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Speaker 1: The clock by Arthur Styron. All my life I have

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had a deep and abiding dread of monotony. The invarying

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and wearisome sameness of life irks me and fills me

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with depression. I fear and hate all men because I

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am compelled to shun them in order to avoid that

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hideous mother of monotony, habit which tears my nerves to

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shreds and flings them mockingly in my twitching face. Regularity

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of any sort fills me with resentment and impotent rage

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against the scheme of things. The steady patter of rain

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drops drives me hysterical and gibbering to bury my face

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among the pillows under a mattress any place where the

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steady drip drop, drip drop is not audible. The sound

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of drum beats fills me with such uncontrolled rage and

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fury that I shriek aloud in my distress and hurl

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stones or any missile available at the miscreant who dared

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to provoke me. I cannot, I dare not. I will

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not endure a drab uniformity. My imaginative and excitable temperament

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demands variety. Since I am thus constituted. Is it any

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wonder that clocks fill me with hatred and terror? Those

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prosaic engineers of space, with their dreadful, unfailing cadence, their

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ceaseless vigil over man's allotted time, their steady and untiring

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tic tac toward eternity. They terrify me, poison me, madden me,

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those hideous reminders of inexorable time, time, the faithful ally

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of unrelenting and unyielding death. I lived alone with an

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old woman who had taken me when I was a

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child from a foundling's home. Her I loved in a way,

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for she was kind and very old and feeble. Yet

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she always insisted upon regularity, eating, sleeping, and working at

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set times. And when I undertook to vary my life

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from day to day, such as retiring at noon and

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rising for breakfast at midnight, in order that I might

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thus break the monotony of my existence, I met with

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such determined opposition from the old woman that her, too,

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I began to fear and hate. The house in which

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we lived was an old, rambling country place of splendid

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and pretentious proportions, though with an air of pervading gloom

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and loneliness. The furnishings were mostly heirlooms and antiques of

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great beauty and value, of which the old woman was

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very proud. Among the chattels were two ancient and costly

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clocks of rare and unusual design and workmanship. They stood

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side by side in the great Hall, tall grim and spectral,

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regulating the household by their minute divisions of space. At

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least one of them did so. The other had not

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run for many, many years. The old woman had frequently

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related to me how that one had stopped at a

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quarter past midnight, the very minute I the very second

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her husband had died, stopped of its own accord, so

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she said, or by the hand of some unseen guest.

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With her own hands, she cared for, and cleaned and

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polished the two clocks every night with unvarying regularity. She

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wound the living, which she told me with the utmost confidence,

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would stop at the moment of her death, just as

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the other one had stopped when her husband died. Is

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it any wonder, then, that I feared these damnable machines

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almost as much as I hated them. I might have

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borne the awe and dread with which I regarded them.

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But the continual ticking of a living clock, the old

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woman's life piece, as I called it, lashed my nerves

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to such a state of frenzy that goaded beyond endurance.

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I would rush, trembling and screaming from the house into

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the night, the cold, the storm, anywhere, anywhere away from

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that gruesome monotony, that eternal cadence. There was a chime too,

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a chime that gave out a thick, gloomy, resonant sound,

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filling me with foreboding and terror, a sound that brought

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to mind grim death, and a grimmer reckoning that told

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of unsubdued passions and stern retribution. Each quarter the time increased,

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until upon the hour it became a complete stanza. So

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gruesome was the effect of this music upon my imagination

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that I could not rid my thoughts of it. I

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could not sleep, I could not rest. Always I was anticipating,

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waiting for the next installment. Sometimes in the small of

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the night, I would creep from my sleepless bed and

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crouch in the dark, chilly hall in order that I

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might hear the ticking and chiming more plainly, waiting for

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the dreadful music to start again, and then for the

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next sound, and the next, and so on until morning.

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At times I would make a determined effort to throw

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off the spell. I would say to myself, after the

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next quarter chimes, I shall hurry to bed and fall

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asleep before it sounds again. Then, as soon as the

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quarter's direful melody had ceased, I would hasten to my room,

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shivering with cold and nervousness, and lie with tightly closed

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eyes courting sleep. But big pointed hands would clutch at

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my heart, brassy voices would laugh musically and mockingly in

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my ears, Until unable to endure it longer, I would

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rush back to the dark, cold hall, where I would

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count the steady tik toks and listen for the unvarying

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chime the rest of the night. Long as time wore on,

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I realized that my condition was becoming grave. Thoughts of

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destroying the clock occupied me constantly, but I could not

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do it because I feared the frightful thing with all

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my soul. On one occasion, I did approach the old

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woman with cunningly and clever argument as to why she

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herself should stop the clock, But she indignantly refused after that,

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so it seemed to me I began to detect her,

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stealing furtive and suspicious glances at me. She suspected my trouble.

