fair-haired man in middle age,sitting behind a desk,wearing a business suit and looking pre-eminently prosperous,rosy and agreeable.Here again,it is probably hindsight on my part that points out that in the portrait there is evident also some uneasiness, some lack of faith the man has in this role,a tendency he has to spread himself too bountifully and insistently which for all anyone knows may lead to disaster Para.14:Never mind the Malleys.As soon as I saw that office,I wanted it.It was larger than I needed,being divided in such a way that it would be suitable for a doctor's office.(We had a chiropractor in here but he left
am sheltered and encumbered, how insistently I am warmed and bound.) Para.9: “Go ahead, if you can find one cheap enough,” is all my husband had to say to this. He is not like me, he does not really want explanations. That the heart of another person is a closed book, is something you will hear him say frequently, and without regret. Para.10: Even then I did not think it was something that could be accomplished. Perhaps at bottom it seemed to me too improper a wish to be granted. I could almost more easily have wished for a mink coat, for a diamond necklace; these are things women do obtain. The children, learning of my plans, greeted them with the most dashing skepticism and unconcern. Nevertheless I went down to the shopping centre which is two blocks from where I live; there I had noticed for several months, and without thinking how they could pertain to me, a couple of For Rent signs in the upstairs windows of a building that housed a drugstore and a beauty parlour. As I went up the stairs I had a feeling of complete unreality; surely renting was a complicated business, in the case of offices; you did not simply knock on the door of the vacant premises and wait to be admitted; it would have to be done through channels. Also, they would want too much money. Para.11: As it turned out, I did not even have to knock. A woman came out of one of the empty offices, dragging a vacuum cleaner, and pushing it with her foot, towardsthe open door acrossthe hall, which evidently led to an apartment in the rear of the building. She and her husband lived in this apartment; their name was Malley; and it was indeed they who owned the building and rented out the offices. The rooms she had just been vacuuming were, she told me, fitted out for a dentist’s office, and so would not interest me, but she would show me the other place. She invited me into her apartment while she put away the vacuum and got her key. Her husband,she saidwith a sigh I could not interpret,wasnot athome. Para.12: Mrs. Malley was a black-haired, delicate-looking woman, perhaps in her early forties, slatternly but still faintly appealing, with such arbitrary touches of femininity as the thin line of bright lipstick, the pink feather slippers on obviously tender and swollen feet. She had the swaying passivity, the air of exhaustion and muted apprehension, that speaks of a life spent in close attention on a man who is by turns vigorous, crotchety and dependent. How much of this I saw at first, how much decided on later is of course impossible to tell. But I did think that she would have no children, the stress of her life, whatever it was, did not allow it, and in this I was not mistaken. Para.13: TheroomwhereIwaitedwasevidentlya combinationlivingroom and office. The first things I noticed were models of ships—galleons, clippers, Queen Marys—sitting on the tables, the window sills, the television. Where there were no ships there were potted plants and a clutter of what are sometimes called “masculine” ornaments—china deer heads, bronze horses, huge ashtrays of heavy, veined, shiny material. On the walls were framed photographs and what might have been diplomas. One photo showed a poodle and a bulldog, dressed in masculine and feminine clothing, and assuming with dismal embarrassment a pose of affection. Written across it was “Old Friends.” But the room was really dominated by a portrait, with its own light and a gilded frame; it was of a good-looking, fair-haired man in middle age, sitting behind a desk, wearing a business suit and looking pre-eminently prosperous, rosy and agreeable. Here again, it is probably hindsight on my part that points out that in the portrait there is evident also some uneasiness, some lack of faith the man has in this role, a tendency he has to spread himself too bountifully and insistently, which for all anyone knows may lead to disaster. Para.14: Never mind the Malleys. As soon as Isaw that office, I wanted it. It waslarger than I needed, being divided in such a way that it would be suitable for a doctor’s office. (We had a chiropractor in here but he left
says Mrs.Malley in her regretful but uninformative way)The walls were cold and bare,white with a little grey,to cut the glare for the eyes.Since there were no doctors in evidence,nor had been,as Mrs.Malley freely told me,for some time,I offered twenty-five dollars amonth.Shesaidshewouldhavetospeaktoherhusband. Para.15:The next time I came my offer was agreed upon,and I met Mr.Malley in the flesh.I explained,as I had already done to his wife,that I did not want to make use of my office during regular business hours,but during the weekends and sometimes in the evening He asked me what I would use it for,and I told him,not without wondering first whether Iought to say Idid stenography Para.16:He absorbed the information with good humour."Ah,you're a writer" Para.l7:“Well yes.Iwrite.” Para.18:"Then we'll do our best to see you're comfortable here,"he said expansively "I'm a great man for hobbies myself.All these ship-models,I do them in my spare time,they're a blessing for the nerves. People need an occupation for their nerves.I daresay you're the same." Para.19:"Something the same,"I said,resolutely agreeable,even relieved