CHAPTER EIGHT
Light, just
light and peace. Let the true and deeper
self reveal itself! Let there be an end
to distracting thoughts! Just light and
peace. Yes, and then perhaps one would
be closer to pure spirituality. Then,
sooner or later, one would experience revealed truth - the light of Infused Contemplation. At present, however, nothing that could be
described as union with ultimate divinity.
At present, just this fringe higher consciousness of waiting upon truth,
waiting upon bliss. Such a long way to
go, but not to despair! Never lose hope
that eventually the day of deliverance will come and only pure spirituality
reign supreme. Not personally, however,
not for you - the latter-day aspirant.
No, at best a few seconds or perhaps even a minute or two of ultimate
truth, such as one could be expected to bear.
Something equivalent to or maybe even greater than what the foremost
saints experienced in the past. Yes, in
this day and age hopefully something greater than that. A clear intimation of what it would be like
to live only in the superconscious mind, freed altogether from subconscious
constraints. Freed, in other words, from
the daily round of egocentric influences and dualistic consciousness.
Dualistic?
No, not quite! A different
consciousness, certainly, from that experienced by medieval man. Less under subconscious dominion and
therefore correspondingly less egocentric.
Different, too, from the consciousness experienced by pagan man, with
his penchant for the 'dark gods of the loins' and horrible blood
sacrifices. Much less under subconscious
dominion than him! No longer in fear of
a vengeful deity, thank goodness! No
longer beastly and a nature-worshipper, with a guilty conscience for
essentially being in rebellion against the sensual, and thus somehow different
from the beasts. No, and still less
under subconscious dominion than the caveman, that creature who was almost a
beast and dwelt among beasts as among equals in the struggle for survival. No, most definitely a different kind of
consciousness than would have been acknowledged by one's distant
ancestors! Rather, a post-egocentric
consciousness, incipiently transcendental, growing all the time more biased
towards the superconscious and thus less under the sway of its dark antithesis. Surely approaching a time when even to own a
dog would be to render oneself too exposed to commerce with beasts, and dogs
are accordingly banished from society as no longer acceptable or relevant? Phased-out, in conjunction with other
unnecessary animals, because we can no longer tolerate their beastliness and
desire only to be surrounded by that which reflects our superconscious
idealism?
Yes, so not a dualistic consciousness now
but, still, a consciousness which can only expect a relatively brief intimation
of what it would mean to be entirely beyond the subconscious. Yet, even so, a consciousness that is
certainly better and higher than any consciousness which has preceded it in the
long history of our race, and one, moreover, that will continue to improve, to
grow ever more enamoured of the inner light, ever more attuned to the
artificial, the development towards greater environmental perfection of the
city and its salutary spiritualizing influence.
But little by little, generation following generation, refinement
superseding refinement, dedication eclipsing dedication, towards ever higher
peaks of spiritual attainment. Until at
length, after decades or even centuries of spiritual progress, our descendants
attain to the culmination of human evolution and become completely godlike, the
worthy recipients of superconscious bliss, a life form at the furthest possible
remove from the beasts - the ultimate life form ... eternal and complete, the
consummation of Christian prophecy in the heavenly side of the Last Judgement! But, in the meantime, now as before, a series
of temporal judgements, the dividing of the wheat from the chaff and the
subsequent damnation of the latter. In
the meantime, evolution continues its journey, whatever one's beliefs or status,
towards its ultimate goal. It can do
nothing else.
So light and peace for those who want it,
those who wish to draw nearer to ultimate divinity. Nearer certainly, though not, except possibly
at rare occasions and in minute doses, right into the divine presence. Not yet, at any rate! Only by degrees, a little at a time. God as pure spirituality, inner light,
ultimate truth, superconscious bliss, known and knower at once. A condition that is always potentially with
one and yet diluted, impeded by the subconscious from showing itself in all its
glory - except, that is, on rare occasions and for brief periods of time for
those who seek it. But a condition that
is destined to shine through to a much greater extent in the future, to extend
its influence over all its devotees until such time as nothing but the inner
light exists and they become One with it.
