After a certain age—and for some of us that can be very young—there are no new people, beasts, dreams, faces, events: it has all happened before, masked differently, wearing different clothes, another nationality, another colour; but the same, the same, and everything is an echo and a repetition; and there is no grief even that it is not a 1)recurrence of something long out of memory that expresses itself in unbelievable 2)anguish, days of tears, loneliness, knowledge of betrayal and all for a small, thin, dying cat.
中国论文网 /9/view-3591597.htm
  I was sick that winter. It was inconvenient because my big room was due to be whitewashed. I was put in the little room at the end of the house. The house, nearly but not quite on the crown of the hill, always seemed as if it might slide off into the 3)maize fields below. This tiny room, not more than a slice off the end of the house, had a door, always open, and windows, always open, in spite of the windy cold of a July whose skies were an 4)interminable light clear blue. The sky, full of sunshine; the fields, 5)sunlit. But cold, very cold. The cat, a bluish-grey Persian, arrived purring on my bed, and settled down to share my sickness, my food, my pillow, my sleep. When I woke in the mornings, my face turned to half-frozen 6)linen; the outside of the fur blanket on the bed was cold; the smell of fresh whitewash from next door was cold and 7)antiseptic; the wind lifting and laying the dust outside the door was cold—but in the crook of my arm, a light purring warmth, the cat, my friend.
  At the back of the house a wooden tub was let into the earth, outside the bathroom, to catch the bathwater. No pipes carrying water to taps on that farm: water was fetched by ox-drawn cart when it was needed, from the well a couple of miles off. Through the months of the dry season the only water for the garden was the dirty bathwater. The cat fell into this tub when it was full of hot water. She screamed, was pulled out into a chill wind, washed in 8)permanganate, for the tub was 9)filthy and held leaves and dust as well as soapy water, was dried, and put into my bed to warm. But she sneezed and wheezed and then grew burning hot with fever. She had 10)pneumonia. We 11)dosed her with what there was in the house, but that was before 12)antibiotics, and so she died. For a week she lay in my arms purring, purring, in a rough trembling hoarse little voice that became weaker, then was silent; licked my hand; opened enormous green eyes when I called her name and 13)besought her to live; closed them, died, and was thrown into the deep 14)shaft—over a hundred feet deep it was—which had gone dry, because the underground water streams had changed their course one year and left what we had believed was a reliable well, a dry, cracked, rocky shaft that was soon half filled with rubbish, tin cans, and corpses.
  That was it. Never again. And for years I matched cats in friends’ houses, cats in shops, cats on farms, cats in the street, cats on walls, cats in memory, with that gentle blue-grey purring creature which for me was the cat, the Cat, never to be replaced.
  And besides, for some years my life did not include extras, unnecessaries, 15)adornments. Cats had no place in an existence spent always moving from place to place, room to room. A cat needs a place as mush as it needs a person to make its own.
  And so it was not till twenty-five years later that my life had room for a cat.


中国论文网—— 论文代发/ 行业知名品牌 电话:400-675-1600
中国互联网违法和不良信息举报中心| 网络110上海网警在线|关于我们|闽ICP备13016544号-6