that he saw my behaviour in this hazy and tolerant light.At least he did not ask me,as I half-expected,who was looking after the children,and did my husband approve?Ten years,maybe fifteen,had greatly softened,spread and defeated the man in the picture.His hips and thighs had now a startling accumulation of fat,causing him to move with a sigh,a cushiony settling of flesh,a ponderous matriarchal discomfort.His hair and eyes had faded,his features blurred,and the affable,predatory expression had collapsed into one of troubling humility and chronic mistrust.I did not look at him.I had not planned,in taking an office,to take on the responsibility of knowing any more human beings. Para.20:On the weekend I moved in,without the help of my family,who wouldhave beenkind.I brought my typewriter and acard table and chair,also a little wooden table on which I set a hot plate,a kettle,a jar of instant coffee,a spoon and a yellow mug That was all.I brooded with satisfaction on the bareness of my walls,the cheap dignity of my essential furnishings,the remarkable lack of things to dust,wash or polish. Para.21:The sight was not so pleasing to Mr.Malley He knocked on my door soon after I was settled and said that he wanted to explain a few things to me-about unscrewing the light in the outer room, which I would not need,about the radiator and how to work the awning outside the window He looked around at everything with gloom and mystification and said it was an awfully uncomfortable place for a lady Para.22:"It's perfectly all right for me,"I said,not as discouragingly as I would have liked to, because I always have a tendency to placate people whom I dislike for no good reason,or simply do not want to know I make elaborate offerings of courtesy sometimes,in the foolish hope that they will go away and leave me alone. Para.23:"What you want is a nice easy chair to sit in,while you're waiting for inspiration to hit.I've got a chair down in the basement,all kinds of stuff down there since my mother passed on last year.There's a bit of carpet rolled up in a corner down there,it isn't doing anybody any good.We could get this place fixed up so's it'd be alot more homelike for you." Para.24:Butreally,Isaid,but really I like it as it is. Para.25:"If you wanted to run up some curtains,I'd pay you for the material.Place needs a touch of colour,I'm afraid you'll get morbid sitting in here." Para.26:Oh,no,I said,and laughed,I'm sure I won't
says Mrs. Malley in her regretful but uninformative way.) The walls were cold and bare, white with a little grey, to cut the glare for the eyes. Since there were no doctors in evidence, nor had been, as Mrs. Malley freely told me, forsome time, I offered twenty-five dollars amonth.Shesaidshewouldhavetospeaktoherhusband. Para.15: The next time I came my offer was agreed upon, and I met Mr. Malley in the flesh. I explained, as I had already done to his wife, that I did not want to make use of my office during regular business hours, but during the weekends and sometimes in the evening. He asked me what I would use it for, and I told him, not without wondering first whetherI oughtto say I did stenography. Para.16: He absorbed the information with good humour. “Ah, you’re a writer.” Para.17: “Wellyes.Iwrite.” Para.18: “Then we’ll do our best to see you’re comfortable here,” he said expansively. “I’m a great man for hobbies myself. All these ship- models, I do them in my spare time, they’re a blessing for the nerves. People need an occupation for their nerves. I daresay you’re the same.” Para.19: “Something the same,” I said, resolutely agreeable, even relieved that he saw my behaviour in this hazy and tolerant light. At least he did not ask me, as I half-expected, who was looking after the children, and did my husband approve? Ten years, maybe fifteen, had greatly softened, spread and defeated the man in the picture. His hips and thighs had now a startling accumulation of fat, causing him to move with a sigh, a cushiony settling of flesh, a ponderous matriarchal discomfort. His hair and eyes had faded, his features blurred, and the affable, predatory expression had collapsed into one of troubling humility and chronic mistrust. I did not look at him. I had not planned, in taking an office, to take on the responsibility of knowing any more human beings. Para.20: On the weekend I moved in, without the help of my family, who wouldhave beenkind.I brought my typewriter and a card table and chair, also a little wooden table on which Iset a hot plate, a kettle, a jar of instant coffee, a spoon and a yellow mug. That was all. I brooded with satisfaction on the bareness of my walls, the cheap dignity of my essential furnishings, the remarkable lack of things to dust, wash or polish. Para.21: The sight was not so pleasing to Mr. Malley. He knocked on my door soon after I was settled and said that he wanted to explain a few things to me—about unscrewing the light in the outer room, which I would not need, about the radiator and how to work the awning outside the window. He looked around at everything with gloom and mystification and said it was an awfully uncomfortable place for a lady. Para.22: “It’s perfectly all right for me,” I said, not as discouragingly as I would have liked to, because I always have a tendency to placate people whom I dislike for no good reason, or simply do not want to know. I make elaborate offerings of courtesy sometimes, in the foolish hope that they will go away and leave me alone. Para.23: “What you want is a nice easy chair to sit in, while you’re waiting for inspiration to hit. I’ve got a chair down in the basement, all kinds of stuff down there since my mother passed on last year. There’s a bit of carpet rolled up in a corner down there, it isn’t doing anybody any good. We could get this place fixed up so’s it’d be a lot more homelike for you.” Para.24: Butreally, Isaid, but really I like it as it is. Para.25: “If you wanted to run up some curtains, I’d pay you for the material. Place needs a touch of colour, I’m afraid you’ll get morbid sitting in here.” Para.26: Oh,no, I said, and laughed, I’m sure I won’t
