Stream of Consciousness:

William Faulkner, "Barn Burning" (495)

The store in which the Justice of the Peace's court was sitting smelled of cheese.

The boy, crouched on his nail keg at the back of the crowded room, knew he

smelled cheese, and more: from where he sat he could see the ranked shelves

close-packed with the solid, squat, dynamic shapes of tin cans whose labels his

stomach read, not from the lettering which meant nothing to his mind but from

the scarlet devils and the silver curve of fish--this, the cheese which he knew

he smelled and the hermetic meat which his intestines believed he smelled coming

in intermittent gusts momentary and brief between the other constant one, the smell

and sense just a little of fear because mostly of despair and grief, the old fierce

pull of blood. He could not see the table where the Justice sat and before which his

father and his father's enemy (our enemy he thought in that despair; ourn! Mine and

hisn both! He's my father!) stood, but he could hear them, the two of them that is,

because his father had said no word yet:

"But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?"