Akaky looks at himself in the mirror as he puts on his favourite denim shirt and brown pants. His eyes see not a 24-year-old man, but rather a five-year-old child wearing his father's over-sized clothes. The beard of a week or two, scraggly and still a little patchy underneath the chin, seems out of place on a face that would otherwise seem as childish as befits the man wearing his clothes. His hair is a mess of Brylcream and the unwashed gunk of the last three days. He's recovering from a fever that caused him to almost go into delirium and his face looks wan and his already small and deep-set eyes look even more like they're peeking out between the overhang of the forehead and the high cheek bones.
Somehow there's something that doesn't quite feel very adult about him. Maybe it's the shirt hanging loose off his shoulders, maybe it's that the pants look loose on his waist as he tries to hold them up at waist length with his hands in his pockets. It could also be the patchy beard, which if shaved, would reveal a naive face, too pale and white for his nationality.
Akaky looks at himself and he can't help smiling that wry smile of his. The smile that is perhaps the most incongruous but also the most indelible part of him. Though he looks childish to himself beneath the trappings, the smile is that of a wizened old man. A tough old bird who's smoked Camel unfiltered's all his life so his voice is like gravel in a tin can. Such an old man's smile, exuding sarcasm and a kind of rugged realism about life. That smile, along with the wrinkles on his forehead, the ever-deepening wrinkles and the few grey hairs that threaten to become the many grey hairs. All of this... perhaps, these ephemera are what make Akaky 24 years old today. Perhaps this is the trick to aging. With each year, another wrinkle, another shock of grey hair, another notch of sarcasm and unshakeable coarseness.
The portrait of the artist as a ... man.
Somehow there's something that doesn't quite feel very adult about him. Maybe it's the shirt hanging loose off his shoulders, maybe it's that the pants look loose on his waist as he tries to hold them up at waist length with his hands in his pockets. It could also be the patchy beard, which if shaved, would reveal a naive face, too pale and white for his nationality.
Akaky looks at himself and he can't help smiling that wry smile of his. The smile that is perhaps the most incongruous but also the most indelible part of him. Though he looks childish to himself beneath the trappings, the smile is that of a wizened old man. A tough old bird who's smoked Camel unfiltered's all his life so his voice is like gravel in a tin can. Such an old man's smile, exuding sarcasm and a kind of rugged realism about life. That smile, along with the wrinkles on his forehead, the ever-deepening wrinkles and the few grey hairs that threaten to become the many grey hairs. All of this... perhaps, these ephemera are what make Akaky 24 years old today. Perhaps this is the trick to aging. With each year, another wrinkle, another shock of grey hair, another notch of sarcasm and unshakeable coarseness.
The portrait of the artist as a ... man.