Para.27:"It'd be a different story if you was a man.A woman wants things a bit cosier." Para.28:So I got up and went to the window and looked down into the empty Sunday street through the slats of the Venetian blind,to avoid the accusing vulnerability of his fat face and I tried out a cold voice that is to be heard frequently in my thoughts but has great difficulty getting out of my cowardly mouth."Mr.Malley,please don't bother me about this any more.I said it suits me.I have everything I want. Thanks for showing me about the light." Para.29:The effect was devastating enough to shame me."I certainly wouldn't dream of bothering you,"he said,with precision of speech and aloof sadness."Imerely made these suggestions for your comfort.Had I realized I was in your way,I would of left some time ago."When he had gone I felt better,even a little exhilarated at my victory though still ashamed of how easy it had been.I told myself that he would have hadto bediscouraged sooneror later,it was bettertohave it over with at the beginning Para.30:The following weekend he knocked on my door.His expression of humility was exaggerated, almost enough so to seem mocking yet in anothersenseitwasrealandIfeltunsureof myself. Para.31:"I won't take up a minute of your time,"he said."I never meant to be a nuisance.I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry I offended you last time andIapologize.Here'salittle present if you will accept." Para.32:He was carrying a plant whose name I did not know;it had thick,glossy leaves andgrewoutof a pot wrapped lavishly in pinkand silver foil. Para.33:"There,"he said,arranging this plant in a corner of my room."I don't want any bad feelings with you and me.I'll take the blame.And I thought,maybe she won't accept furnishings,but what's the matter with a nice little plant,that'll brighten things up for you." Para.34:It was not possible for me,at this moment,to tell him that I did not want a plant.I hate house plants.He told me how to take care of it,how often to water it and so on;I thanked him.There was nothing else I could do,and I had the unpleasant feeling that beneath his offering of apologies and gifts he was well aware of this and in some way gratified by it.He kept on talking using the words bad feelings offended,apologize.I tried once to interrupt,with the idea of explaining that I had made provision for an area in my life where good feelings,or bad,did not enter in,that between him and me,in fact,it was not necessary that there be any feelings at all;but this struck me as a hopeless task.How could I confront,in the open, this craving for intimacy?Besides,the plant in its shiny paper had confused me. Para.35:"How's the writing progressing?"he said,with an air of putting all our unfortunate differences behindhim. Para.36:“Oh,about as usual,.” Para.37:"Well if you ever run out of things to write about,I got a barrelful."Pause."But I guess I'm just eatin'into your time here,"he said with a kind of painful buoyancy This was a test,and I did not pass it.I smiled,my eyes held by that magnificent plant;I said it was all right. Para.38:"I was just thinking about the fellow was in here before you.Chiropractor You could of wrote a book about him." Para.39:I assumed a listening position,my hands no longer hovering over the keys.If cowardice and insincerity are big vices of mine,curiosity is certainlyanother. Para.40:"He had a good practice built up here.The only trouble was,he gave more adjustments than was listed inthe bookof chiropractory Oh,hewasadjusting right andleft.Icame in hereafterhe movedout, andwhatdoyouthinklfound?Sound proofing!Thiswholeroomwas soundproofed,to enable him to make
Para.27: “It’d be a different story if you was a man. A woman wants things a bit cosier.” Para.28: So I got up and went to the window and looked down into the empty Sunday street through the slats of the Venetian blind, to avoid the accusing vulnerability of his fat face and I tried out a cold voice that is to be heard frequently in my thoughts but has great difficulty getting out of my cowardly mouth. “Mr. Malley, please don’t bother me about this any more. I said it suits me. I have everything I want. Thanksforshowing me about the light.” Para.29: The effect was devastating enough to shame me. “I certainly wouldn’t dream of bothering you,” he said, with precision of speech and aloof sadness. “Imerely made these suggestionsfor your comfort. Had I realized I was in your way, I would of left some time ago.” When he had gone I felt better, even a little exhilarated at my victory though still ashamed of how easy it had been. I told myself that he wouldhavehadtobediscouragedsoonerorlater,itwasbettertohave it over with at the beginning. Para.30: The following weekend he knocked on my door. His expression of humility was exaggerated, almost enough so to seem mocking, yet in anothersenseitwasrealandIfeltunsureof myself. Para.31: “I won’t take up a minute of your time,” he said. “I never meant to be a nuisance. