2026/07/03

Eyeless in Gaza (novel) Aldous Huxley

Eyeless in Gaza (novel) - Wikipedia


Eyeless in Gaza (novel)

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Eyeless in Gaza
Dust-jacket from the first edition
AuthorAldous Huxley
LanguageEnglish
PublisherChatto & Windus
Publication date1936
Publication placeUnited Kingdom
Media typePrint (Hardback)
Pages619
ISBN978-0061724893

Eyeless in Gaza is a novel by Aldous Huxley, first published in 1936. It is an account of the life of an English socialite named Anthony Beavis between the 1890s and 1935.

Inspiration for title and story

The title is taken from a phrase in John Milton's Samson Agonistes:

... Promise was that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves ...

The title of the book, like Milton's poem, recalls the biblical story of Samson; he was captured by the Philistines, his eyes were burned out and he was taken to Gaza, where he was forced to work at grinding grain in a mill.

Huxley's biographer, Sybille Bedford, whom Huxley knew from being neighbors in the south of France, says in her fictional memoir Jigsaw that two of the novel's characters – Mary Amberley, a jaded drug addict with a taste for young men, and her daughter Helen – were partly inspired by Bedford and her mother, who was addicted to morphine. The subplot of Anthony as a boy dealing with the loss of his mother and the losses effect on his distraught father may also have been influenced by Huxley himself losing his mother at 14.[1]

Plot and style

The novel focuses on four periods in the life of an English socialite named Anthony Beavis (circa 1902, 1914, 1928, and 1934), but the chapters are not in chronological order; as a result, the reader experiences the events in a piecemeal way as they happen or are related non-sequentially. Some chapters resemble diary entries by Anthony, others are third-person narrations, and in some chapters the narrative viewpoint drifts. The story describes Anthony's experiences as he goes through private school, college, and various romantic affairs, and the meaninglessness of high society life with its materialism and shallow sexual liaisons. He then begins to seek a source of meaning, and seems to find it when he discovers pacifism and then a Buddhist-tinged mysticism.[2]

The story alternates between the different time periods as Anthony pursues a superficial affair with Helen Amberley in France as he writes a sociology textbook; during his childhood as he is mourning his mother's death and feeling lonely in a boy's boarding school; his affair as a young man with a sexually aggressive older woman, Mary Amberley, Helen's mother; his childhood friendship with kindly Brian Foxe who suffers from stuttering; and his charged friendship with boarding school alumnus Mark Staithes, a pugnacious and cynical Communist. Part of the story's action is motivated by Mary Amberley maliciously teasing young Anthony into seducing Brian's naïve fiancée Joan in 1914 and the guilt Anthony feels over betraying his best friend

another part is Anthony's gradual evolution into disenchantment with upper-class amorality and the growing violence in 1930s political activism, and his embrace of altruistic pacifism.

Critical reception

Although Eyeless in Gaza is less well-known and has been adapted fewer times than Huxley's Brave New World, it was generally highly praised by contemporary critics.[3] The English journalist Simon Heffer has called the novel Huxley's best book and his only "great novel". According to Heffer, the book both harkens back to Huxley's early satires and links to the more serious and philosophical concerns of his later novels. Formally, the novel uses a modernist stream of consciousness but based in fact, unlike the novels of Woolf, Proust and Joyce, whose narrators' memories are unreliable. Heffer writes that the novel explores the tension between wartime and pacifism in a particularly productive way, that Huxley is a "sophisticated, original English man of letters" who deserves a reevaluation, and that this novel is a good place to start.[4] In Strictly English, Heffer's guide to writing clearly, he recommends Eyeless in Gaza as containing examples of what he considers to be Huxley's masterful use of parentheses (both brackets and dashes) and of the single dash.[5]

The blogger Josh Ronsen has created a table of the novel's events, rearranged in chronological order.[6]

Adaptation

References

  1.  Miller, Katherine Toy (2008). "Deconstructing the Savage Reservation in Brave New World". In David Garrett Izzo and Kim Kirkpatrick (ed.). Huxley’s Brave New World: Essays. McFarland. pp. 145–60.
  2.  Wasserman, Jerry (Winter 1980). "Huxley's Either/Or: The Case for "Eyeless in Gaza"". Novel: A Forum on Fiction. 13 (2): 188–203. doi:10.2307/1345309. JSTOR 1345309.
  3.  Watt, Donald (1975). Aldous Huxley: The Critical Heritage. Routledge & Kegan Paul.
  4.  Heffer, Simon, (20 October 2018). Aldous Huxley did write a great novel – but it was not Brave New World. The Daily Telegraph.
  5.  Heffer, Simon (2011). Strictly English: The Correct Way to Write... and Why It Matters. Random House. pp. 33–34. ISBN 9780099537939
  6.  Ronsen, Josh (August, 2010). LITERATURE: A Better Way to Read Aldous Huxley's Eyeless in Gaza. MonkMinkPinkPunk. Issue 17.
  7.  "Eyeless in Gaza (TV series 1971– )". IMDb.

