Archive for the '18 Years Old' Category

Eighteen Year Old – Alex

 

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‘We have a small flat,’ said Pete. ‘I am earning very small money at State Marine Insurance, but things will get better, that I know. And Georgina here – ‘

‘What again is that name?’ I said, rot still open like bezoomy. Pete’s wife (wife, brothers) like giggled again.

‘Georgina,’ said Pete. ‘Georgina works too. Typing, you know. We manage, we manage.’ I could not, my brothers, take my glazzies off him, really. He was like grown up now, with a grow-up goloss and all. ‘You must,’ said Pete, ‘come and see us sometime. You still,’ he said, ‘look very young, despite all your terrible experiences. Yes yes yes, we’ve read all about them. But, of course, you are very young still.’

‘Eighteen,’ I said. ‘Just gone.’

‘Eighteen, eh?’ said Pete. ‘As old as that. Well well well. Now,’ he said, ‘we have to be going.’ And he gave this Georgina of his a like loving look and pressed one her rookers between his and she gave him one these looks back, O my brothers. ‘Yes,’ said Pete, turning back to me, ‘we’re off to a little party at Greg’s.’

‘Greg?’ I said.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Pete, ‘you wouldn’t know Greg, would you? Greg is after your time. While you were away Greg came into the picture. He runs little parties, you know. Mostly wine-cup and word-games. But very nice, very pleasant, you know. Harmless, if you see what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Harmless. Yes, yes, I viddy that real horrorshow.’ And this Georgina devotcha giggled again at my slovos. And then these two ittied off to their vonny word-games at this Greg’s, whoever he was. I was left all on my oddy knocky with my milky chai, which was getting cold now, like thinking and wondering. Perhaps that was it, I kept thinking. Perhaps I was getting too old for the sort of jeezny I had been leading, brothers. I was eighteen now, just gone. Eighteen was not a young age. At eighteen old Wolfgang Amadeus had written concertos and symphonies and operas and oratorios and all that cal, no not cal, heavenly music. And there was old Felix M. with his Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture. And there were others. And there was like this French poet set by old Benjy Britt, who had done all his best poetry by the age of fifteen, O my brothers. Arthur was his first name. Eighteen was not that young an age, then. But what was I going to do?

 Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

Published in: 18 Years Old | on January 2nd, 2010 | No Comments »

Eighteen Year Old – Carrie Meeber

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the simpler human perceptions.

Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the middle American class—two generations removed from the emigrant. Books were beyond her interest—knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject—the proper penitent, grovelling at a woman’s slipper.

Theodore Dreiser, Sister Carrie

Published in: 18 Years Old | on January 2nd, 2010 | No Comments »