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry I offended you last time and I apologize. Here’s a little present if you will accept.” Para.32: He was carrying a plant whose name I did not know; it had thick, glossy leaves and grew out of a potwrapped lavishly inpinkand silver foil. Para.33: “There,” he said, arranging this plant in a corner of my room. “I don’t want any bad feelings with you and me. I’ll take the blame. And I thought, maybe she won’t accept furnishings, but what’s the matter with a nice little plant, that’ll brighten things up for you.” Para.34: It was not possible for me, at this moment, to tell him that I did not want a plant. I hate house plants. He told me how to take care of it, how often to water it and so on; I thanked him. There was nothing else I could do, and I had the unpleasant feeling that beneath his offering of apologies and gifts he was well aware of this and in some way gratified by it. He kept on talking, using the words bad feelings, of ended, apologize. I tried once to interrupt, with the idea of explaining that I had made provision for an area in my life where good feelings, or bad, did not enter in, that between him and me, in fact, it was not necessary that there be any feelings at all; but this struck me as a hopeless task. How could I confront, in the open, this craving for intimacy? Besides, the plant in its shiny paper had confused me. Para.35: “How’s the writing progressing?” he said, with an air of putting all our unfortunate differences behindhim. Para.36: “Oh, about as usual.” Para.37: “Well if you ever run out of things to write about, I got a barrelful.” Pause. “But I guess I’m just eatin’ into your time here,” he said with a kind of painful buoyancy. This was a test, and I did not pass it. I smiled, my eyes held by that magnificent plant; I said it was all right. Para.38: “I was just thinking about the fellow was in here before you. Chiropractor. You could of wrote a book about him.” Para.39: I assumed a listening position, my hands no longer hovering over the keys. If cowardice and insincerityarebigvicesof mine,curiosityis certainlyanother. Para.40: “He had a good practice built up here. The only trouble was, he gavemore adjustmentsthan was listed inthebookof chiropractory. Oh,hewasadjusting right andleft.Icame in hereafterhe movedout, andwhatdoyouthinkIfound?Sound proofing!Thiswholeroomwas soundproofed, to enable him to make
his adjustments without disturbing anybody This very room you'resitting writing your stories in. Para.41:"First we knew of it was a lady knocked on my door one day,wanted me to provide her with a passkey to his office.He'd locked his door against her Para.42:"I guess he just got tired of treating her particular case.I guess he figured he'd been knocking away at it long enough.Lady well on in years,you know and him just a young man.He had a nice young wife too and a couple of the prettiest children you ever would want to see.Filthy some of the things that go on in this world.” Para.43:It took me some time to realize that he told this story not simply as a piece of gossip,but as something a writer would be particularly interested to hear.Writing and lewdness had a vague delicious connection in his mind.Even this notion,however,seemed so wistful,so infantile,that it struck me as a waste of energy to attack it.I knew now I must avoid hurting him for my own sake,not for his.It had been a great mistake to think that a little roughness would settle things. Para.44:The next present was a teapot.I insisted that I drank only coffee and told him to give it to his wife. He said that tea was better for the nerves and that he had known right away I was a nervous person,like himself.The teapot was covered with gilt and roses and I knew that it was not cheap,in spite of its extreme hideousness.I kept it on my table.I also continued to care for the plant,which thrived obscenely in the corner of my room.I could not decide what else to do.He bought me a wastebasket,a fancy one with Chinese mandarins on all eight sides;he gota foam rubber cushion for my chair.I despised myself for submitting to this blackmail.I did not even really pity him;it was just that I could not turn away,I could not turn away from that obsequioushunger.Andheknewhimself mytolerance wasbought;in a way he must have hated me for it. Para.45:When he lingered in my office now he told me stories of himself.It occurred to me that he was revealing his life to me in the hope that I would write it down.Of course he had probably revealed it to plenty of people for no particular reason,but in my case there seemed to be aspecial,evendesperatenecessity Hislife was aseriesof calamities,as people's lives often are;he had been let down by people he had trusted,refused help by those he had depended on,betrayed by the very friends to whom he had given kindness and material help. Other people,mere strangers and passersby,had taken time to torment him gratuitously,in novel and inventive ways.On occasion,his very life had been threatened.Moreover his wife was a difficulty,her health being poor and her temperament unstable;what was he to do?You see how it is,he said,lifting his hands,but I live. He looked to me to sayyes. Para.46:I took to coming up the stairs on tiptoe,trying to turn my key without making a noise; this was foolish of course because I could not muffle my typewriter.I actually considered writing in longhand,and wished repeatedly for the evil chiropractor's soundproofing I told my husband my problem and he said it was not a problem at all.Tell him you're busy,he said.As a matter of fact I did tell him;every time he came to my door always armed with a little gift or an errand,he asked me how I was and I said that today I was busy Ah,then,he said,as he eased himself through the door,he would not keep me a minute.And all the time,as I have said,he knew what was going on in my mind,how I weakly longed to be rid of him.He knew but could not afford to care. Para.47:One evening after I had gone home I discovered that I had left at the office a letter I had intended to post,and so I went back to get it.I saw from the street that the light was on in the room where I worked
