'Malone',writesMalone,'iswhatIamcallednow.'Onhisdeathbed,andwilingawaythetimewithstories,theoctogenarianMalone'saccountofhisconditionisintermittentandcontradictory,shiftingwiththevagariesofthepassingdays:withoutmellowness,withoutelegiacs;wittier,jauntier,andcapableofwilderragesthanMolloy.ThesoundIlikedbesthadnothingnobleaboutit.Itwasthebarkingofthedogs,atnight,intheclustersofhovelsupinthehills,wherethestone-cutterslived,likegenerationsofstone-cuttersbeforethem.itcamedowntomewhereIlay,inthehouseintheplain,wildandsoft,atthelimitofearshot,soonweary.Thedogsofthevalleyrepliedwiththeirgrossbayallfangsandjawsandfoam…