alan sillitoe saturday night and sunday morning pdf Sunday, March 14, 2021 1:01:21 AM

Alan Sillitoe Saturday Night And Sunday Morning Pdf

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Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

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With eleven pints of beer and seven small gins playing hide-and-seek inside his stomach, he fell from the top- most stair to the bottom.

It was Benefit Night for the White Horse Club, and the pub had burst its contribution box and spread a riot through its rooms and between its four walls. Floors shook and windows rattled, and leaves of aspidistras wilted in the fumes of beer and smoke.

Notts County had beaten the visiting team, and the members of the White Horse supporters club were quartered upstairs to receive a flow of victory. For it was Saturday night, the best and bingiest glad-time of the week, one of the fifty-two holidays in the slow-turning Big Wheel of the year, a violent preamble to a prostrate Sabbath.

Brenda and two other women sitting at Arthur's table saw him push back his chair and stand up with a clatter, his grey eyes filmed over so that he looked like a tall, thin Druid about to begin a maniacal dance.

Instead, he muttered something that they were too tight or far away to understand, and walked unsteadily to the top stair. Many people looked at him as he held on to the rail.

He turned his head in a slow stare around the packed room, as if he did not know which foot to move first in order to start his body on the descent, or even know why he wanted to go down the stairs at that particular moment. He felt electric light bulbs shining and burning into the back of his head, and sensed in the opening and closing flash of a second that his mind and body were entirely separate entities inconsiderately intent on going their different ways.

For some reason, the loud, cracked voice singing in the room behind seemed like a signal that he should begin descending at once, so he put one foot forward, watched it turn to- wards the next step in a hazy fashion, and felt the weight of his body bending towards it until pressure from above became so great that he started rolling down the stairs.

He was forty and in his prime, with a gut not too much gone to fat, wearing a brown waist-coated suit and a shirt with matching stripes whose cuffs came down to the hairs of self-assurance on the back of his beefy hand.

It put his back up straight away. He reminded Arthur of a sergeant-major who once put him on a charge. Loser pays the bill.

Free booze was free booze. Anyway, he begrudged big talkers their unearned glory, and hoped to show him up and take him down to his right size. Having won the toss-up for choice, he led off on gins, and after the seventh gin he switched to beer, pints. Arthur enjoyed the gins, and relished the beer. It seemed an even contest for a long time, as if they would sit there swilling it back for ever, until Loudmouth suddenly went green halfway through the tenth pint and had to rush outside.

Arthur, as if nothing had happened, went back to his beer. It seemed to Arthur that the man was endeavouring CO tell him something as well, so he tried very hard, but unsuccess- fully, to make an answer, though he did not yet know what the man was saying. Even had he been able to make his lips move the man would not have understood him, because Arthur's face was pulled down into his stomach, so that for all the world he looked like a fully-dressed and giant foetus curled up at the bottom of the stairs on a plush-red carpet, hiding in the shadow of two aspidistras that curved out over him like arms of jungle foliage.

The man's pokes became more persistent, and Arthur dimly realised that the fingers must belong either to one of the waiters or to the publican himself. It was a waiter, towel in one hand and tray in the other, white jacket open from overwork, a face normally blank but now expressing some character because he had begun to worry about this tall, iron-faced, crop-haired youth lying senseless at his feet. We had trubble wi' a man last week who had a fit and had to be taken to 't General Hospital in an amb'Iance.

We don't want any more trubble, or the pub'll get a bad name," As Arthur rolled over to consolidate and deepen his sleep a glaring overhead light caught his eyes and he opened them to see the waiter's white coat and pink face. J'Come Saturday Night I! Like after he had been knocked down by a lorry riding to Derby two years ago.

Come on, get up yoursen now. Nobody'll take on a job like this, you know, and. Get back upstairs and keep 'em happy. He shrugged his shoulders and obeyed the order, leaving Arthur free to walk into the saloon bar.

Fixing an iron-grip on the brass rail, he shouted for a pint, the only suificient liquid measure that could begin to swill away the tasteless ash-like thirst at the back of his mouth.

After the rapid disposal of the pint, so long in coming, he would bluff his way back upstairs, dodge the waiter, and rejoin Brenda, the woman he had been sitting with before his fall. He could not believe that the descending frolic of the stairs had happened to him. It could happen to anybody, especially if they had been at work all day, standing near a capstan lathe in the dull roar of the turnery department.

Yet this explanation was too tame. He was beginning to feel sick, and in fighting this temptation his tiredness inaeased. He did not know whether he would go back upstairs to Brenda after- wards, or have his pint and get home to bed, the best place when you feel done-in, he muttered to himself. The bartender placed a pint before him. He paid one-and- eightpence and drank it almost in a single gulp.

His strength magically returned, and he shouted out for another, thinking: the thirteenth. He received the pint and drank a little more slowly, but halfway through it, the temptation to be sick became a necessity that beat insistently against the back of his throat.

