The second scene has to do with--
its much later on in book, about halfway through.
It has to do with Mr. Flood's first exacerbation.
And for those of you who never grovelled
around the courses of a pre-medical major,
this simply means the heightening of the disease
itself.
These kinds of things the way I understand them,
the diseases go in remissions and in exacerbations.
And exacerbations is when you feel the direct effects
of the disease.
And it has to do also as you'll find out
with Mr. Flood's weight loss, which goes along
with this particular exacerbation.
And I think you'll also see how the relationship
between the two men has begun to deepen
according to their situation and to their needs.
The bulk of this scene-- and it's a fairly long, as long
as what I'm going to do, has to do
with the arrival in the hospital room of a television set
that has been sent to Mr. Flood by his son who is named Gail.
And there is one other character in the next scene.
And it's a nurse by the name of Miss Scarlet.
And she is really the only visible--
as far as the book is concerned, visible humanitarian
on the hospital staff.
"Mr. Flood's exacerbation continued relentlessly.
He fought the pain and slamming sensations
that went through him for just under a day,
then he gave up and let the thing run its course.
In periods of semi consciousness,
he called, and called for water, but no one gave him any.
Occasionally, Mr. Miller would tell him
that he couldn't have any but Mr. flood did not hear him.
The IVs they ran did not stay even
with Mr. Flood's loss of fluids and he had periods
where he felt he was shrinking.
When he came out of the exacerbation
after almost three days, he had lost 17 pounds.
He gained back four of them within two days.
But the other 13 pounds were gone for good.
When he was able to get up two days later,
he asked Mr. Miller if he had ever lost that kind of weight.
No, Mr. Miller told him without looking up from his book.
What's it mean?
Mr. Flood asked.
It just gets you down to fighting weight,
Mr. Miller said.
How come I get it and you don't?
Mr. Flood asked.
Don't you know anything about cancer?
Mr. Miller asked.
If you've got it, you know enough, Mr. Flood said.
Q, Mr. Miller answered, just like a tough leading man.
I guess you've got everything there
is to know about it somewhere in your head, Mr. Flood said.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Miller said.
What I'd like to know is why about it, Mr. flood said.
Knowledge, Mr. Miller answered.
What good is it?
Mr. Flood said.
It makes one understand, Mr. Miller said.
Knowing things is all right, Mr. Flood said.
But when I know something and I can't use it, I forget it.
It don't mean a thing.
Did you know that cancer is as old as life itself?
Mr. Miller said.
When they told me I had the crab, that's
where the disease originates its name from,
I read very nearly 20 books within a week.
The Greek in the original the Egyptian and Sanskrit
in translation, of course, fascinating.
Fossil remnants of bones millions of years old
revealed a honeycombing of carcinoma.
Writings 2000 years before Christ
made note of ulcers, mysterious swellings, tumors, Carcinos,
he went on loving the sound of his voice.
What's that mean?
Mr. Flood asked from the edge of his bed.
Crab, Mr. Miller said.
The Greek word for crab, Carcinos, hence carcinoma.
Crab because of the tentacle like-way
the disease radiates throughout the body.
Did you know that Gailn, the great Roman physician
identified the cause of cancer as melancholia.
Can't say as I did, Mr. Flood said.
Rather putting the cart before the horse,
Mr. Miller said chuckling to himself.
You really think that stuff's important?
Mr. Flood asked.
It wasn't until the Renaissance that cancer
got its first serious scrutiny, Mr. Miller said.
He raised the book slightly to indicate his source.
Mr. Flood look hard across the room at Mr. Miller
and then he said, so what?
Mr. Miller closed his book.
And after a moment he said, good point.
The stench in the room the next morning was unmistakable.
It was noticed first by Mr. Flood
who said across the room, what in hell is that?
The orderly noticed it but said nothing
when he brought the breakfast trays.
But very soon Miss Scarlet came in and went directly
to Mr. Miller.
I have a day off and they don't even change your dressing,
she said to him.
Neglect is one of my minor difficulties,
he answered, and then lay back passively in the bed.
Miss Scarlet went to work quickly on him.
His wound was noticeably larger, puckering up
like a little volcano, and fluid ran freely
from it for a few seconds after Miss Scarlet took off
the last layer of gauze.
She cleaned the wound carefully.
And when she asked Mr. Miller if he had pain,
he told her he did not.
Mr. Flood drank his juice but with the odor
in the room as strong as it was, he quickly
set the metal cover back over his plate
of whitish scrambled eggs.
As Miss Scarlet finished her dressing on Mr, Miller,
the orderly came in with an aerosol can of air freshener
and set it down on Mr. Miller's night table.
Then Miss Scarlet stood straight again beside the bed
and pulled the sheet to Mr. Miller's chin.
She picked the can from the table and shook it vigorously.
Then she blessed the air over Mr. Miller's bed
and set the can down again and left the room.
Mr. Flood moved off his bed with a quick motion
and went straight for the can.
He took it and began to spray the entire room.
White misty clouds began to squirm out of the
and hang in the air.
He sprayed and sprayed.
What are you doing?
