Op.
24
FALSE
PRETENCES
Long
Prose
Copyright
©
2011 John O'Loughlin
______________
CONTENTS
Chapter
One:
Party Politics
Chapter
Two:
Some Background Information
Chapter
Three:
Shead's Revolutionary
Invention
Chapter
Four:
A Rendezvous with Philomena
Chapter
Five:
Intellectual Intimacies
Chapter
Six:
Something Unexpected
Chapter
Seven:
Confrontation with Shead
Chapter
Eight:
Carnal Intimacies
Chapter
Nine:
An Accommodation with Susan
Chapter
Ten:
Some Foreground Information
____________
CHAPTER
ONE:
PARTY POLITICS
"Don't
you
object
to people staring at your wife?" asked a voice behind me,
causing me to start suddenly out of my daydream. I
turned
round to see who my latest potential
tormentor was, and discovered the pale, rather lean face of Major
Ronald
Saunders staring up at me from behind his dense whiskers.
He smiled defensively, as though to apologize
for this sudden intrusion into my private world, and cast a veiled
glance in
the direction of Leslie Richardson, a glance I automatically followed,
though
only to the extent of acquiring the briefest of confirmations that
someone
evidently had eyes for Susan. "He's
been staring at her, on and off, all bloody evening!" the Major
continued,
ignoring my feigned indifference.
"You oughtn't to let her out of your sight, old man!"
I gently shrugged my
shoulders, as though
to demonstrate indifference, then drank a little more of the sweet wine
I held
between clenched fingers in one of the thinnest glasses I had ever
beheld. What did it matter to me that
someone was
staring at her? Let him, if that was all
he wanted. Voyeurism was all the rage
nowadays, anyway. And
if he had more concrete objectives in mind, so what? Let him satisfy them, though preferably on
terms acceptable to myself! I wasn't one
to be offended by this show of interest in a woman with whom I had long
ceased
to be in love. Indeed, if I thought it
could increase his pleasure, I would have gone across to where Susan
was
standing, interrupted her conversation with the other women, and
lifted-up her
skirt, so that he could see what type and colour panties she was
wearing. Only I knew that at present,
since I had
watched her dress before coming along to this informal gathering, and
knew
exactly what she was 'up to' underneath her skirt.
It would have been nice to show those purple
nylon panties with the frilly edgings to Dr Richardson and thereby
enable him
to flesh out, as it were, his growing appreciation of her physical
anatomy. Nicer still to be showing off
the seductive curvature of her rump and hips, the enticing sexuality of
her
thighs, which the skirt she wore was discreetly hiding.
Then he could have made up his mind about her
and taken whatever measures he thought necessary to extend his
appreciation,
with or without my knowledge and consent.
"Too many people stare at
other
people's wives these days," Major Saunders went on, even though I had
said
not a word about his allegations and knew better than to spoil other
people's
fun.
"Well," I said, growing
slightly
weary, "at least she's a rather pretty woman, so one can't entirely
blame
a handsome young man like Dr Richardson for taking an interest in her. I'm not at all possessive myself."
"Really?" the Major
exclaimed,
evidently feeling a degree of surprise was called for here. "You wouldn't like another man to get
her pregnant or give her the clap or whatever behind your damn back
though,
would you?"
"Not particularly," I
conceded. "But, then, she'd have to
put up with the consequences, not me."
No, that wasn't quite true, and I half-regretted having said it. But even if she got the clap, as he put it in
that colloquially military way of his, she wasn't likely to become
pregnant,
since she had regular recourse to the pill.
Besides, she knew that I had no desire to give her children,
since I
loathed them. A child from her and we
would part company. I had made that fact
perfectly clear to her some time ago.
Now she took it for granted and swore that she had no real
desire for
motherhood again anyway, since looking after a genius was more than
enough
work. And if she needed any extra work,
she could always write a new novel or take up full-time teaching again. As for the clap ... no decent man would go
near her if he suffered a dose of it, least of all Dr Richardson. As usual Major Saunders was exaggerating, as
they usually did in the army. Possibly on account of celibacy, or something. "Anyway," I added, after my
reflective pause, "Susan's too possessive, where I'm concerned, to risk
putting our relationship in jeopardy over someone else.
She's got a martyr streak in her - fidelity
to me at the expense of more traditional responsibilities, including
motherhood. She needs the pride that
comes from living with someone famous and moderately wealthy. It appeals to her ego and sense of being a
truly modern, or liberated, woman."
"But don't you think that
most women
are possessive where we men are concerned?" Major Saunders rejoined, as
he
blew out the red-tipped match he had just used to light a
cumbersome-looking
cigar.
"Oh definitely," I agreed. "They can't help it, for we're sexual
subjects to them and the sexual is ever a part of the sensual realm,
the realm
peculiar to female priorities. Even the
so-called liberated ones are possessive in that respect.
They need our bodies for their sexual
fulfilment, and so they cling to us, metaphorically speaking as well as
literally, like leeches. My wife's just
the same, even though she's resigned to not being a mother."
Major Saunders momentarily
concealed
himself and part of me in a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, probably more
out of
a desire to hide his embarrassment from me than to savour the dubious
aroma of
his latest fat cigar. I waited patiently
for the air to clear, as from the onslaught of battle, before
continuing the
conversation, but he beat me to it.
"You know, I just can't
understand why
you refuse to become a father," he confessed, blowing more smoke in my
face. He was doubtless envious of my
freedom from parental responsibilities and troubles, I thought, and had
determined to test my will, in consequence.
"Frankly, I detest
children," I
informed him, almost hissing the words in my besieged condition. "Especially young ones
– for instance, babies and tiny tots.
They're far too raw, too natural and ... uncultured. A man of genius, who cultivates the most
artificial standards in his work, as in his life, can hardly be
expected to
abide with his very antithesis - a creature in which natural
determinism
predominates over free will to such an alarming extent ... that there
seems to
be very little of the latter in evidence.
Even my wife is at times too naturalistic for me, though, being
an
intelligent woman, she does at least possess a veneer, as it were, of
culture
over her sensuous nature. Fortunately,
however, she doesn't require children from me, since she had two of
them by her
first marriage and they're away at boarding school most of the time. She pays for that, I might add, not me."
I was lying slightly, but it
didn't matter
too much. I knew, anyway, that Major
Saunders had little interest in Susan's children by her previous
marriage, only
in her lack of them from her current one.
But that was simply because he couldn't understand why she
tolerated
me. No doubt, his concern over Dr
Richardson's behaviour this evening was a manifestation of jealousy on
his
part, born of fear, perhaps, that young
"Well, I think children are
the very raison
d'être of marriage," he opined, showing grim determination not to be
side-tracked. "Otherwise, why get
married in the first place?"
"For a variety of reasons,"
I
declared, undeterred by the latest smoke screen he was puffing up, as
though to
intimidate me. "Not least of all
because one wants company and sex."
"But sex
without the
goods?" It was evidently his
way of saying babies, and I just had to smile.
"Certainly for a man of
genius like
myself," I immodestly reminded him, blushing faintly unbeknownst to
anyone
else, since it was not every day that one described oneself in such
elevated
terms and thereby sought to justify one's unusual position in life on
the basis
that one was as far removed from the common run as men like Sartre, Koestler, Dali, et al.
"I simply couldn't be responsible for putting something new into
the world naturally - through coital means.
For me, only artificial
creations count. I want that known for the
record. I, Jason Crilly,
absolutely
refuse
to be accredited the perpetrator of a natural creation!
My paintings are the only things to which
I'll sign my name."
"As formerly it was your
books,"
Major Saunders reminded me. "Whereas your wife would seem to have gravitated from
natural
creations, through her first marriage, to artificial ones, in the form
of
novels, with you."
I nodded my aching head
through the smoke
and knocked back the remaining wine in my glass, before returning the
slender
item to the cabinet top from which I had initially plucked it. Yes, Susan had taken to writing shortly after
I had abandoned it in favour of painting.
There was still a considerable backlog of works for my agent to
deal
with, some of which, however, I knew would never be published in
"Of course, if, as you
claim, she
fulfilled herself as a mother before you ever met her," he went on,
"then your position becomes a lot clearer, I might even say more
reasonable, since your opposition to babies would then be less
objectionable to her than would otherwise be the case ... had she never
had
any." He was clearly losing ground
and becoming progressively more muddled, partly, no doubt, as a result
of all
the sherry he had imbibed and was still imbibing, despite the obviously
poor
quality of the stuff. I felt both pity
and contempt for him at the same time, wondering when he would break
off and
leave me to my thoughts again.
Explaining and justifying oneself to
people was
a difficult enough task at the best of times, but virtually impossible
when one
was confronted by the very antithesis of a kindred spirit!
Yet being invited to a house where one
endeavoured to explain or justify oneself to such people as him was
simply a
hazard of being famous and living in the provinces, where all one's
neighbours
knew who one was and somehow managed to keep a tag on one.
In the city I had known no-one and never been
invited anywhere, nor, for that matter, had I ever invited anyone back
to my
address. But
And yet, if I was to rid
myself of the
crippling depression to which I had succumbed whilst in
But then I did something I
had never done
before. I left the Major standing in a
fresh cloud of cigar smoke, while he babbled on unintelligibly about my
wife,
and proceeded as rapidly as I could towards the door, where I hoped I
would
discover some pretext for leaving early.
I hadn't got more than a dozen yards beyond the smoke screen,
however,
when I felt a hand on my arm and heard the suave voice of Dr Richardson
informing me that he had recently had the pleasure of reading my wife's
latest
novel. Could that be the principal
reason behind his interest in her this evening, I wondered? Anyway, I stood, halted in my negative
tracks, whilst he congratulated Susan through me. It
was
evident that he had been dying for an
opportunity to buttonhole me like this and boast of his literary
appreciations,
but that the proximity of Major Saunders or, more likely, the Major's
ugly-looking cigar had obliged him to keep his distance, as from a
chemical
weapon.
"And what do you think of
it?" he
wanted to know, referring to the novel in question.
"I really don't think
anything of
it," I bluntly replied, slightly offended by his bad breath, which had
somehow escaped or overcome the pressure of booze.
"And for the simple
reason that I haven't read it."
Much to my disgust his mouth
fell open,
like he had just received a blow on the chin.
"Haven't read it?" he echoed, evidently shocked by my
confession.
"No, I never read her
novels."
I thought for a moment he
was about to fall
to the floor in a swoon, but he managed to remain on his feet, partly,
I
suspect, because he was still clinging to my arm.
"But why ever not?" he
gasped.
"Because I've no interest
whatsoever
in my wife's novels, nor, for that matter, in anyone else's, since I
stopped
reading novels shortly before I stopped writing and took-up with
painting
instead. For me, literature is a dead
letter, unlikely ever to be resurrected.
Admittedly, I wrote something approximating to novels in the
past, but
that was only because I couldn't afford to do anything else. They were a kind of extension of adolescent
poetry into my late twenties, and by the time I reached early
middle-age I had
other ambitions, not the least of which was to do a little painting."
It wouldn't have been fair
on him for me to
have spilled the beans about any additional ambitions, so I let the
matter rest
there in the hope that he would change the subject or just piss off. But to my dismay he persisted in his old tack.
"But doesn't your wife
object to the fact
that you take no interest in her work?" he painfully asked, tactfully
omitting the word 'whatsoever'.
"Not a bit," I assured him,
casting Susan a brief glance in order to ascertain whether she happened
to be overhearing
us or speaking to someone else. In point
of fact, she could have been doing either, since someone else - Edmond Shead, it appeared - was speaking to the group
in which she
was standing and not specifically to her, thereby permitting her the
possibility
of an ear cocked in our direction.
"You see," I continued, "Susan understands that
literature, as she writes it, isn't really my forte
but, rather, something intensely objectionable to me which I grew out
of quite
some time ago. Mind you, I never wrote
in a conventional narrative fashion, since I had strong ideological
inclinations and a corresponding desire to upgrade or, depending on
your
viewpoint, subvert literature along intensely philosophical lines. Thus my novels were predominantly theoretical
or speculative works, in the manner of Hermann Hesse
or Arthur Koestler.
I never described the physical characteristics of my leading
male
characters in anything but the sketchiest sort of way; for it wasn't
their
appearance so much as their essence, their intellectual and spiritual
worlds,
which chiefly interested me. Likewise it
wasn't activity but passivity, in the contemplative sense,
that formed the basis of my works, thereby making them more
divine-orientated than would otherwise have been the case.
I loathe and despise the other, more
traditional kinds of novels, which strike me as stemming from the Devil
in
their fixation on action and appearance.
They're passé, so far as I'm concerned, and only women
of a
comparatively unliberated disposition and
the
less-intelligent male authors still write them.
Unfortunately, Susan Crilly can't
help showing
more interest in these traditional literary ingredients, and that's
why, much
as I may admire her as a woman, I categorically avoid reading her
novels!"
Dr
"Well," he at length sighed,
"I sincerely apologize for having bored you with the subject of your
wife's work, which I had naively imagined would be of genuine interest
to
you. As it happens, I don't read all
that many novels myself these days, but I was intrigued by the
familiarity of
the name, since Mrs Crilly is one of my
patients and
one is always liable, as a doctor, to take an interest in one's
patients'
affairs - I mean, work."
"Really?"
I responded noncommittally, knowing full-well what the Freud-obsessed
bastard
really meant! "But if you enjoyed
the novel as much as you say you did, why not discuss it directly with
Susan
this very evening?" I realized, by
the sudden upward curve of his facial expression, that this was what
the bugger
had been wanting to do all along, and had probably only been waiting
for a
chance to intrude into her conversation or, at any rate, take over from
someone
else at the most opportune moment. But
although I would have preferred to drag Susan away from this
anniversary
gathering and get to bed, with or without her, nevertheless I wanted Dr
Richardson to satisfy his social ambitions, if only for the benefit of
my wife,
who would appreciate some professional flattery. It
was
as if, with the absence of any such
flattery from me, I felt she was entitled to someone else's, and that,
by
personally introducing him to her, I would be to some extent
compensating her
for my habitual indifference.
Thus, despite his
superficial protests and
last-minute show of modesty, I dragged him across to where Susan was
standing,
on the edge of the small group of rather bored conversationalists, and,
as it
were, thrust him upon her, thereby endeavouring to unburden myself of
his
company and find an excuse for breaking away from them all on my own. I could tell that Susan wasn't particularly
grateful to me for this, since she was growing tired of things herself. But I somehow explained to her that, as I was
feeling slightly queasy and felt I ought to leave, Dr Richardson would
keep her
company for the rest of the evening and, if necessary, escort her back
to our
house in due course. She gave me a
knowing, albeit fleetingly critical, look, and obediently resigned
herself to
the good doctor's bad breath. For my
part, I hastened to the door, brushing aside a last-minute attempt by
Matthew
Sharpe to detain me and assuring him, as best I could, that I had
thoroughly
enjoyed the evening. A blatant lie, of course, but, then, what else could I have
said in
the circumstances?
CHAPTER
TWO:
SOME BACKGROUND INFORMATION
I
came
to
I had married her shortly
after leaving
Later, when she came to read
my works,
especially the best and most revolutionary of them, she knew who I was
and had
no doubt that she had done the right thing.
I told her that I had a mission to perform in the service of my
ideological beliefs, and she vowed she would do what she could to help
me
perform it. This she has done and
continues to do, as I have already intimated in connection with her
body. I needed sex so badly, in coming to
Thus my daily love-making
was not the
obsession of a satyr or otherwise extremely lecherous individual ... so
much as
a kind of sensual penance or duty I had long been deprived of, but
which I now
had no option but to carry-out in the hope of a full recovery. Likewise, my penchant for wine and cigars,
though morally abhorrent to me, was upheld in a spirit of stoical
perseverance,
of paying the Devil his dues, so to speak, in an attempt to acquire a
mild
downward self-transcendence which would contribute towards my
attainment of
sensual gratification. I usually hated
the taste of the one or two cigars I daily smoked, but I persisted in
smoking
them if only to counteract the painful results of the excessive
asceticism
which my previous solitary lifestyle in north London had so cruelly
inflicted
upon me. In the same spirit, I took
regular walks in the country or, at any rate, along country lanes
outside
Another ingredient, though
one less
frequently employed, was to take periodic holidays in the hottest
possible
countries, such as Greece, Spain, and Sicily, where I would soak-up as
much sun
as possible, and so lead a more intensively pagan existence than ever I
could
in England. We had thought, previously,
of moving to the Mediterranean for good, but I had decided that, for
the time
being at any rate, we would stay in England, as I would thereby be in
closer
touch with the art dealers and more accessible to my agent, not to
mention to
people connected with my political interests.
If the depression persisted or showed little signs of improving,
I had
decided that an entire winter spent in
So much,
then, for my
pagan-oriented existence, which I considered only a temporary measure
on the
road to full recovery and, in consequence, no more than a
stepping-stone to my
future ambitions. I came to
And this, of course,
includes Susan, who is
much more intrinsically fond of nature and the country in general than
me. One reason why I can't read her novels
is
that they pay tribute to nature in a way which I, with my urban
background,
find disgusting and positively sinful.
In this respect, I dare say she is merely voicing the heartfelt
instincts of her gender. But, being a
man, I don't share them and never will.
I could have told Dr Richardson the other night that my wife
takes as little
interest in my paintings as I take in her writings, but I somehow
didn't get
round to it, possibly because of tiredness.
Of course, she occasionally says nice things about them, telling
me how
pretty the colour arrangements look.
But, fundamentally, she has no real appreciation or
understanding of
what I am doing. And neither, for that
matter, has anyone else, least of all Major Saunders, who nonetheless
recently
bought one of my works - as a gesture, I suspect, of neighbourly
goodwill. Yet painting is really passé
now, no matter how abstract or transcendental one's canvases may
appear, so I
can't pretend I do it with any real enthusiasm or conviction. I am no Mondrian
or
Kandinsky. For
the age of abstract painting is long over, having died shortly after
them. If one isn't a pioneer of new
trends, using
new technologies, one isn't in the front rank.
One may even be a boor or amateur play-acting at being a
serious,
professional artist.
Well, I know that, whilst I
may not be a
pioneer of new artistic techniques, I am at least doing the best I can
to
fill-in time, as I overcome my illness, before I take measures to
abandon art
altogether and enter the political arena in obedience to my true
destiny. I have never thought, regardless
of what
others may have said, that painting was my
life's
vocation, to be continued into old age.
It was simply expedient for me to put one or two of my
philosophical
concepts into paint, while living with the certain knowledge that some
day I
would be ready and willing for higher things.