Further reading

  • Bleiler, Everett (1948). The Checklist of Fantastic Literature. Chicago: Shasta Publishers. p. 156.
  • Bedford, Sybille, Aldous Huxley: A biography, 1973; the standard, two-volume authorised biography of Huxley
==
EYELESS IN GAZA
2025 Bohni Books
CHAPTER ONE August 30th 1933
CHAPTER TWO April 4th 1934
CHAPTER THREE August 30th 1933
CHAPTER FOUR November 6th 1902
CHAPTER FIVE December 8th 1926
CHAPTER SIX November 6th 1902
CHAPTER SEVEN April 8th 1934
CHAPTER EIGHT August 30th 1933
CHAPTER NINE April 2nd 1903
CHAPTER TEN June 16th 1912
CHAPTER ELEVEN December 8th 1926
CHAPTER TWELVE August 30th 1933
CHAPTER THIRTEEN May 20th 1934
CHAPTER FOURTEEN December 8th 1926
CHAPTER FIFTEEN June 1903-January 1904
CHAPTER SIXTEEN June 17th 1912
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN May 26th 1934
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN December 8th 1926
CHAPTER NINETEEN July 7th 1912
CHAPTER TWENTY December 8th 1926
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE August 31st 1933
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO December 8th 1926
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE June 1st 1934
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR June 23rd and July 5th 1927
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE May 20th 1931
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX September 5th 1933
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN May 27th 1914
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT June 25th 1934
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE May 24th 1931
CHAPTER THIRTY July 2nd 1914
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE September 6th 1933
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO July 29th 1934
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE July 18th 1914
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR March 3rd 1928
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE August 4th 1934
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX July 19th 1914
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Autumn 1933
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT August 10th 1934
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE March 25th 1928
CHAPTER FORTY September 11th 1934
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE December 1933
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO September 15th 1934
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE July 20th and 21st 1914
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR September 21st 1934
==

==
EYELESS IN GAZA
by ALDOUS HUXLEY (Author) Format: Kindle Edition



4.2 4.2 out of 5 stars (381)

Eyeless in Gaza by Aldous Huxley is a profound and experimental novel that explores the complexities of human experience, morality, and the search for meaning in the modern world. Told in a non-linear narrative, the novel traces the life of Anthony Beavis, a disillusioned and introspective man navigating the social, political, and personal upheavals of early 20th-century England. Through fragmented timelines, Huxley examines Beavis’s formative years, his relationships, moral dilemmas, and the intellectual and emotional crises that shape his journey.
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From other countries

Stephen J Ethier
5.0 out of 5 stars Good read.
Reviewed in Canada on 30 June 2015
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Good read.
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AnthonyParis
5.0 out of 5 stars Pure Huxley
Reviewed in France on 19 September 2022
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As is usual with this author, intelligence and perception. Not a particularly easy read but well worth the effort required.
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A.
4.0 out of 5 stars Good content, poor material. Fast delivery, poor care for the product.
Reviewed in Brazil on 16 March 2026
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Great book. It was delivered to me with little damage on the cover. Also the book is made with the customary low quality pulp n paperback material. Sometimes I feel Americans just don't respect the book as an object deserving of good material.

However, the content is excellent. Good story, support content, good edition inside.

