On the Matter of Bed.

I’m having terrible difficulty finding something original to say today, so I thought I’d fall back on the tried and tested remedy of quoting somebody else’s words for a change. These come from Mr Flann O’Brien in his tome, At Swim-Two-Birds. Not only are they fine words in themselves, they also represent the kind of thing I would say if only I had a mind original enough to say them. In other words, I suppose I sort of agree.

Several men are engaged in conversation, and one of them is called Byrne.

What is wrong with Cryan and most people, said Byrne, is that they do not spend sufficient time in bed. When a man sleeps, he is steeped and lost in a limp toneless happiness: awake he is restless, tortured by his body and the illusion of existence.  Why have men spent the centuries seeking to overcome the awakened body? Put it to sleep, that is a better way. Let it serve only to turn the sleeping soul over, to change the blood-stream and thus make possible a deeper and more refined sleep.

He pauses for a drink, then continues (and this is the bit I really like):

I’m not ashamed to admit that I love my bed, said Byrne. She was my first friend, my foster-mother, my dearest comforter…

He pauses for another drink (this is familiar):

Her warmth, he continued, kept me alive when my mother bore me. She still nurtures me, yielding without stint the parturition of her cosy womb. She will nurse me gently in my last hour and faithfully hold my cold body when I am dead. She will look bereaved when I am gone.

These are fine words indeed to somebody much given to reflections on mortality, and much wondering on the place and nature of the final consummation.

Tomorrow I will try to find some words of my own, if indeed I will have a tomorrow, but these will do for now.