large/506/short_stories_009_64kb_mp3/love_of_life_london_jwt_64kb_130
large/506/short_stories_009_64kb_mp3/love_of_life_london_jwt_64kb
English
506
The harsh dry tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. His hands shot out  or at least he willed them to shoot out. The fingers were curved like talons, but they closed on empty air. Swiftness and certitude require strength, and the man had not this strength. THE HARSH DRY TONGUE GRATED LIKE SAND PAPER AGAINST HIS CHEEK HIS HAND SHOT OUT OR AT LEAST HE WILLED THEM TO SHOOT OUT THE FINGERS WERE CURVED LIKE TALONS BUT THEY CLOSED ON EMPTY AIR SWIFTNESS AND CERTITUDE REQUIRE STRENGTH AND THE MAN HAD NOT THIS STRENGTH
lf a mile. And yet he wanted to live. It was unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone. Fate asked too much of him. And, dying, he declined to die. It was stark madness, perhaps, but in the very grip of Death he defied Death and refused to die. He closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution. He steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. It was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. Sometimes he was all but submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred of will and strike out more strongly. Without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick wolf's breath. It drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude of time, and he did not move. It was at his ear.  THAT HE COULD NOT CRAWL HALF A MILE AND YET HE WANTED TO LIVE IT WAS UNREASONABLE THAT HE SHOULD DIE AFTER ALL HE HAD UNDERGONE FATE ASKED TOO MUCH OF HIM AND DYING HE DECLINED TO DIE IT WAS STARK MADNESS PERHAPS BUT IN THE VERY GRIP OF DEATH HE DEFIED DEATH AND REFUSED TO DIE HE CLOSED HIS EYES AND COMPOSED HIMSELF WITH INFINITE PRECAUTION HE STEELED HIMSELF TO KEEP ABOVE THE SUFFOCATING LANGUOR THAT LAPPED LIKE A RISING TIDE THROUGH ALL WALLS OF HIS BEING IT WAS VERY LIKE A SEA THIS DEADLY LANGUOR THAT ROSE AND ROSE AND DROWNED HIS CONSCIOUSNESS BIT BY BIT SOMETIMES HE WAS ALL BUT SUBMERGED SWIMMING THROUGH OBLIVION WITH A FALTERING STROKE AND AGAIN BY SOME STRANGE ALCHEMY OF THE SOUL HE WOULD FIND ANOTHER SHRED OF WILL AND STRIKE OUT MORE STRONGLY WITHOUT MOVEMENT HE LAY ON HIS BACK AND HE COULD HEAR SLOWLY DRAWING NEARER AND NEARER THE WHEEZING INTAKE AND OUTPUT OF THE SICK WOLF'S BREATH IT DREW CLOSER EVER CLOSER THROUGH AN INFINITUDE OF TIME AND HE DID NOT MOVE IT WAS AT HIS EAR
large/506/short_stories_009_64kb_mp3/love_of_life_london_jwt_64kb
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