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She knew, Dear God, I verily believed she knew my

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suffering and agony, and yet she would not stop that

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fiendish clock. So I began to burn with remorseless hatred

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for the old woman, a desire for revenge. Then it

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was that I cunningly devised a scheme to appease my

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hatred of the old woman and rid myself of the monster.

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At the same time. The old woman had said that

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the clock would stop of its own accord when she died.

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Very well, in this way she should accomplish what she

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had refused to do, and what I myself feared to do. Yes,

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I resolved to kill the old woman. I felt sorry

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for her, because she had been kind to me, and

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she was very old and feeble. But she stood between

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me and my happiness, and she must die that very night.

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I would perpetrate the deed and rid myself forever of

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this lesion upon my soul. After dark, I began to

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make my arrangements. They were very simple. The house stood

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in a lonely neighborhood, no one would hear. The old

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woman was very aged and infirmed, and could make no resistance.

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She retired early, as was her wont and I went

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to my room to listen and wait. I planned to

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wait until the midnight hour had struck, and then accomplished

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the deed before the clock should begin another day with

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its quarter's melody, hardly breathing. Touched in my room until

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the midnight hour had struck. Waited until the last note

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of the awful dirge had faded into the dreadful stillness

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of night. Then, carrying in my hands a small hatchet,

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I made my way stealthily toward the old woman's room.

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I moved very slowly and cautiously, inch by inch, creeping

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on my hands and knees so as to make no sound.

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On my way. I paused before the tall, grim clock

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to gloat. Monster. I gibbered in a high, thin voice,

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for I did not wish the old woman to hear

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and become alarmed. Fiend, damned soul, Never again will you

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raise your hellish voice. Never again shall I tremble and

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shake with terror at your taunting melody. Never again, for

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soon you will be forever stilled in my excite, I

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had unconsciously allowed my voice to rise to a shrill,

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piercing treble. Rage possessed me. I rose to my feet

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and shook my fist at its evil shape. I screamed

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maledictions and curses at it, and laughed with fiendish joy

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and triumph. Agent of hell, I shrieked, brandishing my hatchet

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and dancing in a frenzy of hate. You have spoken

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your last. You shall never never use your brassy lungs again.

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The words were scarcely out of my mouth, when on

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the clear, dreadful stillness of the night, there broke a sound, hoarse,

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bold mocking, a sound that froze my blood, that made

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my hair rise with terror, that filled me with surging fury.

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I had miscalculated my time, because I had not gone

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by the clock. The demon was beginning to strike the

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quarter to mock me beginning. But no more, For with

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the first note, such a wave of rage and loathing

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swept over me. Hatred of the monster, and the fury

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at having been thwarted in my plans that I forgot,

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my fear, forgot everything save that I was mad. I

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uttered an awful cry, and leaped upon it. With superhuman strength.

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I dashed it to the floor, where it fell with

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a terrific crash. Shrieking invectives, I tore into its vitals

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with my bare hands, destroying mangling devil. I raved, you

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shall not speak, you shall not, you shall not. In

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a few minutes, it was a complete wreck. It lay

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on the floor, bruised, broken, seeming in my excited imagination

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like a murdered thing, laughing loudly and shrilly, and clutching

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in my wounded, blood stained hands the remnants of the

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mutilated machine. I rushed to the old woman's room. She

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lay quietly on the bed, gazing at me with horror

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dilated eyes. See, I screamed, throwing the bloody remnants upon

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the floor. See, old woman, there is your clock. Now

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it will hardly stop when you die. Ha ha. Then

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a strange feeling of awe crept over me. I ceased

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raving and looked intently at the old woman. In the

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pale light of a flickering candle, I could see that

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she still gazed at me with horror dilated eyes. But

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now I saw that they were sightless. The old woman

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was dead. She had died when the clock stopped. The

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End of the Clock by Arthur Styron