The delivery was fast, yet the lack of care for the book was unacceptable.
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Rita Gago da Câmara
5.0 out of 5 stars Maravilhoso
Reviewed in Spain on 8 November 2023
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❤️🖤🤍💚
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P. G. L. Gilmore
5.0 out of 5 stars Modern classic well worth reading
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 2 October 2025
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Huxley's best novel, many think, & very readable, with strong, belivable characters, some quite unsympathetic, including the protagonist (or principal subject), who come across as a self-obsessed, humourless wimp. The narrator is scarcely heroic, either.
EiG is renowned for its fragmented timeline. Apparently, editions are available with the timeline reordered linearly, but that is entirely missing the point IMHO.
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Bill Sikes
5.0 out of 5 stars Brilliant writing, brutal satire.
Reviewed in the United States on 29 October 2014
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Since there are already so many excellent reviews of this book, I will just add my two cents.
First, Huxley's writing is exquisite. Like James, Conrad, among others, and, yes, Shakespeare, he is able to craft language so adeptly to show his characters' beautiful and profoundly complex internal worlds and those separate worlds' couplings and collisions, and, in this case, setting those characters within an enthralling story. I can't give specifics, but many times as I read this book I thought to myself how I will need to reread it fully appreciate Huxley's better passages, of which there are many, many, many.
Second, Huxley's satire is brutal, reminding me a lot of Zola. All the characters are flawed to loathsome in their own special ways, and the main good, noble character, of course, dies. And, of course, he is flawed too. (Okay, Anthony's father and step-mother are cute in their late in life love.) This book also reminds me of a film like "La Notte," in which bored wealthy people lead empty, pointless lives and try in vain to fill that emptiness with art, philosophy, politics, making more money, adultery, substance abuse, etc. (I'm afraid that is a paltry synopsis.) The story is disturbing, scandalous, and engrossing.
I'll stop there. This book is great - please read it, and enjoy!
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Dr. DNA
3.0 out of 5 stars non-linear, dated, but with strokes of genius
Reviewed in Canada on 11 March 2024
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Great insight, lousy novel. Vision first, story second. Last major writer to use the semi-colon.
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Basso Profundo
4.0 out of 5 stars Fascinating book, but a demanding read.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 6 August 2018
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A fascinating book, but not an easy read. It skips about in time and space, has untranslated foreign quotations, quite a lot of 'sociological musings', but it's an amazing story, with extraordinary characters, who get themselves into genuine moral dilemmas.
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Kiss
4.0 out of 5 stars Eyeless in Gaza
Reviewed in the United States on 3 September 2010
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The Title was a bit misleading. I thought it was a story a bout the Gaza strip. However, this book is written very eloquently. Lots of words that I did not know and had to look up in the dictionary. A rather strange story about years in England between the first and second World Wars. The young men and how they were affected by their experiences both in school and afterwards. An interesting study of people.
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Christina
3.0 out of 5 stars Seems very outdated now
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 30 April 2026
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I read this in my twenties and remember enjoying it, so I read it again recently but was disappointed at how old-fashioned it seemed. Written in and of the 1930s, it describes mostly arrogant and unpleasant upper class people in whom I had little interest, including the main character who spends his time pontificating and is used as a vehicle for Huxley to lecture the reader on various abstruse intellectual subjects that didn't seem particularly interesting to me and generally have little bearing on the story. While I liked the apparently random sequencing of events, which was probably quite novel at the time, and is used reasonably cleverly to highlight certain developments, overall I'm amazed that I enjoyed the novel so much the first time.
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Ian Bonnell
5.0 out of 5 stars Great as always
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 20 September 2018
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After rereading this again, it is as great as when I read it at 21.
Highly recommended as are all of Huxley’s novels
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Anne T. Henderson
5.0 out of 5 stars into a life, a deep dive
Reviewed in the United States on 16 February 2025
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In this complex, fascinating and sometimes puzzling book, masquerading as the tale of a young man’s life, one finds that it is really a deep rumination on the human condition. How much is drawn from Aldous Huxley’s life and how much from his fertile imagination we will never know. The chapters are drawn randomly from various times in Anthony Beavis’s life, and alternate between episodes he experienced with his set of friends and family (out of chronological order) and extensive philosophical speculations, perhaps following the main character’s intellectual development. I loved it.
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JF
5.0 out of 5 stars Great in all ways
Reviewed in the United States on 9 June 2020
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I have read this three times and will probably do so again in the future. I simply love the way Aldous Huxley can portray such deep concepts that are light and airy. This story is interesting in many ways and to describe anything specific becomes hard to do without describing the entire story. As usual some may find it to be bland until the end philosophical point which is what Huxley seems to be a master at, drawing out the story to promote dedication to reading it and then slamming knowledge in your face if you make it to the end, which is like a sweet treat that is much anticipated.
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John Durrant
5.0 out of 5 stars Not read but it will be
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 22 January 2021
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A good gift.
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Timothy Gouldson
2.0 out of 5 stars Ponderous read.
Reviewed in Canada on 23 January 2021
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Thud.
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Phred
3.0 out of 5 stars Time is out of joint for a scholar seeking meaning in his life.
Reviewed in the United States on 3 September 2016
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Eyeless in Gaza has me frustrated. This is very high quality writing and some high level plotting. Evan so I am not a fan. Our central character, Anthony Beavis, is a scholar attuned to fining meaning in obscure scholarship. He is sufficiently well off that he can peruse a comfortable and self-centered life style. He and most of the people around him are more or less self-centered and un happy. There are several discontinuous time periods ranging from before WWI and some vague point past the European version of America’s depression. Time jumps are artfully used to give us a deep understanding of Anthony, how he came to be who he is and why he has reason to be dissatisfied. We are given many chapters to come to dislike this person and then asked to care about his recognition that he does not like himself either. Having laid out a complex and unhappy persona, the resolution is too pat and for me unsatisfying. The added irony is that the book ends and was written just before World War II which could mock its resolution. Mine Is not the general opinion. I admire the writing but was not convinced by the plotting.