Besides, there is such a prodigious backlog of novels and other
writings
for my agent to wade through - assuming he is prepared to - that I
would have
been mad to carry on writing, thereby adding to the pile and virtually
guaranteeing myself that my foremost works would not be published for
at least
another 8-10 years. In point of fact, I
stopped writing nearly two years ago, and shouldn't need to write
anything else
for at least another five years. But, of
course, I know I am not referring to all
of my
works when I say this, only to those which could be published here. There are others ...
But I digress slightly! Suffice it to say that painting prevents me
from being idle now. It is also a
further ingredient in my war on depression, since a step down from the
intellect,
as demanded by literary production, to the senses - principally the
eyes. By comparison with writing, it is
quite
relaxing to paint, so relaxing, in fact, that at times one feels
positively
moronic, like there is nothing in one's head because one is simply
reduced to a
pair of eyes with an appendage on the end of one's hand.
And my works, being more abstract than
concrete, provide little food for thought, so simple is their overall
appearance. They are primarily designed
for contemplation rather than reflection, as objects to be looked at
rather
than pondered over. But that is perhaps
a shortcoming which I intend to rectify, in some measure, over the
coming
months, as I grapple with the problem of outlining, in
quasi-representational
terms, the physical constituents of the Supermen and Superbeings
of my conceptual projections in regard to a post-human millennial
future. Few people would be able to make
any
constructive suggestions to me here, for I shall be on entirely novel
ground,
as already explored in my writings or, at any rate, in the best and
most
progressive of them.
I ought perhaps to add to
the above
statements, concerning these writings, that I attained to a maximum of
truth in
regard to human and subsequent (post-human) evolutionary stages which
made it
virtually inevitable that I should abandon writing for painting, where
I could
translate some of my ideas into visual images.
Having attained to the unadulterated truth in my writings, I
couldn't
very well indefinitely extend them, since the end or, rather, goal had
been
reached, and only embellishments or refinements could have been added. For my writings progressed from dualism or,
rather, humanism to transcendentalism, and so attained to a thematic
climax
beyond which no further progress was possible.
I had no option, therefore, but to switch to painting, in the
hope that
some of my evolutionary ideas could be clarified and better-illustrated
through
that medium.
As
yet,
I
have only concentrated on the simplest and most straightforward ideas
-
namely those which don't put too great a strain on my limited technical
facility. But I shall soon have to
extend the subject-matter of my paintings to embrace my conceptions of
the
Supermen and Superbeings, as already
mentioned. By now I am tired of
depicting Spiritual
Globes and, in a still higher context, the Omega Point, or culmination
of all
spiritual convergence, as originally taught by Teilhard
de Chardin, that in many ways most
revolutionary of
Catholic thinkers! I must go back down
the evolutionary ladder, as it were, to grapple with the millennial
contexts of
both old brains and new brains artificially supported and no-less
artificially
sustained. Of course, no-one really
knows what I am doing or what my intentions are. They
are
much too stupid and naive here for
that, and this applies as much to Dr Richardson as to Major Saunders or
Matthew
Sharpe or even Robert Dunne. As to
Edmond Shead, whose acquaintance I have
yet to make
... despite his presence at Sharpe's
wedding anniversary the other night, I suspect he will be no more
receptive or
enthusiastic than the others about the future course of evolution, as
envisaged
by me. That is what you get for living
in a country which is fundamentally dedicated to thwarting evolutionary
progress
and maintaining allegiance to liberal humanism, come what may! I write and speak much too frequently on the
transcendent plane for their comfort, and am accordingly obliged to
confess, in
somewhat Nietzschean vein, that 'I am not
the mouth
for those ears'. Even Susan, who is
supposed to be Irish, takes umbrage at certain of my theories, which
she
regards as detrimental to traditional female norms.
But at least she is prepared to grant them
some credence and to acknowledge their long-term plausibility. At least she accepts that I speak the truth,
not illusions or half-truths, like our friends and acquaintances.
But if the unadulterated
truth is unlikely
to be published here, in
But there are serious
drawbacks from being
in this position, not the least of which is the tendency people have to
identify one with one's published work.
"Ah, so you're the author of 'Betwixt Truth and Illusion'!"
they exclaim, and, somewhat shamefacedly, I have to admit to the fact. The worst part is when they begin to discuss
it, asking me about specific parts of the book or giving me their own
opinions
on the subject-matter under surveillance.
Then I really have to grit my teeth and persevere with them in
an
attempt to avoid a show-down, to spill the beans about my best, i.e.
unpublished, work, and thus to reveal my utter contempt for and
indifference
towards the humanistic material which they mistakenly imagine to be
truly
representative of my philosophical position.
To say: "I no longer believe a word of all this" about such
material would be too cruel on them and would expose me, moreover, to a
degree
of incredulity, on their part, bordering on nihilism, since they would
have
difficulty in believing that I existed under false pretences,
ostensibly as a
liberal bourgeois like themselves but, in reality, as a transcendental
revolutionary whose best and most progressive work still awaited its
rightful
publisher! No, that would cause too many
complications, including the necessity of my explaining to them exactly
what I do
believe in - assuming they could be expected
to understand it!
Indeed, there are more than
a few occasions
when I come dangerously close to giving the game away, as it were, with
inquisitive strangers whose persistence in dwelling on my published
works
almost unhinges me and virtually compels me to defend myself from their
inaccurate observations and callous accusations by refuting everything
they
say. But somehow I manage to restrain
the impulse to vindicate myself to them, even though at a considerable
cost to
my intellectual self-esteem. One man
even tried to point out the moral limitations of 'Betwixt Truth and
Illusion'
recently, accusing me of reactionary conservatism.
To be sure, I could have emphasized the moral
limitations of that work far more cogently and stringently than ever he
did! Nevertheless I remained silent and
swallowed his shallow criticisms as a matter of course.
If he knew who he had really been talking to
he would probably have pissed in his pants, the silly sod!
But where most people here are concerned,
it's the "Forgive-them-for-they-know-not-what-they-do" attitude one
is obliged to endorse, if only because the whole truth would be beyond
them.
Thus, despite my numerous
temptations for
self-revelation, I have generally held my tongue and thereby refrained
from
giving the game away as to my real inclinations. I
am
something of a wolf in sheep's clothing,
though occasionally the clothing has shown signs of wear-and-tear which
have
come dangerously close to exposing the wolf!
Especially is this so of my neighbours and acquaintances - for
example,
Major Saunders and Dr Richardson, who have had more than a glimpse, in
recent
weeks, of my true self, and this after I have attempted to reassure
them that,
at heart, I am a perfectly docile middle-class citizen, with no
revolutionary
predilections whatsoever.
Of course, I'm not entirely
lying when I
describe myself as middle class. For I was born into a professional family, even though
my father
was a comparative failure whom I never saw anything of, while my mother
was of
working-class origin and didn't live with my father for very long. But I have lived so long in intensively urban
environments that my class instincts are somewhat ambivalent, and I
often find
myself thinking like a proletarian when I am expected to show
middle-class
sympathies. This has happened quite
frequently since I came to Norfolk, so that even my wife has had
occasion to
raise her brows when I refer to some middle-class habit or value with
derisory
contempt, and then in the company of people who could only be
surprised, if not
offended, by it. With regard to
appearances, however, they take me for a gentleman, since I don't
particularly
look or dress like a yob. But the
influence of lengthy confinement in a working-class area of north
London
persists in intruding into my conversation from time to time, so that,
if
well-intentioned, these respectable bourgeois folk are obliged to shake
their
capitalist heads and think something to the effect: "Poor fellow, he
was
really up against it there!", or: "Poor fellow, his class integrity
certainly suffered in consequence of all that urban conditioning!", and
so
on, with accompanying sympathetic expressions thrown-in for good
measure.
A bourgeois isn't supposed
to hate nature,
but I do. They explain this in terms of
my long confinement in the city. A
bourgeois is supposed to have confidence in parliamentary democracy,
but I
speak disparagingly of it, likening it to a dictatorship of the
bourgeoisie. They explain this in terms
of my previous lengthy exposure to proletarian views.
A bourgeois is supposed to prefer classical
music to rock or jazz, but I don't. They
explain this by saying that poverty prevented me from regularly
attending
classical concerts whilst I was in
No, I am not middle class,
in any strict
sense of that term, and I doubt if I shall ever be, no matter how long
I live
in the country. Rather, I am an amalgam
of contradictory elements subject to fluctuation, depending on the
environmental and/or social circumstances in which I happen to find
myself at
any given time. When the time comes for
me to throw myself into the battle for social revolution, then I dare
say I
shall do so with a clear conscience, irrespective of whatever efforts I
am now
making to lead a perfectly unassuming provincial existence. If I lived above myself in
Tomorrow I shall be going to
see what Shead's revolutionary invention
is all about, but, in the
meantime, something curious has happened.
I received a letter from a certain Philomena Hawkins - one of
many
dozens of letters I receive every week - referring to my latest
publication in
sympathetic and even flattering tones.
She writes that she couldn't quite believe that I was the person
she had
once known, albeit briefly and superficially, in
Well, if respond I must then
respond I did,
informing her that she may well have conditioned the workings of my
subconscious to some extent in the formation and subsequent development
of the
character in question, although I had no specific person in mind when
it was
drafted. However, as Philomena had
always charmed me whenever we chanced to meet in the past, I added that
I
should be glad for an opportunity to meet her as soon as possible, even
given
the fact of her London address, and hoped we could discuss
'Crossed-Purpose' in
more detail thereafter. The letter from
me was duly posted and now I await, with a
certain
trepidation, her reply - assuming I get one.
Curiously I never once found out what Philomena's surname was,
so I had
no way of personally contacting her, even though I possessed the
rudiments of a
Finchley address. It couldn't have been
Hawkins at any rate, since that appears to be her marital name, if the
'Mrs'
she put against her signature is anything to judge by.
She was a Catholic, I remember, and had
bright-blue eyes - very Irish-looking really, though spoke with an
upper-middle-class English accent. I
haven't of course mentioned any of this to Susan, but I expect I will
be able
to concoct some kind of plausible excuse for going down to
CHAPTER
THREE:
SHEAD'S REVOLUTIONARY INVENTION
"I'm
sorry
we
couldn't show you our little invention before now," remarked
Edmond Shead as, with the conclusion of
the
introductory handshake, I followed his tall figure up the
thickly-carpeted
staircase of the rather affluent-looking detached house in which he
lived,
alone apart from a maid and a couple of small dogs, no more than a few
hundred
yards from myself. By 'we' he was alluding
to himself and Robert Dunne, who was also with us, not to Patrick Lyttleton, a complete stranger to me who had
arrived just a
few minutes before and was now standing at the top of the stairs,
waiting, it
seemed, for further guidance. "But
there were one or two last-minute hitches in getting it in proper
working
order."
"I've all the patience in
the world
where other people's inventions are concerned," I averred, allowing
myself
the gregarious luxury of excessive understatement.
"Besides, I rather enjoyed the suspense
from having to wait."
We reached the first floor,
suffered
further introductions, and turned left along a narrow corridor before
entering,
at the far end of it, a room of about normal size though abnormal
height - well
over twenty feet. I held my breath as I
crossed the threshold into its brightly-lit interior, and expended it
with a
sigh of relief when I saw that nothing particularly unseemly was going
on. For other than a video recorder, some
chairs,
and a rather nondescript apparatus vaguely reminiscent of a dentist's
chair,
the room was completely empty and not the scene of sexual depravity or
physical
torture, as I had half-expected from the scant information already
received
from Robert Dunne on the subject of Shead's
revolutionary machine.
"Well, this is it!" my
amiable
host informed me, and not only me but, so it appeared, the little
bald-headed
man called Patrick Lyttleton also, since
he had yet
to be properly initiated into the room's secrets.
We both stood
a
moment baffled by the apparatus before us, like two working-class
schoolboys
confronted by the interior of a car factory, and made not the slightest
comment, nor could we have done so. For
Robert Dunne was quick to intrude with "Any guesses?", and since
neither of us felt like making one, a puzzled and slightly embarrassing
silence
supervened, although I had a few private ideas in mind!
"Perhaps you'll be in a
better
position to guess when it's set in motion," Shead
kindly volunteered, and almost at once he pushed a button on the upper
right-hand side of the contraption, where there was a panel of
various-coloured
buttons with terse, rather diminutive information plaques beneath.
The START button immediately
began a
process that quickly threw me into convulsive laughter, an upshot
which,
brought about by the sudden confirmation of my suspicions, must have
had a
reciprocal effect upon Lyttleton. For he soon began to snigger, despite
whatever pretensions of seriousness to which he may have laid prior
claims. And why not, seeing that, once
set in motion, the apparatus became sexually explicit, as a
phallus-like
object, hitherto concealed from view, thrust up into the air through a
small
aperture in what must have been a plastic seat and then rapidly
withdrew, only
to thrust up again in identical fashion a split second later, and so
on, with
piston-like regularity.
"Why, you've created a
fucking-machine!" I impulsively exclaimed, unable to restrain my
language. "That's a plastic cock
you've just set in motion!"
Patrick Lyttleton
emphatically nodded his bald head in evident agreement and sniggered
some more.
"Too bloody right it is!" Shead admitted, a warm glow of pride suffusing
his
ordinarily pallid countenance. "And
that object up through which it thrusts is where young ladies position
themselves throughout the duration of the, er,
copulatory procedures.
The artificial phallus comes in a variety of sizes, so a woman
can
select whichever size she needs in order to satisfy her wants." Here he pointed out a cabinet on the
left-hand side of the machine in which some ten plastic substitutes
were
stored, ranging in length from 5-12 inches and in diameter from 1-3
inches. There were even substitutes in
the collection which had the appearance of being circumcised, and here Shead stressed that, whether for religious or
cultural
reasons, some women would prefer them to the plain, or uncircumcised,
variety. "After all, one has to
cater to the widest possible taste," he added, casting Lyttleton
a self-satisfied look.
I watched, fascinated, as
the demonstration
exhibit continued to thrust backwards and forwards into thin air, while
my
fellow guest, having regained a modicum of seriousness, questioned the
chief
inventor of the machine about possible variations in the rhythm
pattern, as he
politely phrased it.
"Yes indeed!" Shead
responded, with evident alacrity.
"This is where the button panel comes in. For
here
..." and at this point he
pressed a button adjacent to the START one "... we have the means of
imposing a quicker rhythm on the phallus."
And, sure enough, the
plastic dildo now
began to thrust backwards and forwards through the hole in the seat
twice as
fast as before, to the intellectual relief and optical satisfaction of Lyttleton. "Ah, that's really excellent!" he averred,
simultaneously
nodding his bald-headed approval.
"As she approaches orgasm, a woman would require a quicker
thrust."
"Indeed she would," Shead concurred knowledgeably.
"And by pressing this third button, she
can increase the rate of thrust even more."
This was perfectly true. For now the artificial substitute was moving
so fast through the air that I could scarcely see it, let alone keep up
with
its rhythmic progress. Once again I had
to laugh, though not without evoking a sympathetic response from all
but one of
the others, who were only too easily infected by my amusement.
"Yes, it does take a bit of
getting
used to at first," Dunne opined, partly, no doubt, for my benefit, but
also partly because he had been of the amused party and doubtless felt
it was
about time he contributed something constructive to our appreciation of
the
machine, if only for Shead's sake. "You'll be even more surprised to see
what's coming up," he added.
"But please stand back
first,"
his senior colleague advised us, and when we had done so he proceeded
to press
a fourth button on the panel, which immediately had the effect of
precipitating
what appeared to be an orgasm from the plastic phallus in the form of a
thick
spray of semi-opaque liquid which shot up into the air from a central
spout in
a succession of rapid jerks, before crashing down onto the seat and
surrounding
area of the floor. Even Lyttleton had to laugh here, as well as clap his
hands in
obvious delight at what had just happened.
"This milky liquid, composed of various harmless chemicals, is
designed to simulate sperm," Shead rather
pedantically informed us, wiping some of it from his brow, "though the
device can be fed actual deposits of sperm when used as a method of
effecting
pregnancies."
"You mean it can be used to
propagate
children?" I incredulously exclaimed, hardly daring to believe my ears.
"Oh yes!" the assistant
inventor
interposed with obvious relish. "We
didn't just intend it to function as a thrill machine, an artificial
alternative
to the male sex. We also hoped that it
would prove a viable substitute for impotent husbands; for those
husbands, more
especially, whose impotence, though not entirely preventing them from
achieving
orgasm, takes the form of an inadequately forceful discharge, in which
sperm is
deposited insufficiently far into the, er,
vagina of
his partner to be capable of effecting a pregnancy.
Thus for women whose husbands let them down
in this way - and there must be literally millions of them - the
solution is not
to sue for divorce, still less resign oneself to going childless, but
to
purchase a device like this, into which a deposit of the husband's
sperm can be
placed for the subsequent attainment of an artificial insemination
which is
both pleasurable and efficacious, the fruitful outcome of which could
only be a
joyful pregnancy. Thus our invention can
not only save marriages, it can create lives!"
"How extraordinary!" cried Lyttleton, and despite my initial misgivings I
just had to
agree with him. Why, if one could make
one's wife pregnant through artificial means, what was there to stop an
intensely transcendent artist like myself from exploiting such a device
to
telling effect, even given the fact that I personally disliked babies? I smiled to myself, visibly intrigued by the
prospect.
Meanwhile Lyttleton
had gone closer to the machine and was now looking at the penile
substitute
with the air of an experienced connoisseur, painstakingly engaged in
the
arduous process of estimating the value of a masterpiece.
Shead, to
facilitate his guest's assessment, had slowed the rhythm pattern of the
thrusting mechanism down to bedrock level, as it were. Dunne was wiping-up such of the ejaculated
liquid as was accessible to his mop, whilst I, virtually hypnotized by
the
sexual revolution, stared in wonderment.
Could it be that men were about to be put out of business by
this
invention, I wondered?
"And the great thing about
it, from a
woman's point of view, is that she can trigger off the
artificially-induced orgasm
to suit herself," Shead continued, taking
over
the reins of exposition from where Dunne had tactfully dropped them. "She needn't fear a premature climax
from her partner, as all too many women do, nor be obliged to
masturbate after
his climax has left her unmoved. Simply
by regulating the rhythm of the phallus, she can bring on her own
orgasm as and
when it suits her, independently, if needs be, of the artificial one. And, believe me, this apparatus will always
guarantee maximum satisfaction, not leave her frustrated or unrequited
in
consequence of impotence! By stepping-up
its rhythmic speed she'll be brought to an orgasm sooner or later, and
can
continue to experience as many natural orgasms as she needs, bearing in
mind
that, unlike a man, this lover won't grow tired or run out of juice,
but can
continue to function indefinitely, supplying her with as many
artificial
orgasms as she can take."
