|[Bug-gne] nightgown agonized
|Mon, 11 Sep 2006 14:52:38 +0200
Thedead were in Thessaly, Evans sang, among the orchids. Only one person in the world could be as hewas, in love.
By conviction an atheist perhaps, he is taken by surprise withmoments of extraordinary exaltation.
His boots on the pavement struck out nomatter; for it was early, still very early. He was talking, he was starting, this man must notice him. Its got to be finished one way orthe other, he said to himself. To the Prime Minister, the voiceswhich rustled above his head replied. Long streamers of sunlight fawned at his feet.
The millions lamented; for ages they had sorrowed. One had to respect it; onemight laugh; but one had to respect it, he thought.
But he himself remained high on his rock, like a drowned sailor ona rock. He was talking, he was starting, this man must notice him. He heard them talking about fetching cloaks; aboutits being cold on the water, and so on.
She was like iron, like flint, rigid up the backbone.
But Septimus let himself think about horrible things, as she couldtoo, if she tried. I will tell you the time, said Septimus, very slowly, verydrowsily, smiling mysteriously. Somebody had brought him over; andClarissa got his name wrong.
Every one has friends who were killedin the War.
And he actually pared his nails with hispocket-knife.
He saidpeople were talking behind the bedroom walls. The perfecthostess, he said to her, whereupon she winced all over.
Thisboys elegy is played among the traffic, thought Septimus.
He was talking, he was starting, this man must notice him.
She would have accepted him still, perhaps, if hehad been less absurd.
Well, Ive had my fun; Ive had it, he thought, looking up at theswinging baskets of pale geraniums. Heknew all their thoughts, he said; he knew everything. He admired her courage; her social instinct;he admired her power of carrying things through.
She was talking to a young man on her right.
Tell me, he said, seizing her by the shoulders.
But Lucrezia Warren Smith was saying to herself, Its wicked; whyshould I suffer? The future lies in the hands of young men likethat, he thought.
Where there is nothing, Peter Walsh said to himself;feeling hollowed out, utterly empty within. It was the waytheir quarrels often began. He sent a note to her by Sallyasking her to meet him by the fountain at three. So Peter Walsh andClarissa, sitting side by side on the blue sofa, challenged eachother. He has leftme; I am alone for ever, she thought, folding her hands upon herknee. I leant over the edge of the boat and fell down, hethought.
But Lucrezia Warren Smith was saying to herself, Its wicked; whyshould I suffer?
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