It has been decades since I last attempted an Aldus Huxley book. I remember being very happy with Brave New World, and Brave New World Revisited. After Many a Summer (Dies the Swan) was a warning that I probably missed much in all of 3 these books and should re-read them. I take up Eyeless in Gaza as a more mature and better read person. I do not believe I missed anything important, but I know I will not be re-reading this one.

Anthony Bevis is not a nice person. As a youth he was something of a victim to his father’s scholarly but boring and aesthetic preferamces. The mother to his future best and closest friend will provide for him holidays where the two boys can experience some of the good life but with constant urgings to lead spiritual lives. The friend, Brian Foxworthy becomes extreme about being exactly the perfect person his mother most wants and in so doing becomes the victim of Anthony’s casual disinterestedness and preference for compromise and accommodation.

By seeing Anthony in time slices assembled in thematic rather than temporal sequence Huxley maneuvers the reader from some level of sympathy to a full agreement with Anthony’s dissatisfaction with himself. This is the central conflict of the plot and upon its resolution hangs the pleasure in; or disappointment in the book.

There are some wonderfully deep thoughtful quotations and scholarly essays. These are 'heavy' thoughts on the human condition. For me these tended to be too long and to contribute to the heavy handed preachiness of this novel. The writer has an assumption that his reader is also well read and a deep thinker. Too much so. A lighter hand might have made this book more accessible and less like an extended sermon. I appreciate that this kind of writing is respectful towards the reader. I like being treated like an intelligent person, but this goes beyond that.

Having built the book on the assumption that we are thoughtful and well read, the resolution did not work for me. It approached the trivial and was almost predictable. We are asked to read a long pages in preparation for Anthony to squarely face himself only to be dropped into his life after an incomplete melodrama that is the climax of the book.

The question that Huxley may not have appreciated as he finished this book in 1936 was: Is the resolved Anthony Bevis ready for what is about to happen two years later?
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David Kade
5.0 out of 5 stars Eyeless in Gaza Review
Reviewed in the United States on 10 February 2019
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This is Huxley’s most sensitive book. It is deeply touching, sad, funny and a harsh social satire of the idle rich in between the first and Second World War. Huxley’s unparalleled vocabulary will leave even the most avid reader keeping a dictionary near by. However, he reminds me of Evelyn Waugh, Kingsley Aimes or Somerset Maugham here in his beautiful ruminations of life, love, friendship and the passage of time. I also thought Eyeless in Gaza was more hopeful and the story was well crafted, something Huxley hasn’t always been the best at. Huxley will remain the preeminent 20th century intellectual for me. I’d love to hear him read this.