his adjustments without disturbing anybody.This very room you’resitting writing your storiesin. Para.41: “First we knew of it was a lady knocked on my door one day, wanted me to provide her with a passkey to his office. He’d locked his door against her. Para.42: “I guess he just got tired of treating her particular case. I guess he figured he’d been knocking away at it long enough. Lady well on in years, you know, and him just a young man. He had a nice young wife too and a couple of the prettiest children you ever would want to see. Filthy some of the things that go on in this world.”Para.43: It took me some time to realize that he told this story not simply as a piece of gossip, but as something a writer would be particularly interested to hear. Writing and lewdness had a vague delicious connection in his mind. Even this notion, however, seemed so wistful, so infantile, that it struck me as a waste of energy to attack it. I knew now I must avoid hurting him for my own sake, not for his. It had been a great mistake to think that a little roughness would settle things. Para.44: The next present was a teapot. I insisted that I drank only coffee and told him to give it to his wife. He said that tea was better for the nerves and that he had known right away I was a nervous person, like himself. The teapot was covered with gilt and roses and I knew that it was not cheap, in spite of its extreme hideousness. I kept it on my table. I also continued to care for the plant, which thrived obscenely in the corner of my room. I could not decide what else to do. He bought me a wastebasket, a fancy one with Chinese mandarins on all eight sides; he got a foam rubber cushion for my chair.I despised myself for submitting to this blackmail. I did not even really pity him; it was just that I could not turn away, I could not turn away from that obsequioushunger.Andheknewhimself mytolerancewasbought;in away hemust have hatedme forit. Para.45: When he lingered in my office now he told me stories of himself. It occurred to me that he was revealing his life to me in the hope that I would write it down. Of course he had probably revealed it to plenty of people for no particular reason, but in my case there seemed to be aspecial, evendesperatenecessity.Hislifewas a series of calamities, as people’s lives often are; he had been let down by people he had trusted, refused help by those he had depended on, betrayed by the very friends to whom he had given kindness and material help. Other people, mere strangers and passersby, had taken time to torment him gratuitously, in novel and inventive ways. On occasion, his very life had been threatened. Moreover his wife was a difficulty, her health being poor and her temperament unstable; what was he to do? You see how it is, he said, lifting his hands, but I live. He looked to me to sayyes. Para.46: I took to coming up the stairs on tiptoe, trying to turn my key without making a noise; this was foolish of course because I could not muffle my typewriter. I actually considered writing in longhand, and wished repeatedly for the evil chiropractor’s soundproofing. I told my husband my problem and he said it was not a problem at all. Tell him you’re busy, he said. As a matter of fact I did tell him; every time he came to my door, always armed with a little gift or an errand, he asked me how I was and I said that today I was busy. Ah, then, he said, as he eased himself through the door, he would not keep me a minute. And all the time, as I have said, he knew what was going on in my mind, how I weakly longed to be rid of him. He knew but could not afford to care. Para.47: One evening after I had gone home I discovered that I had left at the office a letter I had intended to post, and so I went back to get it. I saw from the street that the light was on in the room where I worked
Then I saw him bending over the card table.Of course,he came in at night and read what I had written!He heard me at the door,and when I came in he was picking up my wastebasket,saying he thought he would just tidy things up for me.He went out at once.I did not say anything but found myself trembling with anger and gratification.To havefoundajustcausewasawonderanunbearablerelief Para.48:Next time he came to my door Ihad locked iton the inside.Iknew his step,his chummy cajoling knock.I continued typing loudly,but not uninterruptedly,so he would know I heard.He called my name,as if I was playing a trick;I bit my lips together not to answer.Unreasonably as ever,guilt assailed me but I typed on. That day I saw the earth was dry around the roots of the plant;I let it alone. Para.49:I was not prepared for what happened next.I found a note taped to my door,which said that Mr.Malley would be obliged if I would step into his office.I went at once to get it over with.He sat at his desk surrounded by obscure evidences of his authority;he looked at me from a distance,as one who was now compelled to see me in a new and sadly unfavourable light;the embarrassment which he showed seemed not for himself,but me.He started off by saying,with a rather stagey reluctance,that he had known of course when he took me in that I was a writer Para.50:"I didn't let that worry me,though I have heard things about writers and artists and that type of person that didn't strike me as very encouraging You know the sort of thing I mean." Para.51:This was something new;I could not think what it might lead to. Para.52:"Now you came to me and said,Mr.Malley,I want a place to write in.I believed you.I gave it to you.I didn't ask any questions.That's thekindof personIam.ButyouknowthemoreIthink about it,well,the morelam inclinedto wonder." Para.53:"Wonder what?"Isaid. Para.54:"And your own attitude,that hasn't helped to put my mind at ease.Locking yourself in and refusing to answer your door That's not a normal way for a person to behave.Not if they got nothing to hide.No more than it's normal for a young woman,says she has a husband andkids,tospendhertimerattlingaway onatypewriter.”"