"Ideal!" Lyttleton
concluded, his connoisseur's air becoming steadily more pronounced.
"And, of course, she can
always change
the size of the synthetic member to one that, well, provides her with
the
maximum of satisfaction and the minimum of frustration, if you follow
me,"
interjected the mop-weary subordinate inventor, as he laid his soggy
mop to one
side.
Lyttleton
eagerly
nodded his shiny head and put fingers to chin in response to the
exigencies of
fresh mental calculations.
"Hmm," he at length concluded, drawing out his musings with
evident relish, "a device that absolutely guarantees a lady
satisfaction,
can be used for business as well as pleasure, is perfectly safe, since
immune,
amongst other things, to venereal diseases, has virtually infinite
appetites,
can be switched on-and-off at will, ejaculates more forcefully and, if
I'm not
mistaken, copiously than a natural organ, is comfortable to use, comes
in a
variety of colours, may be tailored to suit the individual requirements
of the
customer, and, what's more, puts no physical demands on her ... seems
like a
jolly good commercial proposition, if you ask me!"
Shead
was almost
foaming at the mouth here, and I thought for a moment that he was on
the point
of kissing his important guest's hands when he opened it, instead, to
inform
him that there was an additional dimension to the apparatus which
modesty alone
had precluded him from imposing upon us - the dimension, namely, of a
sound
recording attached to the rear of the machine which could facilitate
sexual
abandonment by mimicking the real-life blandishments and physical
struggles of
a lover. "One may choose here from
a variety of alternative recordings," the senior inventor went on,
pointing to the relevant box, "from the most coarsely reproachful to
the
most subtly endearing, and all to make the experience as life-like as
possible. Actually, we had intended to
introduce you to
this aspect of the total experience through a video, if you're
satisfied with
the, ah, introductory demonstration."
"Very
satisfied
indeed!" Lyttleton declared, and I
automatically concurred with him, though I was beginning to realize
that I
existed on a vastly different plane than my fellow guest in the
inventors'
eyes, and was becoming puzzled as to exactly what my station or
function could
possibly amount to here. Nevertheless I
silently accepted the chair offered me beside Lyttleton,
while
Shead drew up a chair behind us and Dunne
busied himself with the video equipment, before switching off the
lights.
"The model in the video will
be a
stranger to both of you," Shead announced,
with
I knew not what clairvoyance, as the first splash of colour erupted
onto the
screen some five yards in front of us.
"But have no fear, she's a very
attractive
young lady."
And, sure enough, that she
was, being a
medium-built brunette in her early twenties - long-haired, blue-eyed,
slender-legged,
and well-curved, amongst a variety of other significant statistics. I could see that she was standing in this
very room. For part of the mechanical copulator or penetrator
or
whatever could be seen to her left, motionless like a posted sentry. I waited impatiently for her to undress,
which she was doing slowly and deliberately, almost as though she were
engaged
in a striptease act, removing her black mini-skirt with graceful
nonchalance
and then peeling off her skimpy vest in the same slow, calculated
manner. One could tell that she had
thoroughly
rehearsed her part in the interests of professional polish, since this
video
was evidently intended for advertising purposes. The
model
obviously knew what was expected of
her, doubtless because Shead had given her
a thorough
briefing, if not coaching, and so ensured that she undressed in the
correct
way, with feminine finesse coupled to excited longing for the machine. Even Lyttleton
was
beginning to breathe more quickly and audibly as the brunette removed
her even
skimpier bra with scarcely-concealed impatience and exposed, in bending
down to
remove her panties, a pair of the most delightfully-pendulous breasts
it had
ever been my good fortune to behold. Her
stockings, suspenders, suspender belt, and high heels were not to be
removed,
however, evidently because they constituted no obstacle to the
attainment of
her coital desires. And neither, it soon
became apparent, did the mechanical copulator
itself,
since she had obviously been instructed in how to operate it and knew
exactly
what size she wanted, taking a large uncircumcised substitute from the
side
compartment. Then, having lovingly
caressed the chosen organ for the benefit of her libido, she inserted
it into
the thrusting device beneath the seat, and stood back to admire her
handiwork. At the same time a running
commentary by Shead played-on in the
background, or
perhaps one should say foreground, since it was quite loud and thus
precluded
the necessity of either Shead or Dunne
saying
anything to substantiate the information being imparted to the viewer. In this way, Lyttleton
and I gleaned that the model's name was Trudi,
that
she
was dying to re-experience the thrill Janko
-
evidently the name of the copulator - had
previously
given her, and that she had complete confidence her sexual needs would
be fully
satisfied.
And in case one had any
lingering doubts,
now came the moment of truth, the revelation of guaranteed sexual
satisfaction
as, becoming suddenly respectful and coy, almost apprehensively so, Trudi climbed astride the plastic seat, leant
back on the
comfortably-padded one-prong back rest, fumbled under herself for the
artificial lover, and, satisfied that everything was in proper
alignment,
excitedly pressed the START button on her right, which immediately
brought a
suppressed cry of pain to her lips as the lover in question thrust
unfeelingly
upwards into her tender flesh.
I instinctively looked away
from the screen
at this point; for I am no sadist to take pleasure in another person's
pain! Next to me, Lyttleton
coughed faintly in evident embarrassment at the spectacle before him,
but
gallantly said nothing. The recorded
commentary was still droning on, and now to the effect that the initial
pain
caused by the first few thrusts of the artificial phallus was as
nothing
compared with the intense pleasure which the smooth functioning of Janko would soon engender, as Trudi
gradually stepped-up 'his' copulatory
speed and
simultaneously availed herself of the recording facilities to-hand -
these
being, in her case, a rather lusty male accompaniment to her mounting
sexual
abandonment which was a potent mixture of animal grunts and verbal teasings, including the rather deferential use
of a variety
of four-letter words.
Well, I sat there both
intrigued and
revolted at once, and I am sure that Lyttleton
was
experiencing similarly ambivalent feelings to me, though he made no
comment,
which wasn't altogether surprising in view of the audio intensity of
the sex
recording in question! Now I understood
what Shead had meant when he said that
modesty alone
had precluded him from imposing this further dimension of the
mechanical copulator upon us.
To be sure, it was hardly something for cultivated ears! Anyway, regardless of its aesthetic
shortcomings,
the vocal accompaniment evidently succeeded in pandering to Trudi's
sexual needs, since it lent the overall experience extra erotic
potency,
turning the machine into a near-life substitute for an actual man. From the business angle there was even the
possibility of playing-up this aspect of the total experience, of
harping upon
the advantages, from a woman's standpoint, of having a lusty audio
accompaniment, a vital ingredient of sexual relations which had perhaps
been
lacking from her previous sex life? Why,
therefore, should not a woman whose human lovers had been verbally
inhibited
profit more from the total experience offered by Janko,
who,
by
contrast, was capable of the most lustfully uninhibited
blandishments? What woman could possibly
resist such an advantage?
Yes, I was beginning to
acquire a certain
respect for Shead's ingenuity here, which
was
reinforced by the visual evidence of sexual satisfaction now so
blatantly
exhibited on screen, as Trudi, having in
the meantime
further stepped-up the speed of the mechanical copulator,
opened
her
mouth wide and tilted her head back with the approach of
orgasm. Here, once again, Shead's commentary came to the fore just as the
lustful
blandishments reached a brutal climax and then suddenly faded into the
background, like a passing train. We had
to be informed what Trudi's next move
would be, lest
there were any doubts on the matter. And
her next move, logically enough, was to push the orgasm button and
precipitate
an artificial ejaculation from the plastic thruster
which was intended to synchronize with her own, more natural orgasm. Her next move, needless to say, was timed to
perfection. For, as she pressed the
required button, her mouth opened wider and her head was tossed from
side to
side in the ecstasy which engulfed her, obliging her to cry out in the
throes
of a pleasure crisis and hold on tighter to the seat for fear of
falling
off. A 'forcefully copious orgasm' was
the commentator's verdict here, and, to be sure, it was impossible not
to believe
him, given the optical and audible confirmation before us!
With the termination of her
passion,
however, Trudi could do no more than
stagger from the
by-now quiescent machine and slump exhausted to the floor, opening her
legs to
the viewer in order, presumably, to assure him that she had both
received and
returned a climax at the same time. And
what a climax! For there could be no
denying that the milky liquid which now trickled from between her
thighs had
been generously offered and no less generously received!
One could also see,
if in need of any reassurance, that the artificial phallus left no
bruises or
marks behind, so that it was indeed as safe and gentle to use as its
inventors
claimed. And, finally, one could note
the obvious relief occasioned by surfeited desire on the young model's
beautiful face, her eyes closed in peace, her lips forming a complacent
smile,
one of her hands gently and absentmindedly caressing a breast.
Yes, it was unquestionably
an impressive
propaganda campaign Shead and Dunne had
devised
between them, and now that the video had run its intensely erotic
course, I had
no option but to join Lyttleton in
congratulating
them both for the success of their achievement.
Lyttleton, it transpired, was more
relieved
than me that the machine was capable of such gratifying results, since
it was
from him that the warmest praise was duly elicited.
"A truly remarkable demonstration!"
he opined, his voice trembling with a degree of suppressed
embarrassment, now
that the lights had been switched back on, and both Shead
and Dunne were again revealed, the former still sitting behind us, the
latter
nonchalantly standing near the video recorder.
"One wonders how you managed it."
"Yes, it was certainly a
convincing
performance," I added, without intending to sound ironical.
"Well, as you could see, Trudi was the person who managed the most, since
all we had
to do was film her and tape the commentary," declared Dunne in what I
could only suppose to be sympathetic understatement.
"But we can assure you that her feelings
and responses were genuine, not feigned.
We've had a job to keep her away from the damn machine ever
since!"
Both Lyttleton
and I sniggered at this comment, though I personally had some
reservations as
to its probable veracity. Nevertheless Lyttleton's next response left me in no doubt
whatsoever as
to his role here, since it was directed solely at Shead.
"I'll take up your offer of
a patent
on Janko and set about getting him into
mass
production during the next few months. I
can only be grateful that you've given me first option on buying him
and,
frankly, I've full confidence that he'll succeed. It
will,
however, be necessary for me to have
a few words with my younger brother, Thomas, about this.
But I don't think you'll need to look any
farther afield for your manufacturer. I'll have Janko
on
the market by next year at the latest.
In fact, I'll convert my old vibrator-producing factory into a
place
capable of turning out at least a hundred of these, ah, mechanical copulators a week, and I'm reasonably confident
that the
workforce will be prepared to modify their constructive skills along
more
autonomous channels, as soon as I can get the basic mechanical
components of
the apparatus designed and properly assembled, the dildo-like aspects
of it in
particular."
Shead's
face
brightened appreciably, and he all but
heaved a sigh
of gratified relief. He had evidently
been uncertain as to whether Lyttleton
could be
persuaded to put the mechanical copulator
into
production, but now he was confident that the manufacturer meant
business. And business could only mean
money, possibly
lots of money, considering how sexually efficacious his invention was. He would become rich and famous, and Dunne
along with him.
I listened to his gratified
response to Lyttleton's assurances with
some pleasure but couldn't help
wondering, all the same, exactly what my role here was.
After all, it seemed unlikely that they would
have invited me along just for the fun of it, especially in the company
of such
an important (from their point of view) guest as Lyttleton. Could there be some ulterior motive involving
my wife, I wondered? To be sure, I
couldn't discount the possibility that she secretly wanted a child by
me and,
realizing I had no intentions of giving her one through natural means,
hoped
that I could be induced to make her pregnant artificially, which is to
say,
through the medium of Janko, in whose
plastic prick a
deposit of my sperm would be lodged. The
idea certainly wasn't unfeasible, and I marvelled at my wife's
imaginative
ingenuity in conceiving of it - assuming she had. But
that
was hardly likely to be the official
reason for my presence here and, as soon as Shead
had
said his fawning piece, I tentatively inquired about my possible role
in the
proceedings, fearful of the worst but hoping for the best.
"Ah, forgive me for keeping
you in
suspense all this time, Jason," he responded, becoming slightly
flustered
now that I had forced the issue upon him.
"I ought to have told you earlier, but I wanted to see what your
response to our little invention would be, before suggesting the
possibility of
your becoming involved in our project, er,
artistically."
"Artistically?"
I echoed, baffled.
"Yes, you're a painter and
photographer of merit, aren't you?"
It was almost as though he
needed
reassuring and, immodestly, I nodded, admitting as much to him.
"Well, with your valuable
assistance,
we feel that we shall be able to put our product across better,
assuming you'd
be prepared to photograph the apparatus from various angles and make
several
sketches of it. A famous artist like you
would automatically confer additional prestige on our invention,
particularly
if ..." He halted in his verbal tracks, unable, through embarrassment,
to
continue, though I had a hunch what the crafty bastard was driving at! Nevertheless I refrained from comment on that
score, partly out of respect for Susan, and contented myself, instead,
with
reminding him that I wasn't famous as an artist but only as a writer. "Ah, yes, but you do possess
considerable talent in regard to painting," he countered, seemingly
unperturbed by my excuse, "and could only enhance your, shall we say,
growing reputation as an artist by contributing to our project. Mr Lyttleton, for
one, will be prepared - will you not, sir? - to
commission a
number of paintings and sketches from you, as well as some photographs,
over
the coming months."
"I most certainly will," the
manufacturer replied, blushing under pressure of this unexpected
reference to
his future responsibilities.
"Well," I said, after a
cautious
glance at my prospective patron, "I'll do what I can to satisfy your
requirements, despite my dubious status as an artist.
I don't know who's been spreading rumours
about me, but I'm certainly not the famous painter you might like to
imagine."
Robert Dunne coughed ironically,
then apologized to me in person for any misinformation with which he
may have
supplied Shead out of a personal
enthusiasm for my
work. "It wasn't that I attempted
to hype you up in my colleague's eyes," he confessed, finding time to
interpolate a mildly ingratiating smile into his apology, "but that I
sincerely believe in your painterly talents, and am quite convinced
you're the best
man for the job. Your transcendental
bias would be admirably suited to the depiction and possible
clarification of
such a supernaturally artificial apparatus as our Janko."
I nodded my aching head on a
confirmatory
impulse, but had my doubts all the same.
Time alone would tell, I realized.
CHAPTER
FOUR:
A RENDEZVOUS WITH PHILOMENA
It
wasn't
long
before I got a reply from Philomena and was duly obliged to make
excuses
to my wife about having to go down to London for a couple of days, to
attend to
some outstanding business with my dealer.
As it happens, I would have had to make a trip down to London
shortly in
any case, since I wanted to arrange for an exhibition of my latest
canvases in
one of the more avant-garde galleries there.
So I was partly telling the truth to Susan
when I
informed her of my impending departure and did what I had to, in order
to
dissuade her from accompanying me.
Of course, I knew Susan well enough, by now, to realize that she
wouldn't begrudge me a little additional sex on the side, if I could
get
it. But one can never be too explicit or
open about such matters with women, since it automatically offends
their sexual
vanity, making them assume you think greater satisfaction can be found
elsewhere, in someone else's bed…. Which fact might be true, though
they will
never admit that another woman could give you more satisfaction than themselves. Not
Susan, at any rate!
But if getting away from
Norfolk for a
while wasn't too difficult, then finding somewhere suitable to stay in
London
certainly was, since I needed a hotel not too far from Philomena's
Finchley
address. Eventually I tracked one down,
but not before I had exasperated myself in the process, namely because
I can
never abide a noisy front room, and was obliged to turn down at least
four
unsuitable offers. The fifth, however,
was in a small hotel in Muswell Hill,
where I
gratefully deposited the meagre contents of my zipper bag on the single
bed of
the only available rear room, which happened to be on the first floor,
and
prepared myself to meet Philomena, having already telephoned her and
informed
her of my arrival. We had agreed to meet
in a café round the corner from the hotel, to have lunch together, and
then,
assuming things were developing reasonably well, to return to her flat,
which
would be empty, since her husband was at work and therefore several
miles
away. That would give me plenty of time,
I figured, to grow better acquainted with her.
I cannot pretend, however,
that my return
to north London was the unequivocal pleasure I had perversely imagined
it would
be, after almost two years' absence.
Rather, I was saddened by the memories of my previous life to
which it
gave rise, and hastened, in consequence, to seek what consolation I
could in
Philomena's company. She entered the
café ten minutes late, just as I was beginning to fear that she might
have
changed her mind and backed down at the last moment.
At first I didn't recognize her, but
automatically responded to her recognition of me which, considering we
hadn't
laid eyes on each other for several years,
was
remarkably prompt. I stood up, blushing
perceptibly, like a schoolboy at the awkward age, and somewhat
self-consciously
shook hands with her, taking what comfort I could from the fact that
embarrassment
at this meeting wasn't solely confined to myself. I
scarcely
knew what to say to her, so
bewildered had I become with the sudden, poignant recognition of her
outstanding beauty. There were so few
women in the world, especially this part of it, who could be described
as
outstandingly beautiful ... that it was both a shock and a strain to be
actually meeting one, to have her sit before one at table and scan the
menu for
a suitable dish. I could only marvel that
her beauty had ripened with age. For now,
in her late twenties, she was even more attractive than she had been at
twenty-three or twenty-four. Admittedly,
the same features were still there - the eyes still bright blue, the
nose
gracefully aquiline, the mouth delicately sensuous, the brow high and
smooth,
the cheeks firm, the chin unobtrusively angular, the hair fine, long,
and black
(though today pinned-up in a neat little bun), the nape slender, the
ears
exquisitely small and flat, the shoulders gently curved, the hands ever
so
finely chiselled, and so on - but they appeared, whether because of my
relative
unfamiliarity with them after so long or, indeed, because they had
slightly
changed in the meantime, to belong to another person, superior in
quality to
the Philomena I had once known. Doubtless
my imagination was partly responsible for this impression, but it was
with some
difficulty that I ceased to stare at her, like a star-struck
adolescent, and
ordered the lunch she had requested, which I unthinkingly also
requested for
myself.
"So," she said, as the
waitress
went about her business, "this is the author of Petula
Reed, is it?" There was a
characteristically mischievous sparkle in her eyes and a faintly
reproachful
tone to her voice, which had the effect of precipitating me into a
fresh wave
of embarrassment.