Man evolving towards God, away from the Devil. Towards ultimate positivity, away from primal
negativity. Man in his prime as man
- in balance between evil and good. Man
past his prime as man - predominantly good. Man become godlike - entirely good. Perfect!
At present, less imperfect than formerly, becoming purer, less diluted
by the sensual. Gaining a slow but sure
spiritual victory over the Devil, which is impure darkness. Climbing ever closer towards the heavenly
light.
So let there be light and peace! Let the truth have a chance to reveal itself
if I am worthy of it! If not, then I
mustn't lose heart but should continue to offer myself in waiting, continue to
make myself available, so that the highest in me comes shining through in
self-revelation. Yet if, after years of
perseverance in such waiting, the highest in me is still unable to fully reveal
itself, then I must resign myself to my impure condition and accept its diluted
state as just. I must not doubt the
existence of the ultimate 'promised land' of the spirit because of this, but
should take fresh confidence in the hope that those who come after me will be
in a better psychic position to glimpse it, and perhaps dally in it for
awhile. So I'll rest content to be
merely a humble link in the chain of the generations stretching from alpha to
omega, Hell to Heaven. I shall accept my
fate as just. For the great majority of
men are inevitably doomed, not so much to Hell, these days, as to simple human
death. I shall understand the logic of
my position in relation to the subconscious, which presumably still has more
influence over me than is commensurate with the full revelation of undiluted
truth. Tomorrow's generations will be
superior to todays. Therein lies our
hope for the future.
But now I have thought and reasoned too
much! I have quite forgotten the duty I
had set myself in preparing my mind for the divine presence. I must refrain from thinking and so grant the
higher level of superconsciousness an opportunity to become manifest. Thought pertains to the lower level, and
therein lies its limitations. It isn't
pure, even when at its best. So let
there be light and peace ...
At that moment, the sharp ringing of the
doorbell to his flat interrupted these psychic ruminations and put an abrupt
halt to his good intentions. It quite
startled him, making him forsake whatever equanimity he was in the process of
achieving. Who-on-earth could that be,
he wondered? He hadn't been expecting
anyone to call that evening. It was more
than a little inconvenient! And so he
waited, listening a few seconds, hoping that the bell wouldn't be rung again. But such wasn't to be the case. For a second and more insistent ringing duly
followed in the first one's wake, obliging him to clamber to his feet. He didn't have the nerve to ignore it - not,
at any rate, when he had worked himself up into an honourable frame-of-mind
with the intention of meditating. Yet it
was inconvenient to him, all the same, and he couldn't help cursing his luck,
as he staggered out of the brightly lit all-white room and into the comparative
shadow of the dimly lit hall.
"Just a minute!" he shouted,
while he fumbled his way along the narrow passageway that led to the front
door. He was quite dazed by the sudden
change of light and the accompanying exertion of bodily movement, the sudden
surge of blood from compressed channels, hardly recognizing his face in the hall
mirror. But he seemed presentable enough,
even given the fact that he was still attired in his all-white meditating
clothes - teeshirt, flannels, socks, sneakers - and looked somewhat like a
ghost. Too bad if the caller didn't like
his appearance!
Again the doorbell sounded in his ears,
but this time he was ready for it and immediately pounced on the door, as
though to silence it. His recognition of
the caller wasn't so immediate however, partly because of his dazed
state-of-mind and partly, too, because he had only seen her twice before. But when it did come she elicited from him an
exclamation of surprise and delight, which considerably enriched the simple
utterance of her name. He could scarcely
believe his eyes.
"Hi, Keith," said Greta with,
despite evident relief at seeing him, a worried look on her face. "I'm sorry to bother you this evening,
but do you mind if I come in and talk to you?"
