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Sometimes I woke and there was a big figure in khaki peering down at me in the candlelight. Sometimes in the early morning I heard the slamming of the front door and the clatter of nailed boots down the cobbles of the lane.
Like Santa Claus he came and went mysteriously. In fact, I rather liked his visits, though it was an uncomfortable squeeze between Mother and him when I got into the big bed in the early morning.
He smoked, which gave him a pleasant musty smell, and shaved, an operation of astounding interest. Each time he left a trail of souvenirs—model tanks and Gurkha knives with handles made of bullet cases, and German helmets and cap badges and buttonsticks, and all sorts of military equipment—carefully stored away in a long box on top of the wardrobe, in case they ever came in handy.
There was a bit of the magpie about Father; he expected everything to come in handy. When his back was turned, Mother let me get a chair and rummage through his treasures. The war was the most peaceful period of my life.
The window of my attic faced southeast. My mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always woke with the first light and, with all the responsibilities of the previous day melted, feeling myself rather like the sun, ready to illuminate and rejoice.
Life never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I put my feet out from under the clothes—I called them Mrs. Right—and invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of the day.
Right did; she was very demonstrative, but I had not the same control of Mrs. Left, so she mostly contented herself with nodding agreement. They discussed what Mother and I should do during the day, what Santa Claus should give a fellow for Christmas, and what steps should be taken to brighten the home.
There was that little matter of the baby, for instance. Mother and I could never agree about that. That showed how simple she was. It was probably a cheap baby, and Mother wanted something really good, but I felt she was too exclusive. Having settled my plans for the day, I got up, put a chair under the attic window, and lifted the frame high enough to stick out my head.
The window overlooked the front gardens of the terrace behind ours, and beyond these it looked over a deep valley to the tall, red-brick houses terraced up the opposite hillside, which were all still in shadow, while those at our side of the valley were all lit up, though with long strange shadows that made them seem unfamiliar; rigid and painted.
She woke and I began to tell her of my schemes. By this time, though I never seem to have noticed it, I was petrified in my nightshirt, and I thawed as I talked until, the last frost melted, I fell asleep beside her and woke again only when I heard her below in the kitchen, making the breakfast.a review of frank oconnors short story my oedipal complex one of the masters of the short story.
In An introduction to the issue of media monopoly in usa the story My Oedipus Complex by Frank An analysis of a passion of excellence O. Masters of Mystery and Detective Fiction This Page Intentionally Left Blank MAGILL’S C H O I C E Masters of Mystery and Detective Fiction Volume 1 Margery Allingham.
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An Irish master of the short story, Frank O'Connor was born Michael O'Donovan in Cork. It is not surprising to learn in the first part of his autobiography, An Only Child (), that he took his adored mother's name.4/5(1).
My Oedipus Complex by Frank O’Connor, The magic trick: Perfectly capturing the tone of a 5-year-old narrator. We’ve talked all week about Frank O’Connor’s gift for recreating the painful lessons learned in youth.
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