“But I don't think that--” Para.55:He lifted his hand,a forgiving gesture."Now all I ask is,that you be open and aboveboard with me,I think I deserve that much,and if you are using that office for any other purpose,or at any other times than you let on,and having your friends or whoever they are up to see you-" Para.56:“Idon'tknowwhatyoumean.” Para.57:"And another thing you claim to be a writer Well I read quite a bit of material,and I never have seen your name in print.Now maybe youwrite undersomeothername?" Para.58:"No,"Isaid. Para.59:"Well I don't doubt there are writers whose names I haven't heard,"he said genially "We'll let that pass.Just you give me your word of honour there won't be any more deceptions,or any carryings-on,etcetera,in that officeyouoccupy-" Para.60:My anger was delayed somehow blocked off by a stupid incredulity.I only knew enough to getup and walk down the hall,his voice trailing after me,and lock the door.I thought-I must go. But after I had sat down in my own room,my work in front of me,I thought again how much I liked this room,how well I worked in it,and I decided not to be forced out.After all,I felt,the struggle between us had reached a deadlock.I could refuse to open the door,refuse to look at his notes,refuse to speak to him when we met.My rent was paid in advance and if I left now it was unlikely that I would get any refund.I resolved not to care.I had been taking my manuscript home every night,to prevent his
Then I saw him bending over the card table. Of course, he came in at night and read what I had written! He heard me at the door, and when I came in he was picking up my wastebasket, saying he thought he would just tidy things up for me. He went out at once. I did not say anything, but found myself trembling with anger and gratification. To havefoundajustcausewasawonder,anunbearablerelief. Para.48: Next time he came tomy doorI had locked it on the inside.I knew his step, his chummy cajoling knock. I continued typing loudly, but not uninterruptedly, so he would know I heard. He called my name, as if I was playing a trick; I bit my lips together not to answer. Unreasonably as ever, guilt assailed me but I typed on. That day Isaw the earth was dry around the roots of the plant; I let it alone. Para.49: I was not prepared for what happened next. I found a note taped to my door, which said that Mr. Malley would be obliged if I would step into his office. I went at once to get it over with. He sat at his desk surrounded by obscure evidences of his authority; he looked at me from a distance, as one who was now compelled to see me in a new and sadly unfavourable light; the embarrassment which he showed seemed not for himself, but me. He started off by saying, with a rather stagey reluctance, that he had known of course when he took me in that I was a writer. Para.50: “I didn’t let that worry me, though I have heard things about writers and artists and that type of person that didn’tstrike me as very encouraging. You know the sort of thing I mean.” Para.51: This wassomething new; I could not think what it might lead to. Para.52: “Now you came to me and said, Mr. Malley, I want a place to write in. I believed you. I gave it to you.I didn’t ask any questions. That’sthekindof personIam.ButyouknowthemoreIthink about it,well, the moreIam inclinedtowonder.” Para.53: “Wonder what?”Isaid. Para.54: “And your own attitude, that hasn’t helped to put my mind at ease. Locking yourself in and refusing to answer your door. That’s not a normal way for a person to behave. Not if they got nothing to hide. No more than it’s normal for a young woman,saysshe has a husband andkids,tospendhertimerattlingaway onatypewriter.” “But I don’t think that—” Para.55: He lifted his hand, a forgiving gesture. “Now all I ask is, that you be open and aboveboard with me, I think I deserve that much, and if you are using that office for any other purpose, or at any other times than you let on, and having yourfriends or whoeverthey are up to see you—” Para.56: “Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.” Para.57: “And another thing, you claim to be a writer. Well I read quite a bit of material, and I never have seen your name in print. Now maybe youwriteundersomeothername?” Para.58: “No,”Isaid. Para.59: “Well I don’t doubt there are writers whose names I haven’t heard,” he said genially. “We’ll let that pass. Just you give me your word of honour there won’t be any more deceptions, or any carryings-on, et cetera,in that office you occupy—” Para.60: My anger was delayed somehow, blocked off by a stupid incredulity. I only knew enough to get up andwalk down the hall, his voice trailing after me, and lock the door. I thought—I must go. But after I had sat down in my own room, my work in front of me, I thought again how much I liked this room, how well I worked in it, and I decided not to be forced out. After all, I felt, the struggle between us had reached a deadlock.I could refuse to open the door, refuse to look at his notes, refuse to speak to him when we met. My rent was paid in advance and if Ileft now it was unlikely thatI would get any refund. I resolved not to care. I had been taking my manuscript home every night, to prevent his
