like a great casket.An aerial luna●cy among the deserted trees of the dark squ●ares, and the long dusty roads r▓eaching away from midnight t
o midnight,▓ bluer than oxygen.The passing face▓s had become gem-like, tranced — the b●aker at his machine making the sta●ff of tomorrow’s
life, the lover hu●rrying back to his lodging, nai▓led into a silver helmet of pani▓c, the six-foot cinema posters borrowing ●a ghastly mag
nificence from the moon wh●ich seemed laid across the nerves like a bow.● We turn a corner and the world ●becomes a pattern of arteries, spla
shed with s●ilver and deckle-edged with shadow.● At this far end of Kom El Dick n▓ot a soul abroad save an occasional obses●sive policeman, lurking like a gui●lty wish in the city’s mind.▓ Our footsteps run punctually● as metronomes along the deserte▓d pavements:
Read Moretwo men, in their own t●ime and city, remote from the world, walking as ▓if they were treading one of the lugubriou●s canals of the moon.Pursewarden i●s speaking of the book which he ●has always wanted to write, and of the d▓ifficulty which besets a city-man wh●en
he faces a work or art.‘If● you think of yourself as a sleeping city for● example … what You can sit quiet and h▓ear the processes going o
n, going about th●eir business; volition, desire, will, cognitio●n, passion, conation.I mean like the mill●ion legs of a centipede carrying o
n with the bod●y powerless to do anything about it.One gets ex●hausted trying to circumnavigate these huge f●ields of experience.We are never
in.Go●d’s real and subtle nature must be clear of▓ distinctions: a glass of spring-water, tasteles▓s, odourless, merely refreshing: and sure
ly it●s appeal would be to the few, the ver●y few, real contemplatives ?/p>
