How much, let me note, depends upon trousers; the intelligent head is entirely handicapped by shabby trousers.

But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms.

Nothing could be seen whole or read from start to finish. What was seen begun – like two friends starting to meet each other across the street – was never seen ended. After twenty minutes the body and mind were like scraps of torn paper tumbling from a sack and, indeed, the process of motoring fast out of London so much resembles the chopping small of identity which precedes unconsciousness and perhaps death itself…

If only he could be alone in his room working, he thought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease.

1 2 3 33