"I hope you weren't offended
by the
fact that Petula came to a bad end in
'Crossed-Purpose'," I nervously responded.
"Well, I wasn't exactly
elated by it,
Jason," declared Philomena with characteristic frankness.
"You seem to have given all the best
roles to Susan."
My discomfiture mounted with
this reference
to the novel's leading female character, who
bore the
same name as my wife, although she had been derived from a different
source -
one known only too well to Philomena. "Yes,"
I
admitted,
"I was rather more biased in Rachel's, I mean, Susan's favour
in those days."
"And
now?"
Philomena asked, that mischievous sparkle
in her eyes
again.
I gently shook my head. "One falls in-and-out of love," I
confessed, still feeling on edge.
"As one gets older one realizes that love isn't necessarily the
chief criterion by which to evaluate another person's suitability to
oneself. One looks to other criteria -
for instance, intellectual companionship, temperamental affinity,
cultural
predilections, professional status, ethnic suitability, and so on. But, as a youth, it's the heart that governs
the head, not vice versa."
Philomena smiled
sympathetically. "So you're anxious not to
fall in love
again, is that it?"
At which point our lunches
were served,
thereby saving me from further embarrassment.
For I would almost certainly have answered
her
point-blank in the affirmative.
As it was, we ate our respective portions of roast chicken
mostly in
silence, although Philomena, who was evidently less hungry, persisted
in
forcing a degree of conversation upon me.
In this way I learnt that Rachel, the young woman from whom the
character of Susan had been drawn, was still friendly with Philomena
and that,
occasionally, the two of them would exchange visits.
I also learnt that Rachel was married with
two children, and that Philomena herself had one, though he was away at
boarding school, like, I decided to tell her, my wife's children. She was of course surprised to learn that my
wife's name was also Susan.
"And you're not in love with
her?" she boldly asked, as we reached the end of our meals almost
simultaneously.
"No," I replied. "Nor was I ever, to any appreciable
extent. It was simply a marriage of
convenience, because I desperately needed some company after moving
away from
London. I suppose my first and greatest
love was Rachel, who rather blunted the prospect of my ever falling
deeply in
love with anyone else.... Not that I particularly mind now, since, as
one gets
older, love becomes less passionate, in any case."
Philomena offered me a
tipped cigarette,
which I uncharacteristically accepted, if only for her sake. I despised cigarettes, but couldn't very well
expect her to smoke cigars instead. The
fact that she had once, with what seemed like bohemian insouciance,
rolled her
own cigarettes was surprising enough to me, though it had largely been
connected, I suspect, with the rather straitened circumstances of being
a
student. Nowadays, however, she could
afford to buy cigarettes, since she made a fairly tidy little sum as an
author,
freelance journalist, and part-time bookbinder.
In fact, bookbinding was, it seemed to me, the kind of
occupation
especially suited to a spiritually-inclined young woman like her,
because it
suggested a step up from crochet or knitting.
Not clothing for apparent purposes, but pages for essential
ones.... I
could understand Philomena's bias there.
We smoked in silence awhile,
and then
Philomena asked me whether I enjoyed living in Norfolk, which struck me
as a
strange question to ask after her previous one.
"Well, I prefer it to
London," I
replied. "After all the years of
solitude here, I'm sure I'd even prefer Hell, provided one wasn't alone
there."
"How many years, exactly,
were you
alone?"
"Over
nine."
Philomena raised her brows
and opened her
mouth slightly in sympathetic horror, whilst I blushed to be reminded
of
it. Blushed, too, for fear of being
overheard by the other people in the café - no doubt, Londoners every
damn one
of them! "Yes, I suffered a serious
depression in consequence, the effects of which are still with me. I could never have become resigned or
acclimatized to an environment at such a far remove from my provincial
conditioning and ancestral background. I
was always something of an outsider, isolated from my rightful
environment. Anyway, I hoped, in moving
out of London, that I'd be able to go from one environmental extreme to
another
and so speed-up my recovery."
"And did you?"
"No, not
quite. Admittedly, my current
environment signifies
a step in the right direction. But, as
far as its negligible effects on my depression are concerned, not a
sufficiently radical step, I'm afraid. I
wanted, if possible, to live in the country, but I only succeeded in
living in
a fairly residential suburb of
Philomena smiled faintly,
and I thought I
could detect a spark of relief in her eyes, like she needed to hear all
this. Was she withholding some important
information or knowledge from me, I wondered?
We ordered coffees, smoked
another
cigarette together, and then paid up and left.
I had imagined the journey to her Finchley flat would be
conducted by
bus or, possibly, taxi, but, to my gratified surprise, found myself
stepping
into a little Citroen 2cv6 which Philomena had parked nearby.
"Do you like them?" she
asked,
referring to Citroens in general.
"Hmm, I guess so," I
replied,
yanking the rather tight seat-belt into place and casting an interested
glance
over the dashboard panel. "Once a freak, always a freak, don't you think?"
"In some cases, Jason," she
admitted, smiling ironically as we drove away.
CHAPTER
FIVE:
INTELLECTUAL INTIMACIES
We
arrived
at
Philomena's address some ten minutes later and, once she had
securely parked
the car, entered the block and ascended the lift to her flat on the
second
floor. She had four rooms in all, and I
was introduced to the largest. It was
tastefully decorated in pale matt tones, with modern lightweight
furniture, a
warm full-sized carpet, a couple of small abstract paintings, and an
admirably
copious collection of books and discs all stacked in chronological
order on
shelves lining one of the walls. No sooner
had I found my bearings, as it were, than I was offered a chair and a
glass of
sherry, which I accepted with alacrity.
She lit herself a cigarette
and sat down
opposite me in the other armchair, drawing up her legs so that her
heels dug
into the soft cushion material in front.
I hadn't noticed much about her clothing until then, but now saw
that
she was wearing dark stockings under a beige skirt, which was buttoned
around a
white blouse that, on account of its nylon fabrication, was fairly
transparent. She had removed her high
heels and now assumed an appearance of restful abandon, as she savoured
the
aroma of her cigarette and eyed me with sympathetic curiosity. I thought her even more beautiful like this
than she had looked in the café, and couldn't resist conveying my
impression to
her.
"You're not supposed to say
such
things to a married woman," she teasingly responded, allowing herself
the
luxury of a modest blush. "Isn't
Susan beautiful, then?"
"Not as beautiful as you," I
declared, taking pleasure in Philomena's scarcely-concealed delight at
the
fact.
"I guess I ought to return
the
compliment in suitably modified terms by saying how clever you are,
Jason, to
be the author of such an interesting novel as 'Crossed-Purpose', not to
mention
the various parts of 'Betwixt Truth and Illusion'."
"I'm afraid you do me a
disservice by
evaluating my cleverness on the basis of those
works," I bluntly informed her, "since I've long since ceased to
write like that, or, indeed, to write anything at all, having developed
into a
painter and photographer in the meantime."
"Gosh, I am
surprised
to hear that!" cried Philomena, whose response was only to be
expected. "How did that come about,
then?"
I endeavoured to explain,
filling her in
about my subsequent post-humanistic writings and the inevitability of
my having
gravitated to art whilst I waited for both a full recovery from the
depression
which north London had so callously inflicted upon me and a chance to
expand my
professional interests in the direction of politics.
My best writings, I went on, were unlikely to
be published in England, since they were too ideologically advanced to
be
acceptable within the framework of a liberal civilization rooted in royalism. Only a
pro-transcendental civilization could do proper justice to them, and it
was my
destiny, I felt, to help bring about such a civilization when the time
was
ripe. As yet, there was no possibility
of one being created, so I had no real option but to bide my time and
persevere
with my painting activities, whilst I recovered from depression.
"Perhaps it wasn't so much
London as
England which is the chief cause of your depression," Philomena
suggested,
as she stubbed-out the butt of her cigarette and poured herself - I
having
declined - another glass of sherry.
"Not entirely," I confessed,
slightly amused, "though there's undoubtedly some truth in what you
say,
since
Philomena shook her head. "I was born in
"Like me," I remarked,
showing
visible signs of relief. "I always
thought you were Irish, though I had no way of knowing for sure, not
having
discovered your surname."
"Gill," she informed me,
blushing
at this reminder of her maiden name which, as I well knew, no longer
applied. "But my husband, being a
Hawkins, is an Englishman, and a fairly typical one at that."
"What, a conservative
dickhead?"
I conjectured, a shade maliciously.
"If that's someone who's
rather
old-fashioned, capitalist, cynical, materialistic, stolid, monarchic,
puritanical, muddleheaded, sports mad, pedantic, obsessed with keeping
up
appearances, and virtually incapable of taking criticism," Philomena
responded, showing signs of impatience,
"then yes, I suppose he is!
Such Englishmen, you inevitably learn, are never at fault about
anything,
never in the wrong. One is supposed, in
the event of failing to congratulate them for their moral shortcomings,
to take
their stupidities for granted!"
"A legacy, in part, of an
imperialistic tradition and, in part, of an entrenched ethnicity," I
opined, knowing exactly what she meant.
"And that's why, amongst other things, one is supposed to
believe
that parliamentary democracy is the best possible kind of democracy,
beyond
which one cannot progress. For as soon
as one begins to speak in favour of Social Democracy, of participatory
rather
than representative democracy, one is talking, according to such born
capitalists, of socialism, about which nothing good should be said,
since it
implies the public ownership of the means of production, and in a
country where
the overwhelming ownership of business is in private hands, and is
likely to
remain so even under a Labour government, socialism can only be a dirty
word. A curious fact, really, but the
people who boast, above all others, of being the freest in the world
are, in
reality, one of the most enslaved peoples, subjects of a constitutional
monarchy, whose political and other traditions impede the progress of
freedom
like virtually nowhere else on earth.
They may talk about freedom of speech, freedom of the press,
freedom to
write, and presumably publish or, rather, have published, what one
likes, etc.,
but, in reality, a man whose thoughts were truly free, and thus geared
to
spiritual redemption, would never be encouraged to air them in
monarchical
England! They'd reject his thoughts
out-of-hand."
"As, presumably, they've
done where
yours are concerned?" Philomena ruefully conjectured.
"Yes, certainly with regard
to my
transcendental thoughts, which approximate the closest of all to ultimate truth.
Only my early work, which was conventionally humanistic, is
acceptable
to them, and then only because it doesn't expose the limitations of
capitalist
civilization to any appreciable extent.... But to hear some Englishmen
talk,
you'd think that civilization had reached an apotheosis, beyond which
no
further evolution was possible! More's the pity that one can't get the truth
across to them
and thus save them from their seeming ignorance of the fact that the
individualistic competitiveness to which they so eagerly subscribe is
fundamentally barbarous. Unfortunately
they don't want to be saved from it, least of all by an Irishman, whose
constant opposition to what they stand for is taken for granted and
simply
regarded as an ethnically-conditioned thorn-in-the-side which, deriving
in some
measure from the cloudier if not wetter climatic factors traditionally
typifying Ireland, it is better to ignore than to heed, since neither
animal
can change its spots, nor, for that matter, its weather."
"'Where
ignorance is
bliss, 'tis folly to be wise'," Philomena quoted from a memory
evidently
well-stocked with poets like Gray.
"Don't believe it!" I
retorted. "Ignorance enslaves and
binds one to the illusory. Only truth
can liberate and lead one towards bliss.
There's nothing blissful about ignorance. All
one
can say is that the English live in a
kind of fool's paradise which will be rudely interrupted in the
not-too-distant
future."
"I take it you're alluding
to the ever-growing influence of
"Partly to that, and partly
to one or
two other things besides," I admitted, preferring not to enlarge. Instead, I got up from my armchair in order
to take a closer look at her library, which was ranged against the
opposite
wall in six tiers of brightly-varnished wooden shelves.
There must have been at least 3000 books
there, mostly novels and poetry, of which I had probably read several
hundred
in the heyday of my literary interests.
Nowadays, however, literature usually disgusted me, especially
when
English. To read a bourgeois novel was
beneath me, and even bourgeois/proletarian ones, as I liked to think of
those
which had a fairly proletarian subject-matter but had been published in
traditional book formats, had long ceased to intrigue me.
"How do you differentiate
between
them?" Philomena inquired of me, after I had told her as much.
"Bourgeois novels are like
this,"
I replied, pointing to a copy of Aldous
Huxley's Point
Counter
Point. "They are aligned
with liberal humanism and appertain to the bourgeoisie.
Bourgeois/proletarian novels, on the other
hand, are like that ..." here I drew her attention to her copy of Henry
Miller's Tropic of Cancer "... in which a generally more
proletarian technique and subject-matter prevail. The
former
tend to be mainly fictitious and
narrative, whereas the latter are mainly factual and autobiographical. As a rule, the former prevail in
Philomena drew attention to
my novel
'Crossed-Purpose' and said it must be bourgeois then, since embracing
bourgeois
characters and settings as well as avoiding the use of proletarian
words,
especially the principal four-letter ones.
"Yes," I rather shamefacedly
conceded. "It is
effectively a bourgeois or, at any rate, petty-bourgeois novel, which
explains
why, together with my other early works, it was published in
"How d'you
distinguish between your proletarian works
and
bourgeois/proletarian literature?" she not unreasonably wanted to know.
"Precisely by the fact that
whereas
the latter is published separately or, rather, individually, as a
novel, a
volume of poems, a volume of essays, and so on, the former should be
published
collectively, as a collection of writings in which a novel or, at any
rate,
prose work, a collection of poems, short stories, etc., will share the
same
tape and/or compact disc and overall title.
I say 'should be published' advisably, since such an
omega-oriented
literary format would be out-of-place in the alpha-stemming humanistic
civilization one finds in
"And
therefore only
likely to be published in a future revolutionary country?"
Philomena conjectured doubtfully.
"Yes, for a full-blown
transcendental
civilization will be exclusively omega-orientated and therefore not
prepared to
countenance independent publications of the individual, traditional
literary
genres which stem from the influence of the manifold roots of life, and
consequently permeate the lower levels of human evolution.
Here, in
Philomena drew herself up
closer to me, as
though she needed my physical support.
It was an old habit of hers, I remembered, to stand as
close
to me as possible. "And does your
collectivistic literature
use many four-letter words?" she asked.
"Not too many," I confessed,
knowing full-well what she was especially alluding to, "partly because
I
have intellectual blood in my veins and am not therefore as partial to
words
like 'fuck' and 'cunt' as I might otherwise
be, if I
were less of a head and more of a body, so to speak.
There are undoubtedly more such words in Henry
Miller's bourgeois/proletarian literature than ever there would be in
my
work. But I don't claim to be the last
word, as it were, in collectivized writings.
In reality, I'm only the first, a beginning which has yet to
officially
materialize on the world stage. Even the
so-called proletarian authors of the
"You mean, the use of
foreign
languages would correspond, on the verbal level, to a
collectivization compatible with omega-orientated criteria?"
Philomena
suggested, having in the meantime caught hold of my hand.
"Yes," I smilingly assured
her,
grateful for her ability to follow my reasoning, which wasn't to be
found in
many women - including, I might add, my wife.
"For just as the inclusion of various genres in a single volume
reflects, on the formal level, a convergence to a literary omega point,
so does
the use of various languages reflect, on the verbal level, a similar
tendency,
in opposition to the individual language distinctions which stem, in a
manner
of speaking, from the alpha roots of life in the stars, and have
constituted a
source of racial conflict and misery for centuries past.
To only write in one's own tongue, with no
foreign words and phrases, is equivalent to only writing as a novelist
or a
poet or a short-story writer or whatever, instead of as a collectivist. One is then merely one of many separate
nationalities writing in the interests of his own national language
rather than
aspiring towards a true, multilingual internationalism.
Now the finest bourgeois/proletarian authors
invariably use foreign languages, and refer to them frequently. Henry Miller, for example, uses French and
German in his novels which, while not being particularly impressive,
considering he doesn't use them all that often, is at least preferable
to
someone like Evelyn Waugh who, being a bourgeois novelist, eschews
foreign
words and phrases altogether, virtually on principle.
Admittedly, bourgeois authors often use Latin
and Greek, which we also find, albeit to a lesser extent, in
bourgeois/proletarian writings as well.
But no such classical tongues should be used in proletarian
writings,
since their transcendental bias would automatically exclude pagan
associations
and ingredients. I, for instance, don't
use Latin or Greek in my own higher writings, and wouldn't encourage
their use
in the future. But I'd have nothing
against the use of French, German, Spanish, Italian, modern Greek, and
Russian,
to name but a handful of foreign languages, in predominantly English
writings,
which could only profit from a more international approach, as
pioneered by
James Joyce in his own transitional novels."
I was delighted to see
copies of both Ulysses
and Finnegans Wake on Philomena's
bookshelves,
and confessed to her that my previous admiration for Joyce's late work
was
largely founded on the extent of his anti-conservatism and
anti-traditionalism,
which I considered essential ingredients in the march of evolutionary
progress. I also commented favourably on
the large volume of Pound's Cantos which graced her library,
remarking
that, as a bourgeois/proletarian poet, Pound had gone further than any
of his
contemporaries in developing a multilingual literature.
He had even used Asiatic and Middle Eastern languages
in his mature poems, which, not surprisingly, few of his contemporaries
could
have been expected to appreciate or evaluate in their true light. For it wasn't mere egocentricity or literary
hype on his part, to switch from one language to another, but fidelity
to
spiritual progress in a lingual convergence to the literary omega point
of a
truly international poetry. What Pound
had done for poetry, someone else would do for the more evolved medium
of
collectivized literature, though with more radical and frequent
cross-references between one language and another.
"And what d'you
think of Koestler?"
Philomena
asked,
pointing out From
Bricks
to
"Quite a lot actually," I
ventured
to reply, overlooking the irony in her choice of book.
"Especially as regards that publication,
which, although anthological, is probably the nearest we have yet come
to
full-blown collectivization on the bourgeois/proletarian level; though
it usually
happens that the bourgeois writer gets collectivized posthumously, in
accordance, one might be forgiven for thinking, with the religious
beliefs of
Western civilization in regard to a posthumous afterlife.
Of course, I don't see eye-to-eye with him everywhere. Yet, in spite of that, he strikes me as being
a kind of forerunner of myself, a shift away from Marxist-Leninist
materialism
towards a transcendentalism with socialist
overtones. Yes, he was certainly an
important influence on my own philosophical development - one of only a
few
such influences. His best work would not
be banned in a society dedicated to transcendental progress with a
social
dimension. It might prove necessary to
edit parts of his work in such a society, but there are certainly
aspects of
his mature writings which would appeal to a people for whom a purely
materialistic interpretation of life proved unconvincing."
