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  • which ▓time itself cannot deprive me of.My hair is cl●enched back to my scalp and one hand ●guards the burning dottle of my● pipe from the force of the wind.Above, the sk▓y is set in a brilliant comb of sta●rs.Antares guttering up there●, buri

  • ed in spray….To have cheerfully l▓aid down obedient books and friend●s, lighted rooms, fireplaces built for convers▓ation

  • — the whole parish of the civilized ●mind — is not something I regret bu●t merely wonder at.In this c●hoice too I see something fortuitous, born of im▓pulses which I am forced to regard as outsid▓e the range of my own nature.And yet▓, strange

  • ly enough, it is only h▓ere that I am at last able to▓ re-enter, reinhabit the unburied city wi▓th my friends; to frame the

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m in the heavy ▓steel webs of metaphors whic●h will last half as long as ?/p>


坱he city itself — or so I hope.He●re at least I am able to see their ▓history and the city’s as one a



nd th▓e same phenomenon.But strangest of all: ●I owe this release to Pursewarde▓n — the last person I

climb ●t


should ●ever have considered a possib●le benefactor.That last meeting, for ▓example, in the ugly and ex

he cliffs


pensive ▓hotel bedroom to which he always moved on▓ Pombal’s return from leave … I did not r▓ecognize

and invade



the heavy musty odour of the room a▓s the odour of his impending suicide — how


▓should I I knew he was unhappy; even had he not● been he would have felt obl●i


ged to simulate unhappiness.▓ All artists today are expected to cultivate ▓a lit

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tle fashionable unhappiness.And being Ang●lo-Saxon there was a touch of maud●lin


self-pity and weakness which▓ made him drink a bit.That eveni●ng he was savage, silly and witty ▓by turns; and listening to him I remember thinki▓ng suddenly: ‘Here is someone who i●n farming his talent has neglec▓ted his sensibility, not by accident, but ▓deliberately, for its self-e●xpression might

have brought him int▓o conflict with the world, or his loneliness ●threatened his reason.He could ●not bear to be refused admittance, while he ▓lived, to the halls of fame and recog▓nition.Underneath it all he has been st●eadily putting up with an almos▓t insupportable consciousness of h●is own mental pol

troonery.And now his career▓ has reached an interesting stage: ●I mean beautiful women, whom he always f▓elt to be out of reach as a timid provincial wo▓uld, are now glad to be seen out with him.In▓ his presence they wear the air of faintly di●stracted Muses suffering fro▓m constipation.In public they ar

e flattered● if he holds a gloved hand for a▓n instant longer than form pe▓rmits.At first all this must● have been balm to a lonely man’s vanit▓y; but finally it has only furthered his sense o▓f insecurity.His freedom, gain●ed through a modest financial success, has begu●n to bore him.He has begun to ▓f