"No, not at all," he assured
her, standing to one side so that she could enter the passageway. A whiff of sweet perfume lodged in his
nostrils as she drew up alongside him, causing him to smile with secret
pleasure. It was the same perfume, he
recalled, that she had worn at Fleshman's gathering the other night. But he couldn't very well permit himself to
dwell on that subject when he didn't know the exact reason for her visit. Perhaps, after all, something was seriously
amiss? She didn't look particularly
happy anyway. He closed the door and
motioned her to follow him back along the passageway into his living room at
the far end. It was a cosy little room
but, at the moment, rather chilly. So,
after an apology about that, he set about switching on the fan heater
there. "Please excuse my
appearance," he added, as she took a chair in front of him.
"I hadn't noticed anything wrong with
it," she responded, giving him a cursory inspection.
"Oh well, it's just that I was in the
process of meditating when you arrived, and didn't have time to change my
clothes. I don't usually receive
visitors garbed like this, you see."
Greta blushed faintly and lowered her eyes
in shame. "Please forgive me for
disturbing you," she begged him.
"No trouble," Logan smilingly
assured her. "I'd rather be
disturbed by someone like you than by most other people." Especially, he might have added, when you
smell so sweet and look so pretty, dressed in that sexy pink miniskirt which
hugs your curvaceous waist and ample black-stockinged thighs. But he was content merely to note the
deepening of her blush as she responded to his assurances. "So how did you get my address?" he
asked.
"Through Martin," she candidly
replied. "He gave it to me
yesterday."
"Really? And is that why you want to talk to me -
about Thurber?"
"Yes, absolutely! You see ..." She didn't quite know where
to begin, especially since Logan was a comparative stranger to her.
"Can I get you a coffee or
something?" he offered.
"Yes, thanks." She looked somewhat relieved at the prospect
of a hot drink, which Logan duly disappeared into the kitchen to make. Soon, however, he was back in front of her
again, bearing a steaming mug of coffee for himself as well.
"Now then, take your time with what
you have to tell me," he advised her, noting that in the meantime Greta
had taken off her short leather jacket and lain it by the side of the chair.
"Well, to put it as briefly as
possible, Martin has lost his job as a regular contributor to 'Art and Artist',
having also had his latest review rejected by Mr Hurst," she ventured.
Logan raised his eyebrows in genuine
surprise. "You mean, the review of
Paul Fleshman's exhibition?" he remarked.
"Yes, precisely! The editor phoned him yesterday morning to
say that his article was unsuitable and would be returned in due course."
"But why?"
"Apparently because it reflects too
many attitudes incompatible with the publication's requirements," Greta
revealed. "In short, because it
bears the stamp of your influence."
"My influence?" Logan echoed,
feeling distinctly puzzled. How could
that possibly be? But no sooner had he
raised the question with himself than an answer to it came surging into his
mind in the form of a recollection that Thurber had made copious use of a
notebook during the course of their viewing.
He must have filled it with borrowed ideas and opinions which he
subsequently transcribed to the review-proper!
Thus a number of one's own impressions would be expressed there! "Oh dear," the novelist
murmured. "I hadn't expected him to
plagiarize me."
"No, well that's what he evidently
did, and under the misguided assumption, moreover, that he would be producing a
better and more objective review in consequence," Greta averred. "You see, he'd been worried since the
night of Mr Hurst's party that the editor would drop him from the magazine in
consequence of ... well, forgive me for saying so but ... the displeasure your
conversation engendered in our host during the course of the evening."
"My conversation?"
"You must be aware, surely, that Mr
Hurst was none too sympathetic towards your religious views."
"Yes, but I don't see how that could
have any bearing on Thurber's review."
"Unfortunately it does, though for
reasons that you probably wouldn't understand." She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and then
stared angrily at the carpet in front of her.
"But don't think I'm blaming you for what has happened between
Martin and the magazine," she went on.
"It's against Edward Hurst that I bear a grudge ... for breaking
his promise!"
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow
you," Logan not-unreasonably confessed.
