I am the nonsense priest of the nonsense god!
Since parting company with the priesthood he could almost be said to have become demoralised. Almost, for somehow he remained someone, a slightly mysterious someone, whom they respected, and they gave him the benefit of every doubt.
I’m just one long disappointment.
Cambridge by moonlight was light blue and brownish black. There was no mist here and a great vault of clear stars hung over the city with an intent luxurious brilliance. It was the sort of night when one knows of other galaxies. My long shadow glided before me on the pavement. Although it was not yet eleven o’clock the place seemed empty and I moved through it like a mysterious and lonely harlequin in a painting: like an assassin.
This talk of love means very little. Love is not a feeling. It can be tested. Love is action, it is silence. It’s not the emotional straining and scheming for possession that you used to think it was.
Perhaps in the end the suffering is all, it’s all contained in the suffering. The final atoms of it all are simply pain.
How much harm, eddying outward in fateful circles, Clement was beginning to foresee.
I must have been assuming that without me there it would be all cobwebs and desolation.
I’ve never had any luck, Brad. I don’t even hope for any any more.
I wanted to drag us all down into some common pool of feeling, I wanted to stop this conventional machine of awful insincere politeness.
At this point Bellamy suddenly remembered another dream which at the time had made him smile. He dreamt he was a little tiny frightened animal called ‘Spingle-spangle’. Later he did not smile. The little doomed creature was an image of what he most feared, insanity.
God, how the young and beautiful vanish and are no more seen.
There was a sort of grey dripping figure that kept trying to rise up in my mind and which I ruthlessly violently banished.
It is the long still moment of dreamy suspended passion before the spinning clutching descent.
Yet it was not that a rapture or a glory which had once shone around her had passed away from the world. The rapture and the glory whose hauntings she suffered had never manifested themselves in her life at all.
Please excuse this outpouring which perhaps makes no sense but is the utter darkness of my spirit pouring from me like black blood.
If Buddhists think evil is unreal they must be mad! Thinking evil is unreal is holding hands with evil under the table!
Her love for men had always been somehow neurotic and unfulfilled.
The madcap English weather which had been putting on a passable imitation of June now decided to play March.
Only the house was still desolate and the day had a livid ruined atmosphere, time had been damaged in some deep way, like on a day of bereavement or frightful national disaster.