He fought it off and struggled to light a cigarette. Would you believe it? My best suit. Only pressed and cleaned today. Who would credit such a thing? Oh dear. It cost me fifteen bob. As if money grows on trees. And suits as well. Automatically he felt for another cigarette, but remembering in time what his attempt to smoke the last one had caused, gave up the search and dropped his hands by his side.

Why don't yer do something? He looked at the woman, who continued shouting directly at him, while the victim fumbled ineffectually with a handkerchief trying to clean his suit. The woman stood a foot away from Arthur. He can't say a word. He can't even apologise. Why don't yer apologise, eh? Cant yer apologise? Dragged-up, I should think, getting drunk like this. Looks like one of them Teddy boys, alius making trouble.

Go on, apologise. She was astonished. Through the haze her face clarified. Arthur saw teeth between open lips, narrowed eyes, claws raised. She was a tigress. He saw nothing else. Before she could spring he gathered all his strength and pushed through the crowd, impelled by a strong sense of survival towards the street-door, to take himself away from a scene of ridicule, disaster, and certain retribution. It was a mild autumn night, a wind playing the occasional sharp sound of someone slamming a door or closing a window.

He lay across the doorstep, trying to avoid the pavement. A man passed, singing a happy song to himself, noticing nothing. Arthur was half asleep, but opened his eyes now and again to make sure that the street was still there, to convince himself that he was not in bed, because the hard stone step was as round and as soft as a pillow. He was blissfully happy, for he did not have the uncomfortable feeling of wanting to be sick any more, though at the same time he had retained enough alcohol to stay both high-spirited and sleepy.

He made the curious experiment of speaking out loud to see whether or not he could hear his own voice. Bliss and guilt joined forces in such a way that they caused no trouble but merely sunk his mind into a welcome nonchalance. The next thing he knew was Brenda bending over him and digging her fingers sharply in his ribs.

I heard all about what happened to you though at the pub, falling downstairs and being sick over people. Nosy neighbours'll tell Jack, He, lifted the band of hair from her coat collar and kissed her neck. She turned on him petulantly: "Can't you wait till we get upstairs?

He stood in the parlour while she fastened the locks and bolts, smelling faint odours of rubber and oil coming from Jack's bicycle leaning against a big dresser that took up nearly one whole side of the room. It was a small dark area of isolation, long familiar with another man's collection of worldly goods : old-fashioned chairs and a settee, fireplace, clock ticking on the mantelpiece, a smell of brown paper, soil from a plant-pot, ordinary aged dust, soot in the chimney left: over from last winter's fires, and mustiness of rugs laid down under the table and by the fireplace.

Brenda had known this room for seven married years, yet could not have become more intimate with it than did Arthur in the ten seconds while she fumbled with the key. He knocked his leg on the bicycle pedal, swearing at the pain, complaining at Jack's barminess for leaving it in such an exposed position. A howl of cats came from a nearby prd, and a dustbin lid clattered on to cobblestones.

He turned to Brenda heaped beside him, sitting up to look at her. She was breathing gently; her hair straggled untidily over the pillow, her breasts bulged out of her slip, a thick smooth arm over them as if she were trying to protect herself from something that had frightened her in a dream.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

You've discovered a title that's missing from our library. Can you help donate a copy? When you buy books using these links the Internet Archive may earn a small commission. Open Library is a project of the Internet Archive , a c 3 non-profit. See more about this book on Archive. Working all day at a lathe leaves Arthur Seaton with energy to spare in the evenings.

Published by Knopf in New York. Written in English. Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was based on the first novel by British author Alan Sillitoe, who wrote the screenplay. He based the grim but compelling story line on his own experiences working in. Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is a novel whose rage still rings out fifty years after it's first publication. Post war 50s Britain is a bleak place.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

It was adapted by Sillitoe into a film starring Albert Finney , directed by Karel Reisz , and in was adapted by David Brett as a play for the Nottingham Playhouse , with Ian McKellen playing one of his first leading roles. The novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is split into two unequal parts: the bulk of the book, Saturday Night, and the much smaller second part, Sunday Morning. Saturday Night begins in a working man's club in Nottingham.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was based on the first novel by British author Alan Sillitoe , who wrote the screenplay. He based the grim but compelling story line on his own experiences working in a factory and used the plot as a plea for the younger generation of Brits to break the bonds that restricted them to predictable and unfulfilling lives. An accomplished stage actor, Finney earned international acclaim for his powerful performance.

Saturday night and Sunday morning

For Saturday Night and Sunday Morning clearly has a scope that is far wider than that of the accurately rendered, now period, social piece, a scope that in the fullness of time will make it a locus classicus of the British novel in the latter half of the twentieth century.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

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Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

4 Comments

Nuri Г. 17.03.2021 at 04:13

ALAN SILLITOE. Saturday Night and. Sunday Morning Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was and remains a first novel, with all its liberties and limitations​.

Moore L. 21.03.2021 at 02:11

Alan Sillitoe's Saturday Night and Sunday Morning has been muc praised for the authenticity of its dialogue, its realistic portrayal o working-class life, and for a.

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