Greta was on the verge of tears, and the
hand holding the coffee was trembling slightly.
She didn't really want to tell Logan what had happened between herself
and Hurst on Tuesday afternoon but, confronted by his perplexity, it seemed
that there was little alternative. So
she proceeded, in a rather strained tone-of-voice, to relate how she had bumped
into Mr Hurst quite by chance in the West End and agreed to his accompanying
her home. How, when they were together
in her sitting room, he had revealed his intention of dispensing with Thurber's
professional services to the magazine.
And how, when it became apparent that he meant what he said, she had
permitted him to have sex with her on the understanding that he wouldn't take
any action against Martin after all but, on the contrary, would continue to
publish his reviews as before, including, most especially, his latest one.
"And he promised to keep his
word?" responded Logan, who was visibly shocked by her revelation, as well
as slightly embarrassed in the proximity of so beautiful a woman.
"Yes, absolutely!" Greta
confirmed. "I was solemnly assured
as much."
"The dirty double-crossing
bastard!"
At this point Greta could contain her
thwarted emotions no longer but burst into an avalanche of tears, a victim of outraged
innocence. She put the coffee to one
side and hid her face in her hands.
Logan felt genuinely moved to compassion
for her and hastened to offer what consolation he could, going up to her and
putting an arm round her shoulders.
"There, there, don't cry!" he soothed her. "You mustn't upset yourself like
this."
"I'm dreadfully sorry," Greta
stammered through tear-drenched lips.
"Please forgive me. I'm
really behaving quite stupidly."
"Here, take this to dry your eyes
with!" he advised her, extracting a clean paper tissue from his front
pocket. He so hated to see people upset,
and, as she made an effort to dry her eyes, he clasped her more tightly against
himself and began, almost unconsciously, to stroke her hair, at first very
tentatively and then, as she calmed down a little, with greater firmness. "There, there!" he soothed her
anew, as he drew her head against his chest and, again almost unconsciously,
planted a gentle kiss on it, continuing all the while to stroke her hair. Inevitably, the scent of her perfume once
more entered his nostrils and, in spite of himself, engendered a subtle
pleasure, made him conscious not so much of a suffering person in his arms as
of a highly attractive woman - a woman whose slender nape was now exposed to
his tender gaze, and whose shoulder blades and arms excited a degree of lust it
would have been difficult if not impossible to ignore. In a split second his mind changed track,
becoming conscious of a sexuality and desire which prolonged celibacy could
only intensify, and although he feebly struggled against the temptation to
exploit her weakness, the lure of her flesh was too strong to resist and he
found himself growing aroused by it and becoming strangely indifferent to any
finer feelings. Already the hand that
had initially clasped her to himself was gently but steadily working its way up
and down her back, and also roaming farther afield over the no-less attractive
terrain lower down. It was even working
its way under her vest to the bare skin beneath, and as it did so his lips
desired not the crown of her head so much as the response of her lips - indeed,
forced such a response upon her as, in mute resignation, she turned her face up
towards him and closed her eyes, closed them upon past pain while
simultaneously opening her lips to present pleasure. Yes, now indeed would come her true
consolation, now he could really give it to her!
She lay on the carpet, her miniskirt up
round her hips, her head turned away from him, while he sat beside her and
gazed down over the expanse of her shapely body. Was there a blemish on it? He didn't think so, at least not from what he
could see of it at that moment. He liked
the way she was built, liked it all over.
Felt that she was just his kind of woman, even down to the shape of her
sex, which was one of those open or, as he liked to think of them,
diamond-shaped vaginas which he preferred to the closed, or tight,
variety. There could be no denying her physical
attractiveness, for it had certainly got the better of him or, to put the
matter in a slightly more romantic light, induced him to appreciate it to the
hilt. And now that he had
appreciated it as much as his nature seemed to require, he felt relatively
satisfied and purged, so to speak, of sensual desire. But not altogether happy since, deep down, he
was rather ashamed of himself for having exploited her distress to his own
sexual advantage, even though she had been the more sexually active of the two
as, standing front to back, he had inserted himself into her and got her to
ease herself up-and-down on him both in response to the fact of how she was
dressed and to his transcendental lifestyle which, just prior to Greta's
appearance, had taken a radically contemplative turn.