"And what about Malcolm Muggeridge - doesn't he fit into a similar
anti-materialist
framework?" Philomena rejoined on a knowingly inquisitive note.
"Yes, but on a Christian
rather than a
transcendental level, which, frankly, is of little relevance to the
future," I averred. "Muggeridge
is simply the tail-end of humanistic
civilization, whereas Koestler, being more
transitional, points in the direction of a transcendental civilization. Muggeridge is basically reactionary through and through, like his
literary
hero, Evelyn Waugh. Yet that
isn't really surprising, since, as already remarked, English
civilization is
essentially liberal and its writers likewise.
One gets the odd exception, of course.
But, then, they generally wrote abroad, having already forged an
international reputation. Aldous Huxley is an example of what I mean, a
bourgeois who
started out on humanistic lines and slowly gravitated, partly under
American
influence, towards a transitional or bourgeois/proletarian framework in
which
transcendental criteria came to predominate.
In this respect, his late works are ideologically superior to
his early ones."
"A truism surely, since a
genuine
artist should always develop spiritually from a lower to a higher level
as his
career advances," Philomena declared.
"True, he should," I
confirmed. "But not all of them do,
maybe because they aren't as genuine as at first appeared.
Take D.H. Lawrence, for example. Can
one
say that his work improved as he went
along? Hardly! Although, if one takes his
own rather sensual standards for measure, one could argue that he
extended them
and became more radically neo-pagan as he went along. But much as, from a bourgeois/proletarian
angle, his technical approach to writing was admirably spontaneous, his
philosophical bias left something to be desired, driving him in an
increasingly
reactionary direction. One isn't going
to set oneself on the road to salvation by following D.H. Lawrence's
example,
believe me!"
Philomena smiled
deferentially, though
persisted in standing as close to me as possible. She
had
no intention of letting go of my
hand, either. "Tell me something
about your own approach to writing," she requested, following a short
pause. "I mean, did you write
quickly or slowly, for instance?"
"In general, I wrote
quickly, and so
conformed to post-humanistic spontaneity.
I didn't want my work to become bogged-down in preciosities
or grammatical determinism, but preferred to keep things moving along
as much
as possible."
"And did you sometimes split
infinitives or end sentences with prepositions?" Philomena wanted to
know,
becoming more like a grammatical neurotic
of the
Virginia Woolf category by the minute.
"More than that, I did all
sorts of
things upon which pedants and critics could only frown," I admitted
boldly. "But that was my literary
prerogative as a creative writer, since the writer's business is to
extend
creative free-will at the expense of grammatical determinism, and the
more he
succeeds in doing so, within the context of his own age or stage of
civilization, the greater his achievement and the nearer he stands to
the
apotheosis of creative freedom in the maximum literary abstraction. As I told you, I was only a beginning where
post-humanistic literature is concerned, so I didn't, alas, bring
literature to
its final liberation from grammatical fetters!
That day will eventually come, a day
when
transcendental civilization gets properly under way and a freer, higher
type of
literature is developed. In the
bourgeois and transitional civilizations, however, the degree of
progressive
freedom permissible and obtainable is inevitably limited by the
integrity of
those civilizations in a framework which is still tied to appearances,
since
stemming from the diabolic roots of life in fidelity to open-society
criteria. Even my early work displayed
certain technical freedoms which the critics found objectionable and
didn't
hesitate to condemn. They imagined that
I was incapable of writing correctly, or that I had tried to and failed. But the truth of the matter was that I had
simply
followed my bent as a creative artist, by extending creative freedom at
the
expense of grammatical determinism. Not
very far admittedly, since I was a lesser writer in those early days
than I
subsequently became, with my collectivized work. At
first,
it was a struggle for me to bring
myself to split infinitives. But,
eventually,
I could do so without blushing or turning a hair - my literary
conscience
complacent.
"However, not being artists
themselves, the critics can only assess one's work according to
conventional
criteria," I continued, after a short pause. "For they must have a
predetermined scale-of-values with which to apply an assessment in the
first
place. That scale of values,
stemming all-too-often from school textbooks, is precisely what the
artist
should be in rebellion against. So the
critic is bound to misunderstand him and do his work a grave disservice
in
consequence. As
Baudelaire remarked somewhere: 'The world only goes around by
misunderstanding'. What could be
truer than that?"
"What indeed?" responded
Philomena, who blushed more violently than was her custom, presumably
because I
had touched a tender spot in her psyche which had special reference to
the
relationship of the sexes and the female attitude to men.
Curiously, however, her blush had a seductive
effect on me, for I automatically applied a warm kiss to her nearest
cheek and
then another, slightly more lingering one to her brow.
She looked at me with what seemed like
horrified surprise for an instant, before relaxing into a sort of
encouraging
smile. Her very close proximity to me
had, it appeared, paid off, since she was now squeezing my hand more
tightly,
whilst allowing me to gently stroke her cheek.
Frankly, I had no desire to resist her any longer, having grown
tired,
in any case, of discussing my literature, which in any case no longer
really
applied to my life, and could only respond to her physical allurements
in
appropriately appreciative terms.
"Jason, you quite surprise
me!"
she declared in an ironically reproachful manner.
"I do?" I smiled, knowing
full-well what the score was. For she
had obviously expected me to fall into her trap all along, even from
the day
she first wrote to me. And I, grown
weary of Susan, was just waiting for the opportunity to do so, mindful
of her
considerable beauty. Only, it had been
necessary to keep up pretences of indifference to sex for form's sake,
because
that way neither of us would unduly compromise the other.
Now, however, we both sought to dispose of
such pretences as quickly as possible, like a butterfly escaping from
its
cocoon, in order to enter into a sexual freedom which would fully
reveal us to
each other physically. She knew
something about my mind and now I, in turn, wanted to discover exactly
what
kind of a body she had. And so,
purposefully, I undid the button on the waist of her skirt and helped
myself to
the buried treasures underneath.
CHAPTER
SIX:
SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
It
would
be
futile to dwell on all the words which passed between us that afternoon
...
after we had made love and I, anxious not to embarrass her husband, who
would
shortly be arriving back home from work, reluctantly resigned myself to
a
solitary evening at the hotel. It was
then, just before we departed, that Philomena revealed to me the real
motive
for her letter and subsequent invitation.
I couldn't have guessed beforehand, but it seemed a perfectly
logical
strategy on her part to keep me in suspense until the last moment,
which is to
say, until we had gone carnal together and she had evidently come to
the
conclusion that a more permanent relationship would not be out of the
question.
Now, as I sit in my train
compartment on
route to
So now I am on my way home,
fleeing from a
potential threat to my spiritual integrity or, as it might
alternatively be
put, intellectual vanity. I know, deep
down, that a recrudescence of emotional love in my life, after all
these barren
years, would probably do me some good, bearing in mind my therapeutic
need of
whatever sensual stimulation I can get.
But I'm also mortally afraid of the consequences, afraid, above
all,
that I might be thrown off course as an artist, and thereupon diverted
into
channels not pertinent to my current or, indeed, previous artistic and
literary
preoccupations. I still see myself as
potentially a kind of ultimate messiah, and am therefore extremely wary
of the
dangers inherent in strong emotional attachments to another person. Besides, I must also consider Susan and the
possibly disruptive effects such attachments could have on our
marriage, which,
while far from ideal, is at least pleasantly tolerable.
I must even consider Philomena too, since it
was she who induced me to go down to London, seduced me when I was
there,
reduced me to the unlikely status of an obedient sensual slave, and
produced on
me the extraordinary impression that she knew in advance I would accept
her
offer, even though I told her it would be necessary for me to have a
serious
think about it, as I am now attempting to do in this rather noisy
compartment
of a fast train to Norwich. Probably she
read how I felt about it in my face, and therefore didn't have to take
my
verbal reservations and hedgings too
seriously.
Well, the offer I am
contemplating happens
to be connected with the recent demise of her aged mother, who formally
bequeathed to Philomena the estate she had inherited from her brother,
some
twenty-six years ago. The maternal
branch of Philomena's family line happens to be English, and rather
wealthy at
that. Her mother was the daughter of a
certain Colonel Blake, who acquired a quite extensive property in
Gloucestershire just prior to the sudden outbreak, in August 1914, of
World War
One. He was duly killed in action, so
his only son, Gerald, inherited the property through primogeniture. Like his father, Gerald also entered the army
and, true to family tradition, was killed during the height of the
desert
campaign in
Thus Philomena found herself
faced with the
decision of either selling the property, since her younger sister was
now
married to a South African millionaire and had no interest in returning
to
England to inherit it, or divorcing Nicholas Hawkins and finding a more
suitable husband with whom to share it.
Partly for sentimental reasons and partly, too, because she
genuinely
wanted to live at Blandon, she had decided on the latter alternative. And that is precisely where I come in, since
she was hopeful that I could be induced to get a divorce and duly go
and live
with her in the country. That is the
real reason why I was invited to her flat and, to a certain extent,
that is why I am now on my way back to
Yes, I had made it clear to
Philomena,
during lunch yesterday, that I wasn't
completely
satisfied with my current environment on the outskirts of
But now that I'm on my way
back to the
little house in which I live, I feel a certain longing for Susan, even
respect
and sympathy towards her, which is doubtless partly derived from my
recent
infidelity. In short, I would like to
atone
to her in some way, possibly by having it away with her as soon as I
get
indoors. For she would be grateful, I
feel confident, for a little sexual attention.
Women are usually grateful for that, since, whatever they may
pretend to
the contrary, it's basically what they live by, whereas we men are
always
aspiring after spiritual ambitions which generally leave them cold. There is always the danger, in modern
marriage, that the woman will be neglected in her vital needs to an
extent
which could never have happened in the - shall we say - more sensual
past, and
will rebel against her husband in consequence.
There are times, I have to admit,
when I sense
in Susan a longing for sex that my intellectual and artistic activities
tend so
often to deny her. She is sitting near
me, pretending to read a book or even to admire one of my paintings
but, deep
down, wishing she could drag me away from my cultural preoccupations
awhile and
have me gratify her sexual needs.
Sometimes, of course, I do gratify them - assuming I've
satisfied my
spiritual aspirations for the time being or have grown tired of work. But often I refuse to sacrifice my
world. I exploit her cultural
pretensions as a lady of good breeding, in order to remain firmly
entrenched in
it. Consequently she has no option,
short of complaining, but to play along with me, and this she usually
does,
because her vanity as a relatively liberated young woman apparently
demands as
much.
Of course, I know full-well
that, with my
crippling depression, I still need as much sexual release as I can
possibly
get. But my past habits, the fruit of
prolonged solitude in north London, generally get the better of me, in
spite of
superficial appearances to the contrary, and thereby prevent me from
leading
the life of a compulsive lecher - assuming such a life would be
acceptable to a
person of Susan's sensitive disposition anyway (which, frankly, I
incline to
doubt!). Nevertheless she persists in
living with me, and I can only suppose that she derives a degree of
compensatory
satisfaction from my status as both a famous author - more famous, by
far, than
herself - and professional artist. A
paradox really, but that is generally the way of things in the modern
world. Women are increasingly becoming
their own worst enemies these days. They
have their sexual needs as before, but persist in behaving more like
men, so
that the spiritual life begins to take priority. In
some
marriages, however, the tension which
arises between the basic physical needs of the wife and the spiritual
ambitions
of the husband is so great, that the marriage sooner or later snaps
apart in
divorce. My own marriage can't be all
that far from snapping, though I suppose I owe it to Susan's
intellectual
vanity more than anything else that we are still bound together, if
only
superficially so. Perhaps also to the
fact that when I do get around to having it off with her, I try my
damnedest to
satisfy her, as though to compensate her for all those times when I'm
wholly
indifferent to sex. Then her pleas for
clemency fall on deaf ears and I cause her to squirm and twist with
fiendish
delight. I thrust up into her fissured
sex like I want to rupture it, to pierce its undulating walls. Sometimes I squeeze her breasts so hard that
her milk squirts out of them onto my face.
She is afraid that my probing tongue will choke her and
frantically
turns her head from side to side in a vain attempt to escape it. She wriggles desperately when I have her on
her stomach and threaten to drive my fingers up her arse, probably
because she
fears they will become soiled with or stink of shit and that I will
consequently contaminate her clothing or hair or something. Even a hand thrust into her cunt is a threat of something or other to her -
maybe a
fear that it will get stuck there or that I will get urine on my
fingers or
cause her too much pain.
Ah,
poor Susan! What haven't I inflicted
upon you in the comparatively brief time we've been married! To be sure, at heart we men are all sadists
where
you women are concerned, just as you women are all masochists where us men are concerned.
Your complaints and visible discomforts tend, instead of
stopping us, to
goad us on, to make us even more merciless towards you.
For just as a masochist obtains a limited
degree of pleasure through the pain inflicted upon him by someone else,
so the
sadist obtains a limited degree of pleasure from inflicting pain on
others. And love-making, needless to
say, involves the reciprocal relationship of masochism and sadism in
mutually
acceptable degrees.
But pleasure obtained
through pain is
necessarily a negative emotion, is really a kind of tolerable or
diluted
pain. Love-making isn't quite the
undiluted pleasure it's superficially cracked-up to be!
There is pain at the heart of it all right,
and that's why it is forever a feminine phenomenon, since women have a
special
capacity - one might almost say an appetite - for pain which men,
except in
exceptional circumstances, entirely lack.
Sex is therefore a kind of refined cruelty in which the woman's
basic
craving for pleasure-through-pain is satisfied by the antithetical
disposition
of the man to inflict the pain upon her for his own pleasure.
The idea put forward by
The Durrellian
notion that the woman does not, within reason, want to be treated
sadistically
... is completely untrue. Naturally,
there are limits to the acceptable extent of male sadism, beyond which
it
becomes overly Sadian and therefore quite
unacceptable. But the happiness, if one
may so term it, of a woman ... is dependent on a degree of sadism in
the male
sex commensurate with sexual intercourse.
To be unwilling to inflict this necessary degree of pain on a
woman is
to become a fairy, and a fairy isn't necessarily a homosexual. Rather, as a rule, are homosexuals to the
manner born; people, in other words, whose predilection for their own
sex is
not founded on scruples of conscience in dealing with women, but
follows as a
matter of homosexual course. A fairy, by
contrast, can find himself going without
sex
altogether and be obliged, in his moral squeamishness, to make do with
pornographic surrogates.
However, a fairy is the last
thing that
Susan could accuse me of being! and that is
one of the
reasons why we are still married. She
may protest and wriggle under pressure from my sexual assault, but she
never
categorically prohibits me from doing anything to her.
The way I see it, such protestations and
wriggles are intended, above all else, to stimulate one's ardour, not
to impede
it. The man who takes a woman at face
value, in such matters, is making a grave mistake, in my honest opinion. I learnt that lesson the hard way, and not
least of all where Susan was concerned.
On the day I first met her,
in Hampstead, I
managed to persuade her to come back to my bedsitter
with me. Her desires as a woman
naturally fell in line with my persuasions, but her vanity as a
well-bred young
lady imposed the qualification that she would only visit my room as a
friend. I, like the inexperienced and
naive young man
I was, took it at face-value, and, although she dropped me one or two
quite
broad hints, whilst in my room, that sex wasn't completely
out-of-the-question,
I persisted in believing that a friend was all she really wanted to be. When, therefore, the deadline for taking her
back to Hampstead arrived (she had earlier contrived an alibi to the
effect
that she was due to meet someone at five o'clock later that afternoon),
I had
got no further than to show her some of my records, which, for obvious
reasons,
she wasn't particularly interested in seeing.
Her intellectual vanity had imposed the pretence of 'friendship
only'
upon me, and so, reluctantly, she was obliged to allow me to escort her
to the
bus stop. Not surprisingly, that was the
last I saw of her for a good many years, and I swore, thereafter, that
I would
never take a woman's word at face-value again!
For the most part I have kept to my pledge - as Susan would be
able to
attest. Frankly, she would have few
occasions in the recent past for regret!
However, as all this wicked
reflection
flooded through my head, I was getting nearer home and so drawing
closer to my
masochistic companion, who was bound, I felt, to be surprised by my
early
return. It had just gone eleven-thirty,
so she would have ample time to cook me something good for lunch, as
well, if
needs be, as open her sexy legs to my sadistic assault.
I pushed open the front gate and hurried over
the intervening space to our dark-green door, which I swiftly unlocked. Once inside, I gently deposited my zipper bag
on the floor and changed into my slippers.
Then I walked along the corridor, looked into each of the
downstairs
rooms, and discovered not a trace of my wife.
Suddenly it occurred to me that she might be upstairs. So upstairs I went, hoping to find her
there. And I was not disappointed, since
I could hear some laughter, alternating with what sounded like sobbing,
coming
from our bedroom at the rear of the house.
I was about to cry out: "What's all that noise about, then?"
when a particularly loud shriek brought me to a sudden halt, and
obliged me to
cast a suspicious, puzzled look at the door from behind which it had
come. Was it Susan's habit to make such
high-pitched
noises by herself, I asked myself? And,
of course, I knew the answer to that question - which bordered on the
rhetorical - could only be negative. I
realized there and then that someone or something was causing her to
behave in
such a fashion, and so I caught my breath and ascended the rest of the
stairs
as quietly as possible, anxious to discover just who or what it could
be, but
becoming ever more convinced, the nearer I got to our bedroom door,
that there
was only one possible explanation.
Sure enough, as I put my
suspicious eye to
the keyhole and peered-in through its upper aperture, I found all the
evidence
I needed, as Leslie Richardson's head quickly became recognizable in a
context
of what could only have been oral sex taking place at the foot of our
bed. I nearly choked on my held breath as
the
moment of painful truth dawned upon me, but, fortunately, just managed
to
prevent myself making any give-away noises by drawing my strained eye
away from
the draughty keyhole and sliding to a sitting posture against the
adjacent
wall. So that was it!
My premature return had brought me the
revelation of Susan's adultery and obliged me to modify my sexual
perspective
of her at the very time when I was considering how best to atone to her
for my
own sexual infidelity of the day before!