DTK
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chris
5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 25 August 2017
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great book
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Dr M Clement
3.0 out of 5 stars LONG!
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 8 May 2024
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I found this a difficult book to read but am aware the it is regarded as a classic
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T. Moran
4.0 out of 5 stars Difficult to navigate but rewarding
Reviewed in the United States on 22 January 2024
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The structure is chronologically shuffled which makes the narrative hard to follow but in the end it seems the author has been trying to make sense out of life and made peace with his fate.
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Pete
2.0 out of 5 stars A challenging read.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 May 2024
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Many years ago, I read Huxley's 'Brave New World' during my school GCE studies in English Literature. So I chose to revisit Huxley by reading 'Eyeless in Gaza'.
The novel begins quite conventionally by way of character descriptions, settings etc, but then seems to go off-piste into long alternate chapters of 'stream of consciousness' - which I found almost unreadable; these chapters did nothing to progress the narrative or add to any remnant of plot. Also, the text meandered back and forth over a period of years, which further alienated the reader's grasp of the story's development.
I gave up on the novel in just over a quarter of the way through.
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Amazon Customer
2.0 out of 5 stars You can find something better
Reviewed in the United States on 26 March 2016
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I read this novel only because it was one of Huxley's few I had not read and because it manages to show up after all these years in various articles and essays. I expect this is mostly because of its unusual and potentially provocative title. To immediately clear things for the uninitiated, it has nothing whatever to do with twentieth century political and social history in what is sometimes still called Palestine. The title is taken from the fate of the biblical Sampson, who after losing his strength to a deceitful woman (Delilah), is blinded and forced to spend the rest of his life mindlessly walking in a circle to turn a grinding stone. Huxley, with his usual apparently effortless style, proceeds at leisure to excoriate the entire human race by describing life as a blind, thoughtless, repetitive sequence of pointless actions metaphorically like Sampson's fate. Why this should take 473 self-indulgent pages is unknown. The writing is completely flat; every character sounds exactly like every other. This may have been intentional, but I doubt it because it is characteristic of all his novels. The narrative is not in linear time sequence. This must have been unusual at the time because it caused a great stir, but I have become so used to it in post modern writing that I didn't even notice until I read a review of it. You can find something better to do with your time than this. If you want to read Huxley, try his essays. They are seriously dated, but some are still quite good.
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Conestoga
2.0 out of 5 stars Brutal read
Reviewed in the United States on 20 August 2025
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Supposedly written “at the height of his [Huxley’s] powers”, this book is readable but excruciating. I can appreciate the cleverness of the non-sequential timeline, but it takes 4/5ths of the book to arrive at the dénouement. Only read this if you are a true devotee of Huxley.
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Meaning, Love and Spirituality
4.0 out of 5 stars Not Huxleys greatest
Reviewed in the United States on 19 October 2023
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Compared to the average novel it is good, but just average compared to his others. How people end up with the beliefs they do.
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Michael J. Melton
2.0 out of 5 stars Uninviting challenge does not pull you in.
Reviewed in the United States on 13 February 2025
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I’m of the opinion that a novel should do more to make you want to read more. There were some interesting ideas and lovely phrases, but after a couple of chapters it became a stream of consciousness slog. I wasn’t expecting a page-turner but this makes Crime and Punishment seem like a Clive Cussler in comparison. Too bad. I enjoyed Brave New World and After Many A Summer Dies The Swan.
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Rollin O. Russell
5.0 out of 5 stars I still regard it as one of the best and best crafted novels I know
Reviewed in the United States on 5 July 2014
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I first read "Eyeless in Gaza": when I was in graduate school in the '60s, and I decided to reread it now in retirement. I still regard it as one of the best and best crafted novels I know. The introduction to this edition is very helpful in keeping focus as Huxley skips back and forth between five stages of his protagonist's life. Confusing at first, though engaging from page one, this approach creates a momentum that makes his concluding segments all the more poignant. He gets deeply into the thinking, feelings and motivation of his characters in ways that ring true to any self aware reader's own experience. A great novel!.
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Placeholder
5.0 out of 5 stars The best work of fiction ever written
Reviewed in the United States on 23 June 2015
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This is, by far, the greatest novel ever written (in my opinion). I have no reason to read any other fiction book. In fact, since I've read this book (over a year ago) I have not been able to find anything worth reading. Indeed, this book has spoiled me. This book is extremely intelligent and mature. It is beautiful, yet self-aware. I highly recommend this book - though a younger audience may not understand the maturity and wisdom behind the words.
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kathy mckechnie
5.0 out of 5 stars Fantastic
Reviewed in the United States on 8 June 2023
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One of my favorite authors! This has gained the spot of one of my favorite books. I read about 1 book every 3 days, and this has to be in my top ten
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Stephen John Hill
2.0 out of 5 stars DULL AND THE ENDING IS GIVEN AWAY ON THE BACK COVER
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 19 July 2020
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The only good thing going for this very confusing novel which jumps around in time all the time is the "surprise ending" which is given away on the back cover summary. Don't waste your time ploughing through 700 pages.
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James A. Schmitz
3.0 out of 5 stars The story is compelling, but the actual paperback, ...
Reviewed in the United States on 11 July 2018
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The story is compelling, but the actual paperback, which was supposed to be new at $11.95, consists of loose pages that are falling out every two-three pages. And this is in the first 130 pages, meaning there isn't likely to be any improvement until the book ends three-hundred pages later.
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Kelly Burns
5.0 out of 5 stars Wonderful book
Reviewed in the United States on 30 December 2020
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Aldous Huxley is one of my favorite authors. His writing is so beautiful and this work does not disappoint. Books from his time have some of the best context.
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Mr. Dino Bressan
1.0 out of 5 stars and keeps churning out half-baked theories on how to best rule the world (I would start by banning such ...
Reviewed in the United States on 1 August 2014
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This book is a real dog. Huxley writes in an elegant style, but he displays a rather naive outlook on life, and keeps churning out half-baked theories on how to best rule the world (I would start by banning such works of literature as "Eyeless in Gaza"). The structure of the novel, which is arranged in 50+ jumbled-up chapters in random chronological order makes it virtually incomprehensible. I suggest "Eyeless in Gaza" might be used by the military as an alternative to waterboarding.
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mirrakidz
5.0 out of 5 stars Books
Reviewed in the United States on 12 October 2015
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I bought the book for my son who was in Jail, these were at his request which helped since I am a Prime Member with free shipping and the books he requested are at decent price.
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Barbara Baron Rubin
1.0 out of 5 stars One Star
Reviewed in the United States on 5 June 2015
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Had no idea the book would be so old & moldy-smelling. Had to get rid of it
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Columbia
5.0 out of 5 stars Prompt service
Reviewed in the United States on 14 May 2019
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Book was as described. Good value. Good service.
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jah
1.0 out of 5 stars I expect much better
Reviewed in the United States on 21 April 2020
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Completely crap copy. Ancient, discolored, barely readable in places!
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the briz
5.0 out of 5 stars Loved it!
Reviewed in the United States on 12 October 2017
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A brilliant novel. In my opinion one of Huxley's finest.
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Paul N. Robinson
5.0 out of 5 stars Marvelous if you put in the efort to really read it!
Reviewed in the United States on 24 August 2017
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Great Huxley! Very involved read, but well worth the effort!
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Amazon Customer
5.0 out of 5 stars Great buy
Reviewed in the United States on 12 October 2018
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Great quality
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Xing Chi
5.0 out of 5 stars Great
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 16 April 2016
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Gift well received
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GOS03
5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 12 September 2014
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LOVE this book!
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Eugene
5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 11 January 2015
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Brilliant
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 287 reviews
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Vit Babenco
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May 9, 2022
The past and the present are psychologically and physically bound…
The snapshots had become almost as dim as memories. This young woman who had stood in a garden at the turn of the century was like a ghost at cock-crow. His mother, Anthony Beavis recognized. A year or two, perhaps only a month or two, before she died. But fashion, as he peered at the brown phantom, fashion is a topiary art.