"Are you angry with me?" he
nervously asked, his voice pregnant with anticipated remorse.
She turned her face towards him and looked
searchingly into his dark-blue eyes.
"Of course not!" she replied.
"Why should I be?"
"Well, I was just thinking of
Thurber. I mean, he wouldn't be very
pleased to learn that you ..."
"Oh, don't be such a prig! You needn't worry about Martin. It's what you feel that interests me. For instance, whether you really like
me."
"Naturally. I like you very much."
"Sincerely?"
"Of course."
She smiled her relief and extended a
friendly hand to his back, which she then proceeded to stroke. "And I like you very much, too!"
she averred. "In fact, I might even
be in love with you."
"What, already?"
"Why not?"
He swallowed hard and turned away from her
gaze. It came as a sort of embarrassing
shock to him, this admission on her part.
She was bluffing, surely? "But
didn't you come here solely on Thurber's behalf?" he stated.
"Yes, I believe so," she
admitted, though, in truth, she didn't want to be reminded of the fact. "I came to blubber on your shoulder and
seek advice."
"Which is something, alas, that I
haven't given you!" he confessed, blushing slightly. "But, really, what a double-crossing
bastard Hurst is, to promise you not to drop Thurber and then, after he'd got
what he wanted, to go back on his word!
Really, it makes my blood boil, to think how deceitful such people can
be! I can quite understand how you
felt. Though I suppose he might have
kept his word, had Martin's review not borne so much of my influence."
"He might," Greta reluctantly
conceded. "But, even so, I
shouldn't have been obliged to prostitute myself just to get his
co-operation."
"Indeed not!" Logan concurred in
a tone of righteous indignation, which partly resulted from sympathy towards
Greta and partly from disgust that Mr Hurst had actually got his hands on her
and more than his hands inside her - no doubt, in a barbarously callous
manner. "But we shouldn't allow him
to get off scot-free from what he's done," he added.
"So what can we do?" Greta
murmured, evidently perplexed.
"You haven't told Thurber about
it?"
"I could hardly do that!"
"No, I suppose it would be rather
hard on him," Logan admitted, adrift on an abyss of understatement. He pondered in silence a moment, wondering
how best they could get around the problem, and then suggested the possibility
of informing Mr Hurst's wife of his behaviour.
After all, she would probably be interested to learn what her husband
had been up to on Tuesday.
"Perhaps," Greta rejoined,
following a short but anguished pause.
"Though I rather suspect that he would deny it or claim I was
exaggerating."
"But surely she would be suspicious
of him?"
"Possibly. Yet, there again, we can't be certain that he
hasn't been unfaithful to her before, nor that she would necessarily be
surprised or offended by the fact.
Besides, I shouldn't wish to be the person to confess to having had sex
with her husband. If she did get angry,
she'd more than likely take it out on me, not him! And if I don't confess to it, who else
can? Not you, for one. And not Martin Thurber either, for the simple
reason that I can't bring myself to tell him.
So either way we're stumped."
"What a pity!" Logan declared
lamely, casting her a sympathetic glance.
"Not that it's the end of the world. I mean he only had sex with you, after
all."
Greta reluctantly nodded in the teeth of
her compunction. For her self-esteem was
still smarting from the way Hurst had actually
had sex with her, and it now struck her, in the light of what had happened this
evening, that, sexually considered, Hurst and Logan were as far apart as they
were politically and even socially.
"Yes, I suppose he can't exactly be accused of a crime there,"
she said, a shade reluctantly, "even though the age is more partial, in
its rampant secularity, to transmuting sins into crimes. But it's poor Martin that I'm essentially
worried about. For now that he's without
a magazine to contribute anything to ..."