I was a cuckold and dupe of my own egotistical complacency. I had obviously underestimated Dr
Richardson's interest in her, as well, needless to say, as her interest
in
him! She must have called him out on
false pretences, the crafty bitch, making it appear like an ordinary
visit from
the doctor but, in reality, preparing herself for the type of
examination that
only a lover could apply. Unless I was
seriously mistaken, and this was indeed Dr Richardson's customary way
of dealing
with his younger and more attractive female patients, I could draw no
other
inference from the noises which were still emanating from behind our
bedroom
door, nor doubt the horrified evidence of my eye, which was now aching
from the
effect of a kind of spiritual blow received at first-hand.
The only surprising thing was that they
hadn't heard me come in, although, what with the noise being generated
in their
sexual obsession with each-other's private parts, even that became
somehow
understandable.
Yet if ever one needed
confirmation that
the man's role was fundamentally sadistic and the woman's masochistic,
here it
was, in all its impassioned exhibitionism!
I could hardly bear to listen any longer, so unequivocally
brutal were
the doctor's carnal assaults upon my wife's most erogenous zones. To take another look through the keyhole
would have been the act of a masochist, and I was already beginning to
feel
like one from where I sat or, rather, lay, slumped against the wall. But a sudden piercing shriek and tirade of prohibitory abuse from Susan which sounded like:
"Don't you dare, you dirty brute!" nevertheless induced me to risk
further humiliation, which I of course received as soon as I became
aware of
what had happened - namely, that Dr Richardson had manoeuvred Susan's
legs into
a position from which he could lie between them as he probed her gaping
sex
with thrusting tongue and mischievous fingers.
With her legs pinned right back and her rump kind of up in the
air,
Richardson had her completely at his mercy, and it was this that had
led to her
protestations ... as he manipulated her with an ardour worthy of a
Roman
patrician or full-blooded satyr!
To be sure, I had never done
anything even
remotely like that to Susan, nor had I ever seen the cheeks of her
crack pulled
so immodestly far apart and betraying such cavernous depths of
succulent flesh
in and around what Dr Richardson would probably have called her
vestibule. She might almost have been on
the verge of
delivering a baby, so radical was the impression being created. But I had no desire to dwell on that
scene and,
with a slight revulsion in my stomach, coupled to a mounting giddiness
in my
head, I backed away from the keyhole, tiptoed along the corridor,
carefully
descended the stairs, and, arriving back down in the entrance hall,
leaned
against the nearest wall for physical support.
For obvious reasons I couldn't stay in the house and neither
could I
intrude upon their love-making in the manner of an outraged husband,
bearing in
mind my own recent infidelity, not to mention the nervous state to
which I had
been reduced in consequence of my voyeuristic curiosity.
There was nothing for it but to pass the rest
of the day somewhere in Norwich, then
return home again in the evening, by which time Dr Richardson would
hopefully
have left and thereby returned to more conventional duties. I could pretend to having just arrived from
the station, since that would be a lot easier to live with than the
pretence of
not knowing she had Richardson for a lover or, rather, sexual torturer. And if she inquired about my business in
London, I could pretend again, though not without a certain
satisfaction
derived from the sure knowledge that my relations with Philomena were
entirely
my own affair, not to be shared with anyone else!
And so, with ironic
resignation, I changed
out of my slippers, ran a solicitous hand over my jacket, briefly
regarded my
distraught face in the hall mirror, and, picking up my luggage again,
quietly
made for the front door. A divorce, I
reckoned, would be easier for me to impose upon her now than before -
even
without an intrusive showdown!
CHAPTER
SEVEN:
CONFRONTATION WITH SHEAD
During
the
following
days, life for me more or less returned to normal, although
my carnal
relations with Susan were somewhat less pleasurable than before. She suspected little from my
But I had other things on my
mind now, and
they included my work for Shead and Lyttleton in painting the mechanical copulator
from a variety of angles over the coming weeks.
Susan, of course, knew more about this machine than she was
prepared to
admit, but I was obliged, all the same, to explain it to her and
thereby
satisfy her ostensible curiosity.
Whether she would be profiting from this further absence from
home each
day which my work with the machine entailed, I didn't know. Nor, in a sense, did I really care, since
what Dr Richardson got up to with my wife was his own affair, or ought
to be,
and not something about which I need cause myself unnecessary angst. I would have enough trouble, over the next
few days, concocting a plausible excuse for going down to London again,
when,
in reality, I would be meeting Philomena in Cambridge, where she would
have
driven from London with intent to drive me across to her
Gloucestershire
property, in order that I could look it over and decide whether or not
I wanted
to live there. This much I have
understood from a new letter from Philomena, which, naturally enough, I
treated
with the utmost confidentiality. She has
suggested we make the trip a couple of weeks from now, which doesn't
really
give me that much time in which to manoeuvre, and seems rather too
close to my
last business engagement for comfort.
But I guess I had better go along with her suggestion, since I
secretly
relish the prospect of seeing her again, not to mention getting away
from my
wife. Fortunately, I never allow Susan
to go through my mail, which, considering the bulk of it, she would
have a
tough enough job doing anyway, so there should be no difficulty in
replying to
Philomena in order to finalize things.
No difficulty in replying to her anyway, since she didn't allude
to my
premature departure from London last week, which I can only put down to
consummate tact on her part. Perhaps she
prefers not to jeopardize her prospects of success by dragging Rachel
into
it? After all, I would almost certainly
refuse her invitation, if I knew for sure that Rachel was going to be
present somewhere
along the line as well. Basta! Let's change the
subject.
The mechanical copulator
is becoming paramount in my concerns. I
sit in front of it today with my painting equipment, which includes a
small
easel on which I have balanced, like a blackboard, my latest canvas,
paid for,
I should add, by the magnanimous pocket of Lyttleton,
my
bourgeois
patron. I sit in front of
the machine, I say, and study it with due regard to its mechanical
complexity,
not the least eye-catching aspect of which is the smooth, regular
functioning
of the plastic phallus. Were I a Balla, I would attempt to paint it in futuristic
motion. But as, by nature, I'm a
classicist of abstract predilection, I can only produce a rather static
impression which, to say the least, hardly does proper justice to the
dynamics
of the thing. But even this motionless
reproduction appears to suit Shead -
provided,
however, that I do full justice to the dimensions of the phallus, and
even
exaggerate them a little for the sake of artistic effect.
A little fanciful Expressionism isn't beyond
plausibility here, and I get the impression, as I proceed with my task,
that Shead doesn't mind whether I paint
his brainchild blue,
red, green, purple, or orange, so long as it looks sexually appetizing
from a
prospective client's point-of-view.
Neither does he seem to mind whether I paint the machine from
above or
from the side, so long as I emphasize its principal assets to telling
effect. I am beginning to like the work,
although I
must confess to finding it more difficult than my customary abstract
creations. Modern Realism has never
exactly been my forte. I would rather
remain a non-figurative idealist any day!
From time to time Shead
comes up from his workshop downstairs to see how I am faring and have a
little
informal conversation with me. He is
apparently working on another invention right now, which he teasingly
and
rather coyly describes as complementary to this one, but he still finds
time to
admire his old handiwork and even to question me about my own. Dunne I see less of, but that suits me fine,
since I know him well enough by now and have already given him a verbal
introduction to my theories, both aesthetic and otherwise.
Lyttleton keeps to
his factory, where he evidently has his hands full converting the
existing
vibrator-producing machinery into the necessary productive constituents
for a
device like this. He is hardly one to be
envied, however, and neither, for that matter, is Shead,
who
knows
next-to-nothing about higher thought, and whose concept of the
novel
is woefully obsolete. He is even
prepared to consider Camus a major
novelist, the
dolt, and this despite the fact that only one of that dilettante's handful of novels is longer than 150 pages! Not surprisingly, his opinion of Sartre is
less than flattering. Doesn't even
consider Nausea
a novel, since it made him puke the first time he
attempted reading it, back in his undergraduate days.
I shudder to think what his opinion of some
of my literary works would be!
But I don't mind discussing
aspects of my
work, both literary and painterly, with him, particularly as, like all
blockheads, he is a relatively good listener.
The subject of God isn't one that he, like most Englishmen, has
any
constructive ideas about, but, despite his obvious embarrassment
whenever I
broach it, he appears to take a kind of perverse interest in listening
to what
I have to say - more out of politeness, I shouldn't wonder, than
anything
else. It's as though my revelations are
secretly shocking to him, a tree of forbidden knowledge which an
Englishman,
with his allegiance to the reigning monarch in a state-hegemonic
system, should
beware of sampling, lest he ends up a subversive malcontent in the
company of
people like me. Take this afternoon, for
instance. We had been discussing
painterly technique with regard to the advantages of acrylic over oil,
when,
like a born-again schizophrenic, he suddenly switches the conversation
to
theology and asks me, point-blank, whether I believed in God, and this
after I
had already told him, a couple of days ago, that I most certainly don't.
"No," I reply, "since, for
me, God is in the making, not an already-existent fact."
"But surely the Creator
exists?"
he retorts, shaping to start a spiritual battle.
"Oh yes," I half-lyingly concede, not taking my eyes from the
canvas on
which I am applying a large dollop of blue paint to the over-large
phallus I
sketched-in this morning. "But, you
see, the Creator and the Holy Spirit are diametrically antithetical,
and consequently
appertain to the beginning and end of time.
We start out with the Creator and we end-up with God ...
conceived as
transcendent spirit.... No, forgive me, I'm lying.
We start out with the Big Bang which sent
billions of stars flying out in every direction from the one giant star
at the
root of the Galaxy - as, indeed, of every galaxy - and slowly progress
towards
the universal establishment of God as pure spirit."
Shead
looks
puzzled and scratches his balding head in a confirmatory gesture of the
fact. He has drawn up a seat beside me and
sits
himself down on it, with obvious intent to get to the bottom of the
mystery. "What's the difference
between the Big Bang and the Creator?" he wants to know in an almost
insolently sceptical tone-of-voice.
"The difference between
objective
reality conceived externally and subjective ideality
derived from that reality but conceived internally," I blandly reply. "The Big Bang, which must have occurred
literally millions of times throughout the Universe, gave rise to the
Galaxy,
in which there's a large governing star and millions of smaller
revolving
stars, such as the sun."
"I agree," he says, with
rational
relish.
"Well," I say, "that
governing
star is precisely what it is, whereas the Creator is an abstraction
from it and
only pertains to the subconscious mind, from which we, at a higher
stage of our
evolution, are slowly evolving away, in the process of expanding the superconscious part of our psyche.
Consequently, although the Creator was a
psychic reality for people at a lower stage of evolution, it cannot be
so for
those like myself who, in this day and age,
are too superconsciously evolved, as it
were, to be much under the
sway of subconscious conditioning. Thus
I regard the Creator as an idealistic content - or archetype, to coin a
Jungian
term - of the subconscious mind which, because of psychic progress, no
longer
exists as a reality for me."
"Hence
your
atheism?" Shead responds.
"To an extent," I concede,
"although that would be only a negative atheism and I'm essentially a
positive atheist, as I shall attempt to explain in a minute. The probability, however, that the Creator is
an abstraction from the central star of the Galaxy ... cannot easily be
refuted, even if it can be proved, as I'm sure it can, that those who
so
abstracted this deity, formerly in the guise of Jehovah, had no inkling
of the
existence of such a star. For by
contending
that someone or something created the sun, as well as this and other
such
planets, one would be referring back, willy-nilly, to the big star from
which,
with the initial explosion of gases, all or most of the smaller ones
may be
presumed to have emerged." I pause
for breath, waiting for the probable intrusion of Shead's
objections to my thesis, but when it doesn't come, continue, still
painting:
"Now to abstract the Creator from the governing star of the Galaxy is
to
abstract from the largest and most powerful star there, which lords it
over all
the weaker ones. Thus the Creator really
corresponds to an arch-devil, being more powerful even than the petty
devil
which was abstracted from the sun and which exists as a theological
opponent,
in the guise of Satan, to the Jehovahesque
Creator."
"The Fall of Lucifer," Shead pedantically remarks, and I nod my head,
pleased to
find that he can connect the emergence of our sun from the giant one at
the
centre of the Galaxy with the fall of Lucifer and his angels - other
smaller
stars - from Heaven, as it is somewhat euphemistically called in Old
Testament
scripture. "And yet why, if the
Creator is or, rather, was really equivalent to an arch-devil, did
people
persist in regarding Him as God?" asks Shead,
not
altogether
unreasonably in the circumstances.
"Primarily because, during
the lower
stages of evolution, it isn't love and peace which people tend to
equate with
the concept of God, but force and power, so that God becomes a term
covering
what a more enlightened mind would regard as a sort of arch-devil. And, knowing this, such a mind won't admit
this Creator-God is deserving of recognition as a Supreme Being, much
less as
supreme being, even if He's patently a Primal Being, given to primal
doing, so
to speak, but will contend, instead, that the Supreme Being, given, by
contrast, to a condition of supreme being in blissful pure spirit, has
yet to
be created or, more correctly, attained to in the Universe, so that God
in any
ultimate, superior sense doesn't yet exist."
"Then what does?" asks Shead, with a worried look on his face.
"The stars and planets for
one
thing," I reply, still painting the artificial phallus for Lyttleton's commercial benefit, "and an
evolutionary
struggle taking place on life-sustaining planets, like the earth, to
progress
towards this condition of spiritual supremacy in a future Beyond,
set in space. The Creator and the Devil
are abstractions from cosmic phenomena and, consequently, they don't
exist as
realities but only as idealistic contents of the subconscious mind,
which, as I
said, is slowly being outgrown. So one's
atheism is partly a response to the outgrowing of subconscious idealism
and
partly a response to the knowledge that, properly so-considered, God
doesn't
yet exist in the Universe. We, for one,
haven't put Him or, rather, it there, and neither, so far as I'm aware,
has
anyone else - from whichever hypothetical life-sustaining planet
elsewhere in
the Universe. Indeed, even if another
people, so to speak, had
already evolved to the millennial
stage of post-human evolution, and were accordingly on the point of
attaining
to transcendence, the pure spirit that emerged from them wouldn't be
God, but
merely a spiritual globe en
route to definitive unity. Which is to
say, one of potentially millions
of similar globes which would have to merge into one another, through a
process
of heavenly convergence, in order to establish an ultimate spiritual
globe, the
sum-product of all convergences from whichever part of
the
Universe, before God, as complete antithesis to the diabolic inception
of
evolution in the stars, would actually exist as such. What began in a fall from the Manifold must
culminate in a rise towards the One - that's the infallible logic of
evolution!"
"Phew, this is becoming
rather
complicated!" Shead confesses,
and I can see that his poor Englishman's head is unaccustomed to flying
at this
philosophical height. Nevertheless,
being something of a masochist, he persists in questioning me about the
presumed emergence in the Universe at some future time of transcendent
spirit,
which he assumes, in rather Huxleyian
vein, will
emerge from man. Once again, I have to
disappoint him, so in a rather petulant manner he then asks me: "Then
from
whom or what will it emerge?"
"From the Superbeings
at the climax to the upper phase of the post-human millennium," I
reply,
and continue with the application of blue paint to my canvas. "The Superbeings
being the new-brain successors of the Supermen, and constituting the
highest
possible life form prior to transcendence."
"And what, exactly, are the
Supermen?" he wants to know, puzzled anew.
"Human brains artificially
supported
and sustained in collectivized contexts," I tell him, although I'm
tired
of repeating myself to different people on this subject, and am no
longer
capable, in consequence, of taking any great pride in my knowledge. "The Supermen would constitute a life
form superior to men, whereas the Superbeings,
who
would
be even more collectivized and entirely free from subconscious
influence,
would, in due course, constitute a life form superior to them - a life
form
diametrically antithetical to trees, whose myriad sensual leaves are
supported
and sustained by natural means. It's
only then, with the development of the superbeingful
stage of evolution, so to speak, that the world would be at its closest
approximation to the transcendent Beyond.
For the post-visionary consciousness of the Superbeings
would indeed be similar, albeit weaker, to the transcendent
consciousness of
the Spiritual Globes, which should emerge from these new-brain collectivizations at the culmination-point, as
it were, of
their Transcendental Meditation."
Shead
was staring
at me open-mouthed, as though I was a lunatic, and, to be sure, I could
only
regret having embarked upon such a futuristic exposition in the first
place. As usual, I had to face the Nietzschean fact that I was 'not the mouth for
those ears',
since the process of attempting to explain the Millennium in post-human
terms
to people like Shead ... was equivalent to
casting
pearls before swine - bourgeois swine who were limited in their concept
of or
willingness to accept higher degrees of truth.
Hence the fact that I had an immense backlog
of
unpublished typescripts. For the
truth would never emerge from the tail-end, as it were, of humanistic
civilization, least of all one rooted in power, but had to be reserved
for a
country capable, with the requisite prompting, of building towards a
transcendental civilization as a matter of historical necessity. Such a country, as I well knew, wasn't
"That is approximately
correct,"
I say. "And the most that man can
do is to evolve towards the post-human millennium on the sure
foundations of a
transcendental civilization - the ultimate civilization, which will
supersede
the moribund Christian one. As men, we
can never cultivate spirit to any radical extent, since we have too
many
sensual obligations to honour in respect of our bodies.
But the Supermen of the first stage of the
post-human millennium will be in a better position to expand spirit
than
ourselves, since their brains would be artificially supported and
sustained. They'll exist in an
evolutionary context antithetical to apes, man's ancestral forerunners,
and
will spend much of their time experiencing upward self-transcending
visionary
spirituality ... as encouraged by synthetic hallucinogens.
But with the advent of the next evolutionary
leap, brought about by the technocratic leadership's development of an
even
more advanced technology, the Superbeings
engineered
out of them will emerge as participants in spiritual communism, the
true
communism, or, better, communalism, of the post-human millennium -
antithetical, in every sense, to the sensual communism of the plants,
with
especial reference to trees."
Shead
looks
dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me
that the Millennium, as you conceive it, will be a religious and not a
political phenomenon?" he stammers, aghast.
"Absolutely," I reply,
briefly
mixing some fresh paint for my aesthetic masterpiece.