reading it,and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me.What did it matter if he read it,any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61:Several times after this I found notes on my door.I intended not to read them,but I always did.His accusations grew more specific.He had heard voices in my room.My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap.(I never came in the afternoons,except on weekends.)He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62:I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor.It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr.Malley's life were built up. Para.63:As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased.Once or twice I saw his stooped,sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall.Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy.He accused me now by note,of being intimate with people from Numero Cing.This wasacoffee-house inthe neighbourhood,which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes. I felt that nothing much more would happen now the notes would go on,theircontentsbecomingpossiblymore grotesqueandsolesslikely toaffectme. Para.64:He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning about eleven o'clock.I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65:This time it was another face,remote and transfigured,that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66:"I wonder"he said with emotion,"if you would mind following me down the hall?" Para.67:I followed him.The light was on in the washroom.This washroom was mine and no one else used it,but he had not given me a key for it and it was always open.He stopped in front of it,pushed back the door and stood with his eyes cast down,expelling his breath discreetly. Para.68:"Now who done that?"he said,in a voice of pure sorrow Para.69:The walls above the toilet and above the washbasin were covered with drawings and comments of the sort you see sometimes in public washrooms on the beach,and in town hall lavatories in the little decaying towns where I grew up.They were done with a lipstick,as they usually are.Someone must have got up here the night before,I thought,possibly some of the gang who always loafed and cruised around the shopping centre on Saturday nights. Para.70:"It should have been locked,"I said,coolly and firmly as if thus to removemyself fromthescene. t'squiteamess.” Para.71:"It sure is.It's pretty filthy language,in my book.Maybe it's just a joke to your friends,but it isn't to me.Not to mention the art work.That's a nice thing to see when you open a door on your own premises in the morning" Para.72:I said,"I believe lipstick will wash off." Para.73:"I'm just glad I didn't have my wife see a thing like this.Upsets a woman that's had a nice bringing up.Now why don't you ask your friends up here to have a party with their pails and brushes?I'd like to havea look at the people with that kind of asense of humour." Para.74:I turned to walk away and he moved heavily in front of me. Para.75:"I don't think there's any question how these decorations found their way onto my walls." Para.76:"If you'retrying tosay Ihadanythingtodowithit,"Isaid,quite flatlyand wearily"you must becrazy” Para.77:"Howdidthey gettherethen?Whose lavatory isthis?Eh,whose?
reading it, and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me. What did it matter if he read it, any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61: Several times after this I found notes on my door. I intended not to read them, but I always did. His accusations grew more specific. He had heard voices in my room. My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap. (I never came in the afternoons, except on weekends.) He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62: I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor. It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr.Malley’slifewere built up. Para.63: As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased. Once or twice I saw his stooped, sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall. Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy. He accused me now, by note, of being intimate with people from NumeroCinq.Thiswas a coffee-house inthe neighbourhood, which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes. I felt that nothing much more would happen now, the notes would go on,theircontentsbecomingpossiblymore grotesqueandsolesslikely toaffectme. Para.64: He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning, about eleven o’clock. I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65: This time it was another face, remote and transfigured, that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66: “I wonder,” he said with emotion, “if you would mind following me down the hall?” Para.67: I followed him. The light was on in the washroom. This washroom was mine and no one else used it, but he had not given me a key for it and it was always open. He stopped in front of it, pushed back the door and stood with his eyes cast down, expelling his breath discreetly. Para.68: “Now who done that?” he said, in a voice of pure sorrow. Para.69: The walls above the toilet and above the washbasin were covered with drawings and comments of the sort you see sometimes in public washrooms on the beach, and in town hall lavatories in the little decaying towns where I grew up. They were done with a lipstick, as they usually are. Someone must have got up here the night before, I thought, possibly some of the gang who always loafed and cruised around the shopping centre on Saturday nights. Para.70: “It should have been locked,” I said, coolly and firmly as if thus to removemyself fromthescene. “It’squiteamess.” Para.71: “It sure is. It’s pretty filthy language, in my book. Maybe it’s just a joke to your friends, but it isn’t to me. Not to mention the art work. That’s a nice thing to see when you open a door on your own premisesin the morning.” Para.72: Isaid,“I believe lipstick will wash off.” Para.73: “I’m just glad I didn’t have my wife see a thing like this. Upsets a woman that’s had a nice bringing up. Now why don’t you ask your friends up here to have a party with their pails and brushes? I’d like to have a look at the people with that kind of a sense of humour.” Para.74: I turned to walk away and he moved heavily in front of me. Para.75: “I don’t think there’s any question how these decorations found their way onto my walls.” Para.76: “If you’retrying tosayIhadanythingtodowithit,”Isaid,quite flatlyand wearily, “you must becrazy.” Para.77: “Howdidtheygettherethen?Whoselavatoryisthis?Eh,whose?
