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The skin of rotten fruit broke, and matteroozed too thick to run. They are
listening to the gramophone; they are eating fruit out ofpaper bags. But what
didBernard feel for the plumber?
All excesses beyond that norm are vanity. Yes,
it is Bernard, andit is to Bernard that I shall put the question, Who am I? He
smiles at my reflection in the tunnel. The gusty October wind blows the uproar
inbursts of sound and silence across the court.
They pass the window of
thiseating-shop incessantly. I seetrees specked and burnt in the autumn
sunlight. Am I not indulging inunwarranted emotions? But one cannot go on for
ever cutting these ancientinscriptions clearer with a knife. Now let me fill my
mind with imaginary pictures. I prop my book against a bottle of Worcester
sauce and tryto look like the rest. Every hour something new is unburied in the
great bran pie.
My charm and flow of language, unexpected and spontaneousas it
is, delights me too.
I am filledwith the delight of youth, with potency, with
the sense of what isto come.
Yet I think it is likely that the best aremade in
solitude.
There he is, waving his arms on theplatform.
Yet I think it is likely
that the best aremade in solitude. We draw on, we make off, through whispering
fieldsof golden corn.
What did I write last night if it was not good poetry?
There are the public gardens intersected byasphalt paths. Now and then they
plunged the tips of their beakssavagely into the sticky mixture.
We come
carryingthese appliances with us over the top of the moor. They are listening
to the gramophone; they are eating fruit out ofpaper bags. When there are
buildings like these, said Neville, I cannotendure that there should be
shop-girls.
Now let me fill my mind with imaginary pictures.
Here is the
central rhythm; herethe common mainspring. The truth is that I need the
stimulus of other people.
Perhaps a sip of Byron will help to put me in the
vein.
But the chained beast stamps and stamps on the shore.
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