On the whole Eyeless in Gaza is about the power of memory… You wish to forget your past errors but your memory doesn’t let you go… You desire to turn your back on the faux pas of your youth but your memory keeps torturing you and you remain in thrall to the past…
The richly vibrant voice spoke on, and, with every word it uttered, Anthony felt more guilty – more guilty, and at the same time more completely and hopelessly committed to his guilt. The longer he delayed and the more she said in this strain of resignation, the harder it was going to be to undeceive her with the truth.

And in the end your recollections of the past make you change your ways in the present.

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Anita
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August 20, 2011
Eyeless in Gaza was one of the most profound books I've ever read. After reading it I immediately wanted to read it again. I wanted to sleep with the book under my pillow...but it was a book I checked out of the library, so naturally I was concerned with it being a health risk so close to my face.

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Jonfaith
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November 23, 2016
That was the chief difference between literature and life. In books, the proportion of exceptional to commonplace people is high; in reality, very low.

Practically bed ridden, incapacitated and unable to sleep I completed this chewy hulk of a novel in 24 hours. Overflowing with ideas, Eyeless asks about Action: what is one to do? Anthony, one of the novels chief characters remains preoccupied with freedom throughout his life. The narrative rotates between 5 or so timelines and flips back to each periodically, like Moloch gleefully dealing Texas Hold'em. Others are debauched or likewise stalwarts in various ideologies. Huxley asserts through the fog of politics and history that a point might be, just keep it simple. Take it easy on your colon. Don't try to fuck people over. Make amends. There are no overt references to gardens, but I accept that such is implied. This was published in 1936 and with Spain and the Dark Times on the horizon, this is penned in a certain panic. I wondered whether our own anxiety will crystalize in such a masterful experiment.

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Bram De Vriese
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April 8, 2023
Huxely never disappoints. Sometimes this is more philosophy than fiction.

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Ivana Books Are Magic
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April 23, 2021
Published in 1936, Eyeless in Gaza is, at times, referred to as the most personal of Huxley’s works. Whether this is true, I can’t say for sure, but supposedly the protagonist of the novel is based on the Huxley himself and that is what makes this novel ‘more personal’. But aren’t all novels personal? What I can say, having read this novel and all, is that the protagonist Anthony is quite engaging. The novel does focus on the life of the protagonist- socialite Anthony Beavis, but don’t expect the typical life story told in a chronological way. The narrative is not exactly chronological and the novel isn't plot driven. Eyeless in Gaza is, among other things, a novel of ideas.


“I used to think I had no will to power. Now I perceive that I vented it on thoughts, rather than people. Conquering an unknown province of knowledge. Getting the better of a problem. Forcing ideas to associate or come apart. Bullying recalcitrant words to assume a certain pattern. All the fun of being a dictator without any risks and responsibilities.”
― Aldous Huxley, Eyeless in Gaza


Much like the Point Counter Point, Eyeless in Gaza is quite a successful novel. The novel’s title is a symbolical reference to a biblical event, Samsung losing his eyes and thus becoming –eyeless in Gaza. The writing is, most of the time, quite brilliant. Huxley does know how to write good philosophical prose. What impressed me the most was the fact that this book manages to be so many things at once. Eyeless in Gaza is at the same time a novel of ideas and a novel with developed characters and a story. A narrative that is fragmented and hard to follow but still makes sense. Philosophical ideas that suffer from some repetition but don't lose their charm and freshness.

“The world was their love, and their love the world; and the world was significant, charged with depth beyond depth of mysterious meaning. The proof of God's goodness floated in those clouds, crept in those grazing sheep, shone from every burning bush of incandescent blossom – and, in himself and Joan, walked hand in hand across the grass and was manifest in their happiness. His love, it seemed to him, in that apocalyptic moment, was more than merely his; it was in some mysterious way the equivalent of this wind and sunshine, these white gleams against the green and blue of spring. His feeling for Joan was somehow implicit in the world, had a divine and universal significance. He loved her infinitely, and for that reason was able to love everything in the world as much as he loved her.”