Para.78:"There isn't any key to it.Anybody can come up here and walk in.Maybe some kids off the streetcame uphere and did itlast nightafter Iwent home,howdo I know?" Para.79:"It's a shame the way the kids gets blamed for everything when it's the elders that corrupts them. That's a thing you might do some thinking about,you know There's laws.Obscenity laws.Applies to this sort of thing and literature too as I believe." Para.80:This is the first time I ever remember taking deep breaths,consciously,for purposes of self-control.I really wanted to murder him.I remember how soft and loathsome his face looked,with the eyes almost closed,nostrils extended to the soothing odour of righteousness,the odour of triumph.If this stupid thing had not happened,he would never have won.But he had.Perhaps he saw something in my face that unnerved him,even in this victorious moment,for he drew back to the wall,and began to say that actually,as a matter of fact,he had not really felt it was the sort of thing I personally would do,more the sort of thing that perhaps certain friends of mine-I got into my own room,shut the door. Para.81:The kettle was making a fearful noise,having almost boiled dry I snatched it off the hot plate,pulled out the plug and stood for a moment choking on rage.This spasm passed and I did what I had to do.I put my typewriter and paper on the chair and folded the card table.I screwed the top tightly on the instant coffee and put it and the yellow mug and the teaspoon into the bag in which I had brought them;it was still lying folded on the shelf.I wished childishly to take some vengeance on the potted plant,which sat in the corner with the flowery teapot,the wastebasket,the cushion,and-I forgot-a little plastic pencil sharpenerbehind it. Para.82:When I was taking things down to the car Mrs.Malley came.I had seen little of her since that first day.She did not seem upset,but practical and resigned. Para.83:“He is lying down,”she said.He is not himself.” Para.84:She carried the bag with the coffee and the mug in it.She was so still I felt my anger leave me,to be replaced by an absorbing depression. Para.85:I have not yet found another office.I think that I will try again some day,but notyet.I have to wait at least until that picture fades that I see so clearly in my mind,though I never saw it in reality-Mr Malley with hisragsandbrushesandapail of soapy water scrubbing inhis clumsy wayhisdeliberatelyclumsywayatthetoilet walls,stooping with difficulty breathing sorrowfully,arranging in his mind the bizarre butsomehowneverquite satisfactorynarrativeof yetanotherbetrayal of trust.While I arrange words,and think it is my right to be rid of him
Para.78: “There isn’t any key to it. Anybody can come up here and walk in. Maybe some kids off the street came up here and did itlast night after Iwent home,howdo I know?” Para.79: “It’s a shame the way the kids gets blamed for everything, when it’s the elders that corrupts them. That’s a thing you might do some thinking about, you know. There’s laws. Obscenity laws. Applies to this sort of thing and literature too as I believe.” Para.80: This is the first time I ever remember taking deep breaths, consciously, for purposes of self-control. I really wanted to murder him. I remember how soft and loathsome his face looked, with the eyes almost closed, nostrils extended to the soothing odour of righteousness, the odour of triumph. If this stupid thing had not happened, he would never have won. But he had. Perhaps he saw something in my face that unnerved him, even in this victorious moment, for he drew back to the wall, and began to say that actually, as a matter of fact, he had not really felt it was the sort of thing I personally would do, more the sort of thing that perhaps certain friends of mine—I got into my own room, shut the door. Para.81: The kettle was making a fearful noise, having almost boiled dry. I snatched it off the hot plate, pulled out the plug and stood for a moment choking on rage. This spasm passed and I did what I had to do. I put my typewriter and paper on the chair and folded the card table. I screwed the top tightly on the instant coffee and put it and the yellow mug and the teaspoon into the bag in which I had brought them; it was still lying folded on the shelf. I wished childishly to take some vengeance on the potted plant, which sat in the corner with the flowery teapot, the wastebasket, the cushion, and—I forgot—a little plastic pencil sharpenerbehindit. Para.82: When I was taking things down to the car Mrs. Malley came. I had seen little of her since that first day. She did not seem upset, but practical and resigned. Para.83: “He is lying down,” she said. “He is not himself.” Para.84: She carried the bag with the coffee and the mug in it. She was so still I felt my anger leave me, to be replaced by an absorbing depression. Para.85: I have not yet found another office. I think that I will try again some day, but not yet.I have to wait at least until that picture fadesthatIsee so clearly in my mind, though I never saw it in reality—Mr. Malley with hisragsandbrushesandapailof soapywater,scrubbinginhis clumsyway,hisdeliberatelyclumsyway,atthetoilet walls,stooping with difficulty, breathing sorrowfully, arranging in his mind the bizarre butsomehowneverquite satisfactorynarrativeof yetanotherbetrayal of trust. While I arrange words, and think it is my right to be rid of him