"What about the one you contribute
articles to?" Logan suggested.
"You mean 'The Arts'?"
"Yes, doesn't it publish art reviews
too?"
"It does. But it's run by Colin Patmore, and he's a
friend of Mr Hurst's. More than a friend
actually - in fact, his brother-in-law."
"Oh really?" Logan was visibly surprised, never having
considered the possibility. "Yet if
he publishes you, what's to prevent him from publishing Thurber as well? Surely you can put in a good word on his
behalf, or even threaten to withdraw your own contributions if he refuses. Indeed, you could even go as far as to
threaten to tell his sister what Mr Hurst did to you, if he doesn't comply with
your request. After all, he should know
more about her than we do, and if he thinks she'll be offended by it ... well
then, he's sure to accept Thurber's review."
"You really think so?"
"Yes."
The young woman raised herself from the
carpet and sat beside Logan, directly in front of his fan heater. Instinctively, he put his arm round her waist
and drew her closer for a reassuring kiss.
"Well?" he pressed her.
"Oh, I don't know, it all sounds too
simple," she rejoined on a sceptical note.
"He might just as easily phone Mr Hurst in order to find out
whether I was bluffing him."
"Would that make any
difference?"
"It might do."
"Not if he was fonder of his sister,
surely?" Logan insisted. "He
might be genuinely angry with Hurst, upset that his brother-in-law had betrayed
her and thus dishonoured her behind her back.
You can't be sure."
"Yes, but, really, in this day and
age people are being unfaithful to one another all the fucking time!"
Greta angrily asseverated.
"Are they?" There then followed an uncomfortable silence,
during which Logan had an opportunity to reflect on his own behaviour that
evening - non-adulterous though it was - and to some extent swallow his
words. He felt momentarily ashamed of
himself again and anxious to change the subject. "Well, whatever the outcome, you can but
try, and see what happens," he advised her. "If Patmore publishes your stories and
you generally get on with him, there's always a chance that he'll accept. After all, he may not be as friendly towards
Hurst as you think."
Greta had to admit that that was a
possibility, albeit not a particularly reassuring one. Still, there could be no harm in giving
Patmore a try, since he had never shown any hostility towards her in the
past. Nor, for that matter, towards
Thurber, whom he had spoken to at Hurst's party. Then, too, he had spoken to Keith Logan,
hadn't he?
"Yes or, rather, listened to what I
had to say about literature and modern art," the avant-garde novelist
confirmed.
"And what kind of impression did you
form of him?" Greta wanted to know.
"He seemed more tolerant and
intelligent, on the whole, than Mr Hurst, as well as more sympathetic towards
what I write," Logan answered, after a moment's reflection. "Even said he'd like to see an example
of my work sometime."
Greta looked agreeably surprised. "And so would I," she
declared. "I still can't believe
it's for real."
Logan blushed faintly and offered her a
conciliatory smile, saying: "If you're really interested in seeing it,
there's a copy of my latest novel over there." He pointed in the direction of a small glass
table a few yards to their right, on which a couple of music magazines and an
average-sized paperback with a purple cover could be seen.
"May I?"
"Sure."
She got to her feet, smoothed her tight
miniskirt back into place, and walked briskly across to the table, picked up the
paperback without looking at its title, and just as briskly returned to her
place beside him. She was smiling
continually, for she still couldn't take the idea of a completely senseless
literature seriously. "Is that the
title?" she asked, referring his attention to the large gold lettering on
the cover.
"Yes," he admitted,
nodding. "Would you like me to read
some of the first chapter for you, or are you going to brave it out
yourself?"
"I think I'll have a go at it,"
she decided, and, turning to page one of 'Endings', began, in as steady and
serious a tone-of-voice as she could muster, to read: "'Saturday the
thanking green has over, papers big a run, incident boy never gong. Thoughtful, poseur greetings the think
abstraction, nothing sake badgers, boats, verbs, yes goodbye were quickly, left
forces night on large. He, the your of
red, so show too most, gaseous they Wednesday.
