Портрет художника в юності

           Hecouldnotgripthefloorwithhisfeetandsatheavilyathisdesk,openingoneofhisbooksatrandomandporingoverit.Everywordforhim.Itwastrue.Godwasalmighty.Godcouldcallhimnow,callhimashesatathisdesk,beforehehadtimetobeconsciousofthesummons.Godhadcalledhim.Yes?What?Yes?Hisfleshshranktogetherasitfelttheapproachoftheravenoustonguesofflames,driedupasitfeltaboutittheswirlofstiflingair.Hehaddied.Yes.Hewasjudged.Awaveoffiresweptthroughhisbody:thefirst.Againawave.Hisbrainbegantoglow.Another.Hisbrainwassimmeringandbubblingwithinthecrackingtenementoftheskull.Flamesburstforthfromhisskulllikeacorolla,shriekinglikevoices:

           —Hell!Hell!Hell!Hell!Hell!

           Voicesspokenearhim:

           —Onhell.

           —Isupposeherubbeditintoyouwell.

           —Youbethedid.Heputusallintoabluefunk.

           —That’Swhatyoufellowswant:andplentyofittomakeyouwork.

           Heleanedbackweaklyinhisdesk.Hehadnotdied.Godhadsparedhimstill.Hewasstillinthefamiliarworldoftheschool.MrTateandVincentHeronstoodatthewindow,talking,jesting,gazingoutatthebleakrain,movingtheirheads.

           —Iwishitwouldclearup.IhadarrangedtogoforaspinonthebikewithsomefellowsoutbyMalahide.Buttheroadsmustbeknee-deep.

           —Itmightclearup,sir.