"That religious context is the
maximizing of spiritual expansion, through hypermeditation,
in
a
phase of evolutionary progress leading to transcendence, and so to
the
attainment, by the Superbeings, of
Spiritual Globes,
which will converge, in due course, to the Omega Point - the ultimate
Spiritual
Globe. Unless one has a transcendent
dimension to one's thinking, one doesn't
understand
the Millennium. And neither, needless to
say, does one understand communism. With
a purely Marxist or, more correctly, Marxist-Leninist slant, one will
simply
project materialist values onto the Millennium and thereby distort
one's
conception of it from the truth of spiritual expansion, which, in any
case,
will remain unknown to one. One will
look upon the Millennium as a kind of equalitarian consumer society, in
which
people live in a glorified '
"Hmm,
very
interesting!" Shead concedes,
nodding
thoughtfully. "And
also very puzzling and thought-provoking at the same time!" He draws-in a deep breath and reflects on his
puzzlement awhile, thereby allowing me to continue with my painting in
peace. I had more or less completed the
phallus by now and was about to apply some red to the seat of the
contraption,
which I hoped would appear convincingly comfortable, not to say
comfortably
convincing. I knew Shead
would have some loose ends in his materialistic head from the
intellectual
sketch I had just given him concerning the nature of ultimate divinity
and the
path of human destiny, but I could hardly be expected to fill-in all
the
details at one sitting, so to speak. If
he wanted to study the matter in greater detail, he would have to
consult my
unpublished typescript, 'The Unadulterated Truth', which was much more
thorough
than ever an ad
hoc verbal explanation could hope to be. But
he
would at least now possess an outline
of the truth of evolution, as I conceived of it, and could therefore
consider
himself relatively privileged. Not many
people acquired such an outline from my lips - least of all if English!"
Having scratched his head
for I knew not
what reason, Shead then asks: "How long do
you
expect this transcendental civilization to last?"
"Possibly 2-3 centuries," I
say,
having already rehearsed the part in my imagination.
"Beginning in one country and spreading
throughout the world, a civilization in which people come together to
meditate
rather than to pray. It will lead
directly to the post-human millennium."
"And so
to the
triumph of the visionary supermen?" Shead
suggests, as he leans back in his chair.
"Yes, as a precondition of
the hypermeditation of the Superbeings
in the second phase of the millennium in question, the ultimate earthly
spirituality prior to transcendence - the necessary prelude, in a word,
to the
spiritual bliss of the heavenly Beyond."
"Amazing the way you've
worked all
this out by yourself," Shead concludes,
chuckling deferentially.
I blush at his flattery, but
make no
comment, preferring to mix some fresh paint on my rather stale palette. Shead isn't the
first person to tell me this, and I doubt that he'll be the last either. But if I seem, at present, to have overcome
his scepticism, I shouldn't forget that, as an Englishman, his aren't
really
the ears for my mouth. I would do better
to impart the Truth to someone who was in a position to really profit
from it,
to set about its consolidation in his own country.
I long for the time when I can return to
Yes, I always used to write
eclectically,
touching upon a variety of subjects from religion to politics, science
to art,
and sex to sociology. Then, partly
through force of circumstances, I became a painter and photographer,
again with
intent to embracing diverse subject-matter.
If in the future I become a politician, I will likewise concern
myself
with a variety of issues, partly in response, no doubt, to my
temperament. Whether I shall thereafter
become something
else, say a guru or a world teacher,
remains to be
seen. But I needn't consider this
eclecticism a misfortune. On the
contrary, it's essential to the age, particularly to a post-humanistic
age, in
which separative barriers should be broken
down as
people build professional bridges to one another in pursuance of a
variety of
integrated vocations.
The old rigid
compartmentalization of
disciplines and vocations is increasingly becoming a thing of the past,
reflecting a diabolic inclination incompatible with transcendental
criteria. For what began in the Manifold
must culminate
in the One, in response to a convergence of spirit towards the Omega
Point. Doubtless Shead
was puzzled by my contention that the Universe didn't begin with a
single Big
Bang but with many Big Bangs, each one forming the rudiments of a
separate
galaxy, since his stance would seem to be uncritically drawn from
monotheistic
tradition. But, then again, what
pertains to the Diabolic Alpha cannot issue from omega-oriented
criteria or
behave in a divine way, even though divinizing the diabolic, or omegarizing the Alpha, so to speak, is a virtual
precondition of completely breaking with it, in a transcendental age. We, in the West, like to pretend otherwise
these days, but that is only because our superconsciously-biased
psyches
prefer
to be flattered with mystical illusions. Hence
our
preference for Einstein over Newton
- a preference which, traditionally, has not been shared in the
Marxist-Leninist East, where pseudo-Newtonian notions of force and mass
were
apt to prevail, in deference to scientific objectivity.
There, in accordance with scientific
communism, it was, and in some countries continues to be, the primal
reality of
cosmic naturalism that was acknowledged, not the ultimate reality of superconscious idealism.
I, however, do recognize such a reality, and it is my hope that
my
fellow countrymen will duly come to recognize it in preference to
subconscious
naturalism. Then they will have no need
of religious fundamentalism, which keeps so many of them grovelling, in
humiliating subjection, before the diabolic archetypes of the
subconscious mind
- victims of a rural past!
Such archetypes must be
superseded by a
divine-oriented consciousness which recognizes only religious
transcendentalism, in the truest sense of that term, and thus the truth
of
spiritual expansion in a world which is contracting materially, a world
which
is no longer taken at face-value but reinterpreted, in accordance with
the
dictates of scientific subjectivity, along quasi-mystical lines,
including
those relating to curved space. The
priests have every right, as men of religion, to fear Marxism-Leninism,
with
its scientific objectivity, but they would be hard-pressed to justify
opposition to an ideology dedicated not to the reduction of life to the
lowest-common-scientific denominator, but to the expansion of spirit
towards a
post-human millennium in an exclusively omega-oriented context of
religious
transcendentalism. To oppose this is
simply
to oppose spiritual progress in the interests, presumably, of personal
privilege and power - in short, to be on the wrong side of history. Rest assured that a spiritual liberator would
not be merciful towards alpha-stemming anachronisms!
Such a liberator, scorning humanistic
criteria, would be the true saviour of his country, the figure chosen
by
destiny to divide the chaff from the wheat, as he proceeds with the
establishment of his kingdom on earth - the 'Kingdom of (omega) Heaven'.
I cease pondering these
invigorating
thoughts and glance up from my canvas, anxious to verify that I'm still
doing
aesthetic justice to the penetrative aspect of Shead's
mechanical copulator.
The red I have used on the pictorial seat, on the other hand, is
slightly brighter than the actual plastic of the seat itself but, in a
way,
that is aesthetically advantageous, since it shows off both the seat
and the
artificial phallus to good effect. I
wonder to myself what Philomena would make of the machine if she saw
it, which
of course she hasn't.... Although I did briefly
refer to it
during the latter stages of our conversation the other week, at a time
when
only natural sex seemed to interest her.
The prospect of sitting astride Shead's
contraption with the biggest possible plastic phallus thrusting
backwards and
forwards inside her sex would be bound to intrigue her, considering
that she is
no idiot but a highly intelligent young woman for whom artificial
criteria
would less constitute a blasphemy or perversion than ... suggest the
exhilarating possibility of liberation, if only temporarily, from the
tyranny
of natural determinism. For Philomena
excels most women in the degree to which free will predominates over
natural
determinism, being something of a major artist in her own right. She would be perfectly capable of asking me
to bugger her for a change - quite unlike Rachel, who was - and
probably still
is - too bourgeois, at heart, to be greatly taken by anti-natural
and/or
transcendental options - like, I should add, my intensely suburban wife. A bourgeois, it goes without saying, lives
too close to nature to be capable of overcoming or subverting it to any
radical
extent. I understand why they oppose
transcendental criteria, but that doesn't mean to say I need sympathize
with
them. Evolution has scant regard for
those who are simply the victims, and hence mouthpieces, of a
naturalistic
environment. It is a struggle, after
all, from nature to supernature. The latter bias will prevail in the end!
I look up from my painting
and turn to face
Shead, as if to reassure him that I haven't
forgotten
about his presence here. But, to my
baffled surprise, I find his chair empty and no sign of him anywhere. He must have crept away whilst I was
engrossed in thought, a moment ago, and returned to his workshop, the
crafty
old devil! Just as well really, since
his presence beside me was becoming tiresome.
Now I can really get on with my work in peace - without
interrogative
distractions.
CHAPTER
EIGHT:
CARNAL INTIMACIES
As
it
happened,
Susan took my excuse about having to go back down to
However, more enjoyable by
far was the
sight of Philomena who, having been informed in advance of my time of arrival, was waiting at the coach depot when we
finally
pulled into
"Now do me the favour of
hitching-up
your skirt, so that I can see what you're wearing underneath," I
bluntly
demanded of her.
She cast me a faintly
disapproving look
but, nonetheless, graciously complied, and I soon discovered that she
was
wearing pink panties and matching suspenders under her skirt. Instinctively I knelt down in front of her
and kissed the rims of her stockings, kissed the clips of her
suspenders, and
last but hardly least that part of her panties which covered her mound
of dark
pubic hair. Then, returning to my feet,
I ran a hand between her thighs and up along the groove of her crotch,
which
was enticingly warm. She giggled coyly,
but had time to kiss and caress me in turn.
I was fast approaching the boil and just had to have her there
and then,
before we set out for Gloucestershire.
But I wanted her with all her clothes on, including panties, and
made
the appropriate advances to assure myself a path of admittance to her
vaginal
chamber, pulling them down slightly so that I could force my by-now
rampant
member up between the gap in their legs, and thus enter her without
undue
difficulty.
She was evidently surprised
by my
peremptory tactics and made some feeble protests, both verbally and
physically,
but I stuck to my bent and got it up inside her, forcing her back
against the
nearest wall and holding her legs astride my body in the process. The thrill of taking her like this was so
keen that I shot my bolt even before I had got properly under way, but
I
persisted in shafting her even then, and obliged her to repay my
generosity in
due course - handsomely, as it turned out.
Exhausted, we slumped to the floor.
But I still had enough strength in me to drag her away from the
wall,
lift her legs back over her chest, and go down on her, tongue first,
much the
way Dr Richardson had done with my unsuspecting wife a couple of weeks
previously. Her panties were now rather
damp, but I took a distinct pleasure in making them even damper by
forcing the
bulk of their material up between the lips of her sex, so that they
soaked-up
her juices. Her wriggling, at this point
had the effect of rekindling my passion and, ignoring her half-hearted
protests, I applied myself anew to the cleft of her silken trench,
causing her
to wriggle afresh. Then, growing tired
of this game, I lifted her up off the floor, grabbed her breasts from
behind,
and fell back with her onto the room's single bed, obliging her to open
her
legs as wide as possible. Detaching one
of my hands from her breasts, which had always been small, I thrust it
up into
her inviting flesh, turned her over onto her stomach, and thrust it up
still
further, until my fingers all but disappeared behind her panties. She squirmed in ecstatic pleasure and so
aroused
me ... that I pumped what was left of my erection into her all over
again, even
though it had gone slightly limp in the meantime. Now
I
could fuck her and squeeze her breasts
at the same time - a stratagem which could only enhance our mutual
pleasure.
But by now I was completely
spent and could
only keep up my carnal assault on her sex for a short time, before I
had to
give up and call it a day. Nevertheless
I managed to turn her back over and force a hand into her quivering
flesh anew,
squeezing her clitoris between thumb and forefinger in such a way that
she soon
became freshly engulfed by a wave of orgasmic pleasure.
Then I kissed her lingeringly on the mouth as
our tongues met in a final bout of sensuous passion, a fitting dénouement
to a thrilling romance, and, satisfied that I had come off best, rolled
across
to the opposite side of the bed. Clothes
were decidedly dishevelled but still approximately in place - my own
included. She wanted to know why I had to
do it to her
with all her clothes on, and I replied that it was more civilized than
without
them. She laughed, but conceded me the
benefit of the doubt. "And do you
ravish Susan in such a paradoxically fetishistic
fashion?" she asked.
I blushed slightly,
wondering why she
should put that question to me, and answered to the effect that
occasionally I
did. "But I rarely enjoy sex with
her these days," I added, much to Philomena's evident relief.
We smoked in peace a few
minutes, gazing up
at the cream-coloured ceiling of the little room. Philomena
had
just about returned to normal
by now and looked very relaxed - a fact that didn't altogether surprise
me,
considering that I had probably given her one of the most highly
cathartic
sexual experiences of her entire life.
"Well, you're certainly a
very pretty
lady," I at length said, breaking the silence. "And a very
sweet-smelling one, too, if your perfume is anything to judge by. I think I'm going to enjoy living with
you."
Philomena raised ironic
brows. "Even before you've seen the
house?"
she queried, stubbing out the dog-end of her smouldering cigarette in a
nearby
glass ashtray.
I smiled at my precocity. "I'm beginning to feel that the house is
a mere formality," I nonchalantly averred.
"The really important thing is having someone as beautiful as
you
to play with, when the fancy takes me or
you succeed
in seducing me."
Philomena saw fit to smile
graciously with
this compliment, and drew herself closer to me, so that our bodies were
in
contact again. I lifted her skirt up and
spent a moment looking at her nylons and panties, her suspenders and
suspender
belt, the latter of which was just visible beneath the waist of her
skirt. "Why do you think we wear clothes?"
I asked, turning my attention to her blouse and the outline of her bra
beneath.
"Why do you think?" she
responded, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Not
just to keep
ourselves warm," I replied, smiling, "since today isn't particularly
cold. Also, and
sometimes primarily, to overcome nature to some extent. The savage is naked, or mostly so, whereas
the civilized man wears clothes. He
prefers his appearance to be more artificial than natural, and the
nobler he
is, the more artificial he wishes to appear.
Even a scorching sun can't tempt him to walk around half-naked. He prefers a thin vest or shirt to a bare
chest; full-length jeans or trousers to shorts; shoes or sneakers to
sandals. He isn't prepared to adopt a
quasi-pagan appearance - except, of course, when he goes on holiday and
strips
off for a swim or sunbathe at the seaside."
"Not everyone does that
these
days," said Philomena.
"True," I agreed. "Yet quite a few people still do.
They live at the tail-end, as it were, of
humanistic civilization, but invest in a little undiluted paganism for
a few
weeks every year, partly for the sake of respecting their human
integrity and
partly because such an investment is permissible within the
open-society
context of the civilization in question, torn, as it is, not only
between
conservatism and radicalism but, to a limited extent, between paganism
and
transcendentalism."
I bent over Philomena's
prostrate body and
began to gently sniff various parts of her clothes, inhaling the
fragrance of
her smooth flesh in the process.
"Would such an investment
therefore be
impermissible within the closed-society context of a transcendental
civilization?" she asked, proudly tolerant of my nasal inquisitiveness.
"Probably," I admitted
laconically, and looked up from her body in order to reflect a moment. "Yes, people wouldn't be encouraged to
go around nude or half-nude at the seaside or wherever in a full-blown
transcendental civilization, for the simple reason that there'd be no
place for
nudism in a post-humanistic context."
"No place whatsoever,
Jason?" she
asked half-incredulously, her bright-blue eyes directly focused on my
own
rather less bright ones.
I resolutely shook my head. "Man is capable of being transmuted from
one lifestyle or attitude to another and higher one as evolution proceeds," was my confident reply.
"The typical bourgeois attitude, on the
other hand, is to adopt a kind of humanistic fixity, the implications
of which
tend to suggest that man can only be what he is by nature, not be
remodelled
into something higher."
"A kind of philosophical Rampionism," Philomena observed, reminding me of
the
'all-round' attitude to life advocated by the character Rampion
in Huxley's Point
Counter
Point, and one probably shared, at the time, by
the author himself.
"Quite," I concurred,
nodding
briefly. "An
attitude which has also been expressed autobiographically by Stephen
Spender,
who apparently shares it. But
what can you expect? The English are
fundamentally all alike, especially the so-called intelligentsia. They can only relate to humanism, whether
primarily in terms of radicalism, conservatism, or a paradoxical - and
therefore strictly liberal - combination of the two."
"And so remain stuck in a
bourgeois
rut," Philomena remarked, as she began to stroke my hair.
"Ah, the
English!" I exclaimed, getting caught-up in my old obsessive
Anglophobia again. "Have you
noticed how they almost invariably tend to look at what you're wearing
when
passing you in the street, rather than at your face, or before looking
at your
face?"
Philomena thought she had,
though admitted
that it was slightly different for a woman, since men tended more often
than
not to look at a woman's face, arms, legs, and whatever else they could
see of
her body in preference to her clothes.
"And yet when an Irishman
passes you
in the street," I continued, ignoring her point of view, "you usually
find that it's your face he's primarily interested in, as though he
wanted to
probe your soul, your character, your mind.
That just about epitomizes the difference between the two
peoples - the
one hooked on phenomenal appearances because, by nature, materialistic,
and the
other given to noumenal essences because,
by nurture,
spiritualistic. The English are only
interested in your clothes to see how well off or - unforgivable sin -
badly
off you are, whereas the Irish tend to treat appearances with relative
indifference, if not disdain. Indeed, is
not our inclination to often go about in old, worn-out clothes ample
proof of
our contempt for appearances, a reflection, as it were, of our bias for
things
of the spirit? What Englishman, unless
he's a down-and-out or labourer, can bear going about in old clothes? The English are generally a smart-looking
people, but behind their flash or posh appearances ... their souls are
virtually non-existent - certainly less than thriving!
They are mostly phenomenal appearances, and
one could accordingly describe them as fundamentally a female and
fashion-conscious people. Women, too,
are mostly on the surface, especially in
"Yet I'm evidently an
exception, is
that it?" Philomena rejoined half-humorously.
"Yes, and a very beautiful
exception
moreover, not just a bookworm with an ugly face!" I declared, smiling
in
turn. "But most women are
intrinsically superficial. Not many of
them have studied such works as Ulysses
or Finnegans Wake, like you....
Incidentally, Joyce would
never have got Ulysses published in this country, had it not
been
published elsewhere first. The English
are always reluctant to publish works by intelligent Irishmen of a
certain
stamp, especially when Catholic, like Joyce, and more so when also of a
predominantly Gaelic pedigree, like myself, because, apart from the
obvious
ideological incompatibility between power and truth, they don't like
having
their own cultural stupidity shown-up or being criticized for their
past and,
indeed, current behaviour in Ireland, the division of the island being,
in no
small part, a legacy of their imperial past.
Consequently they prefer to reject such authors, and continue to
do so
almost as a matter of political necessity.
But once someone else has taken-up their work, someone who
happens to be
sympathetic towards Ireland or who may have a grudge against the
English, then
their work - and Ulysses is a typical example - gradually gains
a
foothold elsewhere and, as its reputation grows, so the English are
obliged to
come to terms with and publish it in due course. For
by
then they have little choice, since
the developing international reputation of the work compels them to
submit to
its publication, else make damn fools of themselves by banning it. Once the Americans, in particular, take the
lead, then the English have little option but to follow suit, since
America is
ever the boss, both financially and culturally."
