The Room
Language: English
Pages: 240
ISBN: 0141195673
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
'It is quite an experience to be locked up all by yourself in any size room' says the anonymous narrator of Hubert Selby Jr.'s second novel. What follows is a startling series of recollections and fantasies that illuminate the workings of a prisoner's unhinged mind. He yearns for his violent childhood, rages against obscure authorities, and imagines enacting horrible revenge on those who imprisoned him. The prisoner's remand cell becomes the scene of a surreal mental torture. Disorienting, nightmarish and structurally inventive, "The Room" is a shocking examination of the suffering humans can inflict on each other.
got up and went to the sink. He looked in the mirror and stretched the skin around the pimple. He squeezed it gently then touched it with the tip of a finger. It seemed to be a little more tender than the last time he touched it. But it still wasnt ready. He went back to the bed. He stared at the wall creating images with the cracks. He lay on his back and shielded his eyes from the light with his arm. He was indignant when the cops put him in the car and demanded to be allowed to call his
and you must be the daddy. He gave another tug on the daddys wire, reminding him to start with his nose. He watched quietly and calmly as his bitch stood frozen with terror as she awaited the cold nose and wet tongue of her mate. He stood behind her staring at her wide expanse of ass deeply cleaved, all lines of light and shadow leading to her dark, wet hole. He made a halfhearted attempt to narrow the gap between his nose and her tightened ass, but automatically stopped and waited for the
his way through his cell, I/LL KILL YOU I/LL KILL YOU, YOU ROTTENSONSABITCHES. I/LL KILLYA KILLYA KILLYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA his fists grinding into the corner over the commode, pounding his head against his hands, the bones in his chest being shoved apart by a growing lump that was slowly strangling him, kill you, kill you, slowly staggering down the wall, kill you, kill you, kill you, sitting on the commode, face buried in hands, kill you rotten son of a bitch. Thats
extended over the side and the rest of his body started moving. He sat on the edge for a moment, the covers wrapped around his legs. LETS GO. LETS GO. CHOW TIME. LETS MOVE IT. He clutched at the covers. Move your ass you rotten pricks. Who the fuck needs your rotten food………..o shit……..shit throwing the covers off and standing. He looked down at the blatant stain on his pants, feeling the cracking streams down his thighs, wanting to splash water on them, but unable to. His legs were so weak he
everything I touch turns to shit. There just doesn’t seem to be any point to it. To anything. Whats the use in trying? Its just going to get all screwed up anyway. Theres always someone hanging over your head telling you youre not doing it the right way. Always. I know I could have those cops begging for mercy if the judge would leave me alone. But he wont. In five minutes I could have those cops so confused they wouldnt know which side was up, but the lousy d.a. would be objecting all over the