There are many things I liked about this novel, and even (at times) almost absurd interruptions in the narrative didn't bothered me. I don’t mind when the narrative is not chronological. As long as the writer can keep my interest, I’m fine with numerous interruptions. Although, Huxley perhaps takes it a bit too far at times. To be honest, while I was reading it did sometimes seem that the pages got somehow mixed up and the author didn't care or couldn’t put them back in order. Still, I suppose that makes this book quite unique.

Don’t get me wrong, it is not that I had problems following the story. I didn't mind the fact that the chapters of the book are not ordered chronologically. It is just that at times, it felt like a bit too much. This novel doesn’t have any major flaws but it bothered me a little how Eyeless in Gaza was sometimes a bit sentimental and cynic. These two emotions that the author masterfully makes fun of and yet doesn't succeed in completely avoiding himself sometimes felt out of place! To be fair, perhaps one cannot entirely avoid these emotions. The contrast between the two made them stand out a bit more, but in a way that also makes this novel seem more human, so I can't hold it against the author.

What else? As I said, the novel functions well as a whole. It is true, that reading this novel required concentration, but not in a bad way if you understand what I mean. It required concentration and a bit of effort, not because the story was difficult to follow, but because of all the philosophical parts, all those ideas that take pages and pages to develop. As I already stressed, I loved reading all those philosophical passages, but maybe this novel would have profited by being just a little bit shorter? Not a lot, just a bit shorter. Something like minus 50 pages and Eyeless in Gaza would perhaps have been much easier to read. Nevertheless, taken as it is, this book is very very good and it can teach us something about the author himself. On the second thought, I really wouldn't have like it to be shorter.


I do hope I’ll have the chance to reread Eyeless in Gaza. I remember that when I wrote down my first review I noted that: ‘It is definitely not the book to read in small print, so try to avoid it if you can.’ As I’m thinking of rereading this book, perhaps I should purchase a nicer copy? I do enjoy reading Huxley and it's been to long since I read him last. To sum up, Eyeless in Gaza is not my favourite work of his, but it is a great novel. Huxley is always such an unique and interesting thinker and I enjoyed reading this one. I can honestly recommend it to everyone. It is a must read for fans of Huxley!

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Ant
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March 5, 2014

It's a shame that Huxley is almost solely noted for his rather simplistic Brave New World, when the brilliance of half forgotten works like Point Counter Point & Eyeless in Gaza are covered by their years as though stone locked into the times they were written, away from todays readers. Both employ brilliant structures to tie in various storylines, albeit in entirely different ways, but Eyeless in Gaza was probably one of the most personal & introspective novels of his to date. So much so that I was mistaken in believing it was based on memoirs in the first few chapters. The central character, Anthony, was a not so thinly disguised Huxley & the entire novel seemed to be a type of purging of the self as he took it to criticize this characters flaws liberally. But back to the intriguing structure. The opening chapter has the main character randomly shuffling through old photographs, some taken thirty years ago, some ten. With each photo a character in his past, some dead, others still alive, and as each photo is picked up & studied, he is briefly taken back to a place in time. This I believe, gives hint at the seemingly random blocks of experience forming the chapters of small stories and giving insights into the characters as each new random time frame is relived. Some go back into the past, some are shot forth to near where the story had begun, & beyond, from Anthony at the age of around thirty four to when he was around seven, to when he was in his early twenties, and a little later. The characters around him are given parts of their personality, their faults, their ultimate outcomes and the roots of their predicaments but only in the ebb and flow of the story. For indeed this story does not follow a chronological begin that reaches an end, but like a tide, in its ebbs and flows does reach a high mark eventually but only after all the missing pieces have been satisfied more or less to the whole.


The unusual structure of the book gives the reader the vantage point of seeing clearly cause and effect, of how our natural character deepens and hardens to a potential self destruction unless we choose the path of change. It is not sermon like, never patronizing, but very cleverly juxtaposed, almost to the point of a science.


In the kind of writing that you come to expect from Huxley, it is a story of ideas, but not quite so much as in his earlier novels. If Point Counter Point had hinted of the mystical at the end, this story builds definitely towards an end of pacifism and mysticism. It appears to be the turning point of Huxley from cynic to mystic and while there is much cynicism in the book, (every character is an ugly caricature) there is self awareness of this cynicism as shown as yet another useless ugliness as it detaches itself from the egotistical intellectualism which would otherwise give it a self righteous excuse to feel pride. The writing style follows the evolution we see of Huxley's from the wordy verbose beginnings we see in Chrome Yellow & Antic Hay to where it stands in this novel; quiet, relatively sparse and inward.