Mr. Miller asked.
Cleaning out the place, Mr. Flood answered.
His arm completed a long arc.
Will you please stop it?
I can still smell it, Mr. Flood said.
Then spray some up your nose, Mr. Miller said.
Mr. Flood spun around the can still emptying itself and said,
I don't stink.
God who's been good to you, Mr. Miller answered.
He coughed as a billow of the heavily perfumed mist
surrounded his chest and head.
Mr. Flood stopped spraying then and tested the air
with his nose and he noticed that the can was nearly empty.
And he put the cap back on it and set it down
in the night table.
Are you satisfied the room has been
purged of all offensive vapors?
Mr. Miller said.
That's a God awful smell you got there, Mr. Flood said.
I am closer to it than you are, Mr. Miller said quietly.
Why did all of a sudden get like that?
Mr. Flood asked.
Because they did not change the dressing, Mr. Miller answered.
If that was me, Mr. Flood said, I'd sure as hell
let them know a thing or two.
It would do no good, Mr. Miller said.
Mr. Flood thought for a moment and then
said, why don't people come in here more?
I see so many people going up and down the hall.
It allows us more time for self-pity, Mr. Miller said.
Nobody ever really comes in here, Mr. Flood said,
as if discovering the truth.
Both men slept well for of that afternoon
and when Mr Miller awakened along toward five
he sat up in his bed and stared in horror
at a 27-inch colored television set that sat between the beds.
There was a bright red ribbon around it
with an envelope attached at the bow.
Flood, he shouted, wake up and tell me who in the name of God
has given birth to that.
Mr. Flood slowly came alive and he looked with wonder
at the television.
Jesus, damn, he said.
And he smiled affectionately at the set.
Well, Mr. Miller said.
Beats me, Mr. Flood answered.
Get the goddamn thing out of here, Mr. Miller said.
He pointed to it as if it were a deadly animal.
Mr. Flood eased himself out of bed and went to the set.
He rubbed his hands over the top of it
and then he fondled the knobs as if he were
a child with a Christmas toy.
Jesus, that's nice, he said to himself.
Flood, what the hell are you Doing Mr. Miller said.
Out of this room with that.
Mr. Flood took no notice.
He pulled the envelope from the ribbon
and when he saw his name on it, he
turned it over and opened it.
A card inside read, with all my love daddy, Gail.
And underneath it his son had carefully printed,
do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
Mr. Flood read the card several times
and his bewilderment was visible on his face.
Well, Mr. Miller said again.
Shut up, Mr. Flood said quietly.
And he put the card to his chest with great affection.
Who in hell has perpetrated this on me, Mr. Miller said.
It's from my son, from his shop to card says.
His shop?
Mr. Miller said.
Gail's Gale.
Whatever is a Gail's Gale, Mr. Miller said.
His boutique or whatever you call it, Mr. Flood said.
He looked down again at the card like a poker player.
Dandy, Mr. Miller said.
Now when is this monstrosity going to leave?
You are a sad son of a bitch, Mr. Flood said vehemently.
It's just because you ain't got nobody
that you don't want me to have my family.
Well, Mr. Professor big shot, it stays.
And if you don't like it, you can lump it.
I should kick its face in, Mr. Miller said.
You do and I shall kick in yours right after it, Mr. Flood said.
Mr. Miller's little body was a fire.
Reason had suddenly deserted him and he was helpless without it.
He yanked his buzzer from the night table
and started squeezing it as if he might make
some final statement with it.
When Miss Scarlet came into the room,
Mr. Miller was still holding the buzzer
and Mr. Flood was unwrapping the ribbon around the television.
What have we here?
She said to Mr. Flood.
Scarlet, you're a reasonable woman, Mr. Miller said.
Sometimes, she said.
And then she looked back to the television.
Your son didn't want to wake you, she said to Mr. Flood.
He was here?
He brought it himself?
He came with the two men who brought it, she said.
Reason Scarlet I beg of you, Mr. Miller put in.
She turned slowly toward Mr. Miller as she said,
what's the trouble homer?
You know perfectly well, he said.
I can understand your objections to the last black and white,
she said, but this is colored.
She spread her arms in emphasis.
What little respect I had for you as a human being
has abated, he said.
You want the rule sheets brought out again?
I know what the rules say, Mr. Miller answered.
They say he can have his sleek full color fruit
carton if he pleases to, and furthermore, the rules
say that if the other patient in the room
doesn't care for fruit cartons, it
is simply his eternal bad luck.
You two can work it out, she said.
And then she started to leave the room,
she looked again at the set.
It's all right, isn't it?
Mr. Flood asked.
Play it day and night if you want, she answered.
I'll get you for that Scarlet, Mr. Miller said.
When are you going to join the 20th century?
She said to him.
Never, he answered.
There was a long moment of silence in the room
after Miss Scarlet left.
Mr. Miller toyed with his buzzer and Mr. Flood
began to unwrap the cord from the back of the television.
He held it in his hands for a few seconds
while his eyes moved about the walls of the room
in search of a socket.
His gaze settled on the outlet just above Mr. Miller's head
and he started for it.