Philomena smiled
sympathetically and squeezed
my hand. "You must feel rather
hard-done-by, where their reactionary attitude to your best and most
progressive writings is concerned," she commented.
"Having to keep your revolutionary works
to yourself, because they could never be properly appreciated or fully
endorsed
here in what is, by your standards, a fundamentally reactionary, not to
say
philistine, society."
"One gets used to that
fact," I
admitted, finding it easier not to feel too sorry for myself in the
circumstances of what had earlier taken place between us.
"But it won't last for ever, believe
me! One day things will change."
I had raged enough by now
and could tell
that Philomena, notwithstanding her polite attentiveness, had had
enough of it,
too. Now I desired only to relax and
forget about the future. I had almost
forgotten the real reason for my being with her, so morosely engrossed
had I
become in other matters. Now, however,
the recollection of our prospective trip to Gloucestershire dawned on
me and,
almost simultaneously, the recollection that, contrary to appearances,
we had
earlier made love.
"Well," I said, as soon as I
had
got over the shock, "are you going to be in a fit state-of-mind to
drive
me to your country house?"
Philomena couldn't prevent
herself blushing
with this remark, but smilingly replied: "Provided you don't put any
further physical or mental demands on me this morning, Jason."
"Then you've got nothing to
worry
about," I responded and, together, we struggled to our feet and began
preparing ourselves for the journey ahead.
Before we went down to her car, however, I made sure that
Philomena got
another kiss, as though to reassure her of my romantic allegiance, and
even
placed a hand against the nylon-covered bulge of her crotch to verify
whether
the dampness still reigned there.
Frankly it did, and she had no option but to smile.
CHAPTER
NINE:
AN ACCOMMODATION WITH SUSAN
I
liked
Philomena's
house from the moment I set eyes on it, especially since it
was
surrounded by neatly-kept parkland on all sides. Neither
over-large
nor over-pretentious, her
property was nevertheless sufficiently spacious to warrant the
appellation
aristocratic. As yet, Philomena hadn't
had time to rearrange the interior according to her tastes, nor to get
rid of a
number of her late-mother's antique possessions. But
she
had assured me that my domestic
preferences would also be honoured, should I decide to move-in with her.
Frankly it was highly
unlikely that I would
refuse, considering how well we got on together. Besides,
I
genuinely needed such a house and
environment through which to step-up my war on depression, the single
most
vexing inheritance from my solitary exile in
My wife was naturally upset
when I informed
her of my intentions and requested a divorce.
For she hadn't anticipated such a drastic turn-of-events, even
if she
had surmised that my 'business in London', as she thought of it, wasn't
strictly confined to artistic or literary matters.
The tears that came into her eyes, with the
onslaught of my revelations, had the effect of slightly softening my
heart
towards her, and induced me to ask whether, in parting, there was
anything I
could do for her, anything at all, no matter how difficult. She had evidently not expected this and was
touched by my generosity of spirit. Yes,
there was something I could do for her but ... and here she tactfully
hesitated
a moment ... it would involve the use of Shead's
latest invention.
I might have guessed! The mechanical copulator
was bound to enter into our affairs sooner or later.
But how, I wondered, given that we were about
to separate? "After all," I
remarked, "I can't very well give you an artificially-induced
pregnancy,
knowing the child would be deprived of a father."
"No, it isn't quite like
that," she
countered, blushing stop-signals at me.
"You see, I've been seeing Dr Richardson recently and ..."
Ah yes, of course! How could I forget? Yet
how,
on the other hand, could I confess
to knowing all about it? Tactfully I
feigned ignorance and, adopting as serious a tone as I could muster,
bid her
explain herself, which, to my ostensible consternation, she duly did,
though
not without an understandable degree of embarrassment in the process. For it wasn't simply as a patient that she
had been seeing Dr Richardson, she informed me, but as his mistress
and, well,
she would continue to see him in this more pleasurable capacity for the
foreseeable future. "But if you're
genuine in what you say about being prepared to do anything for me,
Jason," she added, almost as an afterthought, "then please grant me
physical access to the mechanical copulator,
so
that
I may acquire an artificially-induced pregnancy through a deposit of
your
sperm."
I was shot through with
multiple
misgivings. "But who will assume paternity
of the child once you've had it?" I impulsively protested.
"Richardson will," Susan
blandly
informed me. "He'll think it's
his. For I'll pretend he made me
pregnant. I told you a few weeks ago
that I was intending to have a pregnancy test from him, and so I am -
though
not before you've actually made me pregnant yourself or, rather,
through the
intermediate channel of the Shead
contraption."
"But what if he refuses to
countenance
the child, and demands you have an abortion?" I objected.
Susan shook her head. "Frankly he's too deeply in love with me
to demand any such thing, having already proposed marriage to me," she
confessed.
"He what?"
"A
couple of weeks
ago, while you were away in
I blushed violently, but
managed to play
dumb.
So Susan continued: "But I
had to
disappoint him at the time because of my loyalty to you, a loyalty,
however,
which you now appear determined to break.
Well, if that's how it is, and you're really set on obtaining a
divorce,
why shouldn't I respond to Dr Richardson's next proposal in the
affirmative,
thereby fulfilling his paternal ambitions?
Once I tell him that you're about to divorce me over the affair,
he'll
almost certainly renew his proposal of marriage more ardently, not
break off
our affair from fear of upsetting or incommoding you.
So, you see, a baby from you, which is
something I've always wanted, could easily be attributed to him when
the
pregnancy becomes apparent."
I was still starkly
incredulous. "But surely he'd be
suspicious?" I
suggested.
"Hardly," she replied
confidently. "For
I have already told him that you refuse, on principle, to give me a
baby and
could not, under any circumstances, be induced to change your mind. Now he, on the contrary, would be only too
willing to oblige, bearing in mind his ardent love for me.
He knows, moreover, that I really want one,
which is an additional factor in his desiring to marry me and, as it
were,
deliver me from what he sees as your implacable selfishness. So if I told him I was pregnant, he would
hardly be in a position to blame it on you.
Admittedly, he might be a shade surprised that I had become
pregnant
after having assured him that my contraception was in order. But he would almost certainly accept the
paternity of the child when it arrived - one white baby looking pretty
much
like another anyway."
I was as astounded by my
wife's ingenuity
as by her audacity, and could only admire her, despite my persisting
qualms,
both moral and practical.
"Well," I said, after a brave attempt at reflection had
foundered under pressure from her intensive gaze, "if you sincerely
want a
child from me, I suppose I shall just have to grant you one."
"Thank goodness for that,
darling!" Susan declared, becoming visibly relieved, and it seemed for
a
moment that we were almost on kissing terms again, despite the reality
of an
impending divorce.
"So long as I don't have to
hear or
endure the baby, I can't see that my giving you one through the medium
of the, er, mechanical copulator really
infringes my moral code," I conceded.
"If
"I'm sure we will," Susan
rejoined, smiling reassuringly through eyes and mouth.
"This divorce proposal would seem to
have come as a sort of blessing-in-disguise," she continued, "since I
knew you would never consent to fatherhood yourself, even with the
prospect of
my achieving a pregnancy through artificial means."
I blushed even more
violently than the
previous time and feebly made to deny the accusation, but I knew, deep
down,
that she was right. Even the mechanical copulator, acceptable though it was from my
point of view,
would sooner or later have led to a real, live, screaming baby which I
simply
couldn't have tolerated, no matter how hard my wife tried to keep it
from
interfering in our relationship. I
hadn't fully appreciated this fact until now, but Susan's intuition had
cut
through whatever false pretences I may have entertained on the subject. If our impending divorce now struck her as a
kind of blessing-in-disguise, then I could only marvel at her previous
loyalty
to me ... in spite of my intransigence where children were concerned,
an
intransigence partly acquired during my solitary years in London, where
I had
constantly suffered from ill-bred kids playing and screeching in the
adjoining
alley, and partly stemming from fidelity to my artificial lifestyle as
a
transcendental artist, not to mention the fact that I had been an 'only
child'
who never knew his father and felt distinctly unattracted
to the prospect of fatherhood within a regular family context - the underlying reason, in all probability,
for my subsequent transcendental pretensions as an intensely artificial
artist!
However that may be, the
country or,
rather, suburbs of Norwich had not had time to counter the overriding
effect of
my urban conditioning, for I was still radically transcendental, even
though
determined to regress to a less artificial, and possibly more natural,
lifestyle in order to finally defeat my depression.
Such a regression was only likely to happen,
however, in the type of environment that Philomena's country house now
promised
me, and that was why I had jumped at the opportunity to move there with
her as
soon as possible. Personal expedience
had seemingly got the better of ideological vanity and professional
pride. For life in a quasi-aristocratic
milieu, much
as I generally loathed aristocratic criteria, would be a strong dose of
natural
medicine - stronger, by far, than anything I had swallowed to-date. Besides, the move would allow me to break
connections with certain rather tedious people, like Major Saunders and
Dr
Richardson, as well as free me from Susan's somewhat bourgeois
standards. I would doubtless have to make
the
acquaintance of one or two new neighbours in due course, but they might
well
prove more interesting or, at any rate, less boring than my current
ones. Whether they would understand and
appreciate
my religious theories, however, was bound to be a dubious matter, even
more
dubious than where the estimable likes of Robert Dunne and Edward Shead were concerned!
My Dalian, not to say Koestlerian,
aversion to children would certainly surprise them, though not knowing
how long
I'd be remaining in the country, I couldn't be sure that the rural
environment
might not eventually produce a change of heart in me which, if it
failed to
lead to Philomena's becoming pregnant naturally, that is to say,
through
coitus, might at least result in the acquirement of a mechanical
copulation for
the express purpose of inducing an artificial pregnancy.... Which
thought,
logically enough, brought me back to Susan.
"So when would you like me
to, er, introduce you to Janko?"
I politely asked.
"Janko?"
she
repeated
doubtfully.
"Yes, the name of the
world's first
mechanical copulator."
"Oh, well ..." she was
evidently
unsure of her bearings, but opted for the most ingratiating tack "...
as
soon as it's convenient to yourself."
I was on the verge of
feeling my balls at
this point but thought better of it, in view of the sensitivity of the
issue. So I said: "Then you'd
better arrange to accompany me to Shead's
house one
day next week, if possible without arousing the old bastard's
suspicions. I'll take care of my part of
the bargain in
advance ... no, on second thoughts, while you're there.
You need only take off your clothes, expose
yourself to me in as seductive a come-on pose as possible, and I'll, er, provide Janko
with the
necessary quantity of sperm, taking special care not to waste any of it
in the
process of transferring it from my hand or whatever to his plastic
pudenda. Once he's set up, you can offer
yourself to his tireless lust with the aid, if desirable, of the
biggest
plastic circumcised appendage he possesses.
I wish you every success in the matter."
"Thanks awfully," Susan
responded, unable to suppress a degree of humour at my expense. "As long as this Janko
functions properly, I shouldn't have anything to worry about."
"No," I agreed, and might
have
added 'but Dr Richardson will', had not discretion prevented me. I simply smiled reassuringly and left Susan
to her knitting, relieved to have got everything off my chest at last.
CHAPTER
TEN:
SOME FOREGROUND INFORMATION
I
have
been
living with Philomena over a year now and, frankly, the time has quite
simply
flown by. I can hardly believe it. Can hardly believe, either, that my depression
is on the retreat, and so fast that I'm now almost back to normal. But I owe that to more than just a change of
environment, and to more, even, than Philomena herself, who has never
denied me
marital comforts. I owe it, above all,
to the presence here of Rachel, with whom I was once madly in love and
whom I'm
now madly in love with all over again!
Rachel, you may recall, was someone I was mortally afraid of
ever seeing
again, since I feared the consequences of a recrudescence of sexual
love on my
spiritual life. Well, despite her
initial assurances, Philomena trapped me into seeing her, and did so
under the
remarkably false pretence of employing her as a chambermaid!
Yes, a frigging chambermaid
was what Rachel
appeared to be when I first clapped eyes on her, ostensibly cleaning
our
bedroom carpet on her hands and knees, and I could scarcely believe
them. But, of course, that was just a
pretext for
Rachel being present in the house on a regular basis, since I soon
learnt that
her real motive for being there was to seduce me afresh and enslave me
to her
physical charms. And, believe me, she
succeeded in her intentions, even though I feebly protested to
Philomena and
threatened, with what insincerity I cannot imagine, to divorce her. But I was trapped, and she knew it! I was in no position to divorce her after
having just secured a divorce from Susan, since, even with a
separation, I
would then be alone, totally alone, without a house to return to and
with no
friends to whom I could turn. I'd had
enough of that kind of unsettled life in
I have already recorded, for
the reader's
moral benefit, that Philomena was an
exceptional
woman, and, by god, she has given me ample proof of that fact in the
intervening time! Knowing that I would
be unable to fall in love with her, she contrived to force love upon me
through
Rachel, and all for the sake of my mental health. Curiously,
her
selfless strategy worked. For love is
what did develop between Rachel
and myself as a consequence of her residence in our house, a love such
as I had
never expected to experience again - admittedly, not as passionate as
before
(for that was mainly youthful), but sufficiently powerful, all the
same, to
render me a willing accomplice of Rachel's allures and - dare I say it?
- regular fornicator.
Now, after a year of true love, I know Rachel's sex even better
than my
current wife's, having been in-and-out of it so many times ... that
I've lost
count, not to say weight as well!
Although Philomena does her best to ensure that I'm well-fed and
sufficiently fit (I take plenty of gardening exercise) to be able to
continue
in the, by-now, well-worn tracks of my extramarital predilections
without
putting undue strain on our marriage.
Ah, Philomena, what an angel
you are! You even prefer a vibrator to my
penis, these
days, and have ordered one of Shead's, or
perhaps I
should say Lyttleton's, mechanical copulators for future use; which of course means
that I
shall be free to dedicate most of my sexual energies to Rachel, whose
compliant
body holds an irresistible charm for me.
With you, on the other hand, I have to be transcendental, and
that I
mostly am, even though your arsehole suffers an occasional itch. You're the most sophisticated woman in the
world, and I, the foremost literary and painterly genius of my
generation, am
adequately served by you, my beloved wife.
You even know what genius is, and admit that, despite your
cultural
sophistication, you've been unable to attain it. You've
told
me that no man is born a genius,
since genius is at the furthest possible human remove from nature,
human or
otherwise, being the product of the most intense nurture.
One can only become
a genius,
and then after years of painstaking struggle with one's thoughts and
techniques,
which may result in one's being out front, a creative leader, a man
apart, a purveyor of the most artificial
criteria - virtually a
god! That
is genius,
Philomena, and even you have to admit defeat where such a Promethean
isolation
in creative precocity is concerned.
Yes, genius is the most
artificial of
attainments, and you admit that, as a woman, you're unlikely to surpass
me in
artificial or indeed transcendental accomplishments, since a woman’s
place is
not above and ahead of a man in sensibility but, as a rule, slightly
beneath
and behind him, even in the late-twentieth century, when the boot, if I
may
resort to such a crude metaphor, is usually on the other - and sensual
-
foot! You may strive after creative
equality, but you're unlikely to attain it.
What you will
be able to do, however, is put a break on my progressive zeal,
hold me back when I threaten to demolish my human integrity through too
idealistic a lifestyle, or heal me when I have become the victim of
adverse
environmental circumstances. This you are
doing, Philomena, and not least of all via the medium of Rachel, who is
the
complete antithesis of a genius and yet, for that very reason, the
impious
solution to my long-standing problems!
Yes, without Rachel, I would not now be as well as I am, nor
nearly so
prone to penile tumescence. I have found
worldly salvation in the enemy camp, and gladly regress to naturalistic
criteria. I'm already more than half-way
on the road to becoming a politician.
Occasionally I get a letter
from Susan,
telling me what is going on in her life, and in this way I have learnt
that her
marriage to Dr Richardson - for she did in fact consent to his
subsequent daft
proposal - is working out as well as could be expected, since she has
recently
become pregnant again - this time through him.
However, the original baby, who appears to have been a boy,
seems to
have pleased the good doctor, who is convinced of its paternity, never
for a
moment imagining that anyone else - least of all I - could be partly
responsible
for it. They have called this boy Janko, apparently after the mechanical copulator,
though Dr Richardson still knows next-to-nothing about the contraption
and
would be the last person on earth to suppose that his son was really
the
product of a mechanical copulation.
Good, that is how things should be, and I have informed Susan of
my
approval, taking pains to send her a bouquet of artificial flowers for
her
second pregnancy. I only hope that, when
the next child is delivered, Dr Richardson won't note too striking a
distinction with the first one! That
would certainly arouse more than he had bargained for!
As to Shead,
the
crafty
old sod seems to have done nicely out of his invention, for it
is now
big business, selling not only in England - the land of sexual
perversion par
excellence - but abroad as well. The
Americans are especially keen on it, though a shade rumpled that an
Englishman
actually got to the idea ahead of them.
Being ultra-libertarian, they prefer to be first in the field of
new inventions,
and usually are, though Shead, I've since
learned, is
partly of American extraction, which might explain something. Only an American, or part-American, could
have cold-bloodedly come up with a contraption like that, even if Dunne
also
played a part, albeit minor, in its final realization, principally, it
seems,
with regard to the thrusting mechanism.
And Lyttleton, with his Anglo-Saxon
flair for
business, has successfully capitalized on it, becoming an overnight
millionaire. He paid me quite handsomely,
I should add, for my artistic contributions to the machine's commercial
welfare, which helped to boost sales among his more aesthetically
sensitive
customers, not all of whom are bluestockings or feminists, by any means. There is even a chance that one of my
quasi-Expressionist paintings will get into the Tate some day - a thing
that
would certainly be good for business. I
can just imagine women staring at the over-large blue penetrator
(as Shead prefers to officially call it)
on view, and
wondering to themselves whether they oughtn't to buy a mechanical copulator in the interests of enhanced sexual
satisfaction. After all, time can't be
reversed!
Fortunately for me, however,
depression
can, and compliments of Rachel, who is as ravishingly blonde as
Philomena is
dark, I'm now well on the road, as already remarked, to a total
recovery. Another year of Rachel's
domestic services
and I shall be back to normal, capable, thereafter, of taking an active
role in
Perhaps I was wrong to play
for personal
comfort at the expense of impersonal inspiration? Now
my
artistic conscience nags me and
condemns me for having wimped-out of the
burden of
genius in the interests of mental health.
But have I? Time alone will tell!
