Lanark: a life in 4 books Read Free

coffee. When he left the counter he saw Sludden watching him with amusement.
    Sludden said, “Did you find it, Lanark?”
    “Find what? What do you mean?”
    “Find what you were looking for on the balcony? Or do you go there to avoid us? I’d like to know. You interest me.”
    “How do you know my name?”
    “Oh, we all know your name. One of us is usually in the queue when they shout it at the security place. Sit down.” Sludden patted the sofa beside him. Lanark hesitated, then put his cup on the table and sat. Sludden said, “Tell me why you use the balcony.”
    “I’m looking for daylight.”
    Sludden pursed his mouth as if tasting sourness. “This is hardly a season for daylight .”
    “You’re wrong. I saw some not long ago and it lasted while I counted over four hundred, and it used to last longer. Do you mind my talking about this?”
    “Go on! You couldn’t discuss it with many people, but I’ve thought things out. Now you are trying to think things out and that interests me. Say what you like.”
    Lanark was pleased and annoyed. He was lonely enough to feel flattered when people spoke to him but he disliked condescension. He said coldly, “There’s not much to say.”
    “But why do you like daylight? We’re well lit by the usual means.”
    “I can measure time with it. I’ve counted thirty days since coming here, maybe I’ve missed a few by sleeping or drinking coffee, but when I remember something I can say,’ It happened two days ago,’ or ten, or twenty. This gives my life a feeling of order.”
    “And how do you spend your… days ?”
    “I walk and visit libraries and cinemas. When short of money I go to the security place. But most of the time I watch the sky from the balcony.”
    “And are you happy?”
    “No, but I’m content. There are nastier ways of living.”
    Sludden laughed. “No wonder you’ve a morbid obsession with daylight. Instead of visiting ten parties since you came here, laying ten women and getting drunk ten times, you’ve watched thirty days go by. Instead of making life a continual feast you chop it into days and swallow them regularly, like pills.”
    Lanark looked sideways at Sludden. “Is your life a continual feast?”
    “I enjoy myself. Do you?”
    “No. But I’m content.”
    “Why are you content with so little?”
    “What else can I have?”
    Customers had been arriving and the café was nearly full. Sludden was more casual than when the conversation started. He said carelessly, “Moments of vivid excitement are what make life worth living, moments when a man feels exalted and masterful. We can get them from drugs, crime and gambling, but the price is rather high. We can get them from a special interest, like sports, music or religion. Have you a special interest?”
    “No.”
    “And we get them from work and love. By work I don’t mean shovelling coal or teaching children, I mean work which gives you a conspicuous place in the world. And by love I don’t mean marriage or friendship, I mean independent love which stops when the excitement stops. Perhaps I’ve surprised you by putting work and love in the same category, but both are ways of mastering other people.”
    Lanark brooded on this. It seemed logical. He said abruptly,
    “What work could I do?”
    “Have you visited Galloway’s Tearoom?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you speak to anyone there?”
    “No.”
    “Then you can’t be a businessman. I’m afraid you’ll have to take up art. Art is the only work open to people who can’t get along with others and still want to be special.”
    “I could never be an artist. I’ve nothing to tell people.”
    Sludden started laughing. “You haven’t understood a word I’ve spoken.”
    Lanark had an inner restraint which stopped him displaying much resentment or anger. He pressed his lips together and frowned at the coffee cup. Sludden said, “An artist doesn’t tell people things, he expresses himself. If the self is unusual his work