You wouldn't dare, Mr. Miller said to him.
No, Mr. Flood said.
Take one more step and I'll let you have it, Mr. Miller said.
He slapped the buzzer into his palm
as though it were a blackjack.
There's an outlet just behind the head of your bed, he said.
You had better use that.
Then he very deliberately pressed the buzzer
and reached into the cabinet of the night table
and took out the whiskey bottle.
Going to get drunk?
Mr. Flood asked.
Utterly, Mr. Miller said.
Mr. Flood began to pull the rabbit ears up
from the back of his set and as he
did so he said, what you got against TV anyway?
TV helps to pass the time.
That's the first thing I've got against it,
Mr. Miller answered.
The orderly brought in a fresh pitcher of ice water
and set it on Mr. Miller's night table.
As he was leaving the room he paused for an instant
to watch the television blossom into a painfully green
existence.
Then he was gone.
And Mr. flood turned to Mr. Miller
and said, how do you get the green out?
He stooped a little to look at the array of knobs
and the right side of the set.
Green people are rather refreshing, Mr. Miller said.
He poured the ice water into the whisky
and drank two large gulps.
Mr. Flood began to turn the knobs in a random awkward way
and the picture whirled down the color spectrum
and back with great speed.
Is there a dial that says tint?
Mr. Miller asked.
Here it is, Mr. Flood said after a moment.
He began to turn it as if you were rapidly winding a watch.
And the picture went so green that only the vague outlines
of the faces were distinguishable.
The other way boo, Mr. Miller said.
Who you calling?
Mr. Flood began.
But then the picture began to adjust itself
under the ramblings of his fingers
and he forgot what he was going to say.
Is it possible that we might watch a news broadcast?
Mr. Miller asked.
I want to see what else is on, Mr. Flood said.
He twirled the channel selector so fast
that all of the stations seem to blur into one.
Mr. Miller rolled his eyes to the ceiling
and then took another large mouthful of whisky.
The television sat between the beds
all that evening as if it were a short square person for whom
Mr. Flood had great affection.
Mr. Miller tried to read but it was impossible.
He drank in an effort to block the meaningless gurgles
and burps that spilled from the set onto the floor of the room.
When he could stand it no longer,
he asked Mr. flood to turn the set down to minimum volume.
Mr. Flood turned the set only a little bit lower
and moved forward.
Then after a while, Mr. Miller would ask again
and Mr. Flood would comply.
By 10:30 that evening, Mr. Flood was
no more than two feet from the set and Mr. Miller was good
and filled up with whiskey.
But he knew it and he was not surprised to hear his own voice
slur occasionally or to feel his hands
slip a little on the sides of the glass when he went to pick
it from the night table.
He knew that he was very close to being very drunk
but he did not care about it.
There was the feeling in him of deep depression
as if the organs of his body had suddenly gone to rocks
and he felt in isolation from his surroundings,
a distance from Mr. Flood and the rest of his small world.
He picked the glass from the table and set it on his chest
within tipping distance of his lips.
And he stared alternately at Mr. Flood and the television set.
He watched Mr. Flood giggle occasionally
at the program he was watching.
And when he did, Mr. Miller's head went slowly back and forth
in awe and bewilderment.
Finally, without thinking about it he said,
what are you going to turn that thing off?
Mr. Flood answered with a short wave
his hand as if he were batting away a fly.
When?
Mr. flood said.
He waited for an answer but none came.
Mr. Flood simply reached out and adjusted the volume upwards.
Again, Mr. Miller asked him, and this time Mr. Flood said,
you drink too much.
Mr. Flood giggled at the program and said, did you see that?
Jesus.
Damn, that was funny.
It was not funny, Mr. Miller said.
A comic magician had appeared to swallow two ping pong balls.
It was to me, Mr. Flood said.
He did not move his eyes from the set.
How in the name of God can you look at that thing for hours
upon end?
I like it, Mr. Flood said.
Can't you read a book or talk or something?
Mr. Miller asked.
I never liked reading, Mr. Flood said to the set.
Mr. Miller drank himself into a half sleep within the next hour
and Mr. Flood moved back in his bed to watch the late movies.
He was soon sound asleep and the television
continued to throw its rainbow in eerie fashion
about the walls of the room.
All the while, Mr. Miller kept his glass balanced on his chest
and watched the television through half opened eyelids.
When he heard Mr. Flood begin to snore
in what sounded a most profound and satisfied way,
he got out of bed and went to the television.
He was about to turn it off when he saw the card lying
on top of the set.
He picked it up and read what Mr. Flood's son had written.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
The hand that held the card dropped to his side.
And he turned to look at Mr. Flood's sleeping form.
On no Flood, he said very softly this hasn't got it at all.
He shook his head slowly and said, it isn't even close.
He put the card back on top of the television
and turned it off.
The next morning when Mr. flood put the television
on at a quarter past six, the picture
filled only half the screen.
In 10 minutes, it had shrunk to the size of a postcard,
and in another 10 minutes, there was a dry crackling sound
and the picture too blue."
That's the longest selection I want to read,
and it's the last frame from going general.