Nothing went passing. Why on
thanks, could mine ran, high, blue caught off head, nightly grow bed then
single through an. No, I yesterday gash
bog out whose fainting, though said why a nervous sad, but car over nod. Grace mode privately up church. Took and bright, regrettably leg cosy where
do, hit a blue, sanction bag to sat.
Never paint got hopefully mouse.
He's, might order off light, bat fifty, toes tall nowhere more and. To anus bad pinkly dust, was because, in
doctor neither nearest calling inasmuch ring.
Doubtless, themselves has why I movement caught it so larger. Is grew that blossoming fresh, the Margaret
hope fretfully bellows of stout, so but.
Everywhere out priest, forty countenance sparking too crowd, aghast left
my lofty, gasp, presumably pen colouring could ...' Why, it doesn't even begin to make
sense!" she exclaimed, shaking her head in patent disbelief, as she
abandoned the text before she had even reached the end of the first
paragraph. "And you write like this
throughout the book?"
"That's right," Logan replied
rather matter-of-factly. "Though
not always with quite the same technique or intention in mind. Sometimes I dispense with punctuation
altogether, sometimes I include foreign words and phrases, sometimes I
concentrate more on verbs than on nouns or vice versa. Sometimes I avoid conjunctions or
prepositions, sometimes I mix tenses, sometimes I run strings of adjectives and
adverbs together, and so on, through a wide range of alternative
techniques. It's really quite a
mind-boggling experience at times."
"As I can well imagine!" cried
Greta, scarcely bothering to disguise her bewilderment. "I haven't read anything even remotely
resembling it before."
"Neither have most people,"
Logan declared. "But, then, most
people don't listen to atonal music or spend time viewing non-representational
paintings. So why should they bother to
read non-grammatical literature? They
probably haven't evolved to that level."
Greta raised archly incredulous
eyebrows. "Don't you really mean
devolved?" she objected.
"'Evolved' is what I said and
'evolved' is what I meant," he smilingly assured her. "At present they're still tied to more
traditional, and hence narrative, forms of literary communication, which is
doubtless as it should be. But a time
must surely come when man will be above language and given, instead, to pure
knowledge, pure contemplation of the Infinite, in accordance with his desire
for ultimate salvation in a spirituality transcending the word, not to mention
the world."
"As you told me at Mr Hurst's
place," Greta reminded him, showing signs of impatience with what struck
her, in spite of her liking for him, as a crackpot notion.
"Yes, so I did," he
confirmed. "And so man won't want
to distract himself from his ultimate destiny by getting caught-up or
bogged-down in verbal concepts. He'll
know that speech and words in general are ultimately irrelevant to his
spiritual salvation - indeed, could be a grave obstacle to it if indulged in as
formerly. So he'll gradually free
himself from their influence over him, one of the ways of doing so being to
read words deprived of their customary status as meaningful components of
syntactic sentences and reduced, instead, to their bare bones, as it were, in a
largely if not totally abstract arrangement.
He will become conscious of words as words rather than as meanings,
or concepts denoting subject/object relationships, and gradually be weaned of
his dependence on them as vehicles for representational communication. One might say that this mode of writing will
act as a kind of transition between traditional communicative language and the
pure contemplation which stands above it.
Simply a means of breaking down our traditional dependence on
concepts. However, the widespread
reading of such works won't come about for some time yet - of that you can rest
assured!"
A broad smile of ironic relief erupted
across Greta's face in spite of her endeavour to take what he was saying
seriously. "As I think you said at
Mr Hurst's party," she reminded him.
"Such abstract works could only appeal, at present, to a tiny
minority of, what, advanced intellectuals?"
"Advanced by comparison with the
broad reading public, though not particularly advanced by any ultimate
standards,"
Greta Ryan smiled her dubious appreciation
of
