Under the Volcano (Penguin Modern Classics) by Malcolm Lowry

By Malcolm Lowry

It's the Day of the lifeless. The fiesta in complete swing. within the shadow of Popocatepeti ragged little ones beg cash to shop for skulls made up of chocolate...and the grotesque pariah canines roam the streets. Geoffrey Firmin, HM ex-consul, is drowning himself in liquor and Mescal, whereas his ex-wife and part brother glance on powerless to aid him. because the day wears on, it turns into obvious that Geoffrey needs to die. it's his simply break out from a global he can't comprehend. lower than THE VOLCANO is without doubt one of the century's nice undisputed masterpieces.

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Example text

The Hell Bunker was a dreaded hazard, fairly near the Taskersons' house, in the middle of the long sloping eighth fairway. It guarded the green in a sense, though at a great distance, being far below it and slightly to the left. The abyss yawned in such a position as to engulf the third shot of a golfer like Geoffrey, a naturally beautiful and graceful player, and about the fifteenth of a duffer like Jacques. Jacques and the Old Bean had often decided that the Hell Bunker would be a nice place to take a girl, though wherever you took one, it was understood nothing very serious happened.

Dr. Arturo Diaz Vigil pushed the bottle of Anís del Mono over to M. Jacques Laruelle, who now was leaning forward intently. Slightly to the right and below them, below the gigantic red evening, whose reflection bled away in the deserted swimming pools scattered everywhere like so many mirages, lay the peace and sweetness of the town. It seemed peaceful enough from where they were sitting. Only if one listened intently, as M. Laruelle was doing now, could one distinguish a remote confused sound--distinct yet somehow inseparable from the minute murmuring, the tintinnabulation of the mourners--as of singing, rising and falling, and a steady trampling--the bangs and cries of the fiesta that had been going on all day.

Four years, almost five, and he still felt like a wanderer on another planet. Not that that made it any the less hard to be leaving, even though he would soon, God willing, see Paris again. Ah well! He had few emotions about the war, save that it was bad. One side or the other would win. And in either case life would be hard. Though if the Allies lost it would be harder. And in either case one's own battle would go on. How continually, how startlingly, the landscape changed! Now the fields were full of stones: there was a row of dead trees.

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