It very much felt as thought he was talking of his own experience when discussing much of the books content. From the moment the pages are opened as he looks upon the photos, to when he is finally transformed spiritually by Miller and of course his own life's experiences, you feel Aldous Huxley is there behind the words.


There were various themes carried over from other novels. The suicide of the ascetic; the worthlessness of class and indulgence and the artificiality of persona. And again, his predictions of the rise of the Fascists in Hitler and Mussolini are chillingly close. One thing I have to say he missed big time though; his spiritual inspiration Miller, speaks at length as to the benefits of vegetarianism to prevent the rise of destructive revolutionaries, and not that I don’t see the absolute benefit of such a meat free diet, however Hitler, it must be known, was a vegetarian.


It was refreshing to see Huxley bring in his friend and respected contemporary, D.H Lawrence into mention as he considered Lawrence's philosophy against his own and, brings into question whether Lawrence's praise of the physical, the sexual really went far enough, almost painted him as a prude for not looking further into the primordial, past the obvious and towards the within. I could only imagine the debates they had in real life.


This really is a great work, one of searching, of a subtle, subliminal, but very real dissatisfaction, and of making terrible human mistakes in the midst of many others making terrible human mistakes, a book filled with passionate pondering, with sharp reflections of 'us', as always, and finally with a message that eventually finds its fruition in his much later essays and works. This is the beginning of his wanderings, with the erudite edge which separates Huxley from most all novelists then and now. This is Huxley.

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Bob Newman
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January 1, 2018
"Finding Anthony Beavis"

Just because I'd read "Brave New World" when I was in high school didn't mean I knew Aldous Huxley's work, so I recently read EYELESS IN GAZA. Strangely enough, over four decades later, I came out with a different impression ! Though I had no idea what the title meant, I found a strong character study of an indecisive man, a flawed character whose weaknesses lead directly to the demise of his best friend. His courage continually gives out at crucial moments and he tends to get involved in activities that he cannot sustain. It is a novel of betrayal, of failure as a man, and of disillusionment leading to final enlightenment. From a dog falling out of an airplane and splashing two naked lovers on a rooftop with blood, to a grim ride with an injured friend in the mountains of Mexico, the images are vivid, the symbolism striking. Anthony Beavis is an intellectual, but his knowledge and erudition ultimately do not mean much, they do not give him strength, rather scholarship is more of an excuse for his existence. Huxley decries such a chasm between real life and cloistered academicism, a split viewed in several characters. "Eyeless" would refer to the innate blindness of such people; their inability to distinguish basic human values and responsibilities from the bookish froth around them. In the end, influenced by a doctor with the values of positive pacifism and humanity, perhaps akin to Buddhist ideas, Anthony comes to enlightenment.

EYELESS IN GAZA is above all a book of philosophy, masquerading quite successfully as fiction. If you just want an enjoyable novel, an interesting plot, this is not your cup of tea---it is not a book to read on the plane to Miami. Huxley asks numerous deep questions and answers them, either in his own monologue as author, or in the dialogues of his characters. He sets out his answers as to `the meaning of life' on the last pages. It is a serious book written brilliantly. Preferring my philosophy in a more emotional style, I found Huxley's ruminations a bit too much at times. They made me impatient and I felt relieved, rather than sorry, to reach the end of the 423 pp. book. Yet, as a book with something to say, it has to be considered as one of English literature's important works.
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Pete daPixie
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March 13, 2012
It was Samson who fought the Philistines, whose 'nazirite' locks were lost due to female duplicity and resulting in his enslavement and his condition of being 'eyeless in Gaza'.
Along with Hesse, Huxley was required reading back in my teenage years, after all, there he was on the cover of Sgt Pepper. Having read 'The Doors of Perception-Heaven and Hell', 'Brave New World' and 'Island' all those years ago, it has been a joy to return to this masters writing and still find it exquisite.
'Eyeless in Gaza' was published in 1936. Huxley's highly intellectual narrative is supremely erudite and flows across the pages like honey. Even so, I have to admit that I was hanging on to this story by the barest of threads for a while. Each chapter hops backwards and forwards across the first few decades of the twentieth century, continually introducing characters, school friends, family and lovers.
There are echoes of autobiographical detail written into some characters, the suicide of Brian Foxe seems to be an exorcism of Huxley's own brother Trevenan, and the main character Anthony Beavis suffers his mother's death, like Huxley himself. Written in the inter war years the author expounds his concerns and ideas in terms of twentieth century human relationships, socio-politics and religions. Perhaps not an easy read, over four hundred pages of a steep incline, but certainly, the view from the top is magnificent.


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Issicratea
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June 24, 2018
I read this as a follow-up to Huxley’s first novel, Crome Yellow, written in 1921, when he was in his mid-twenties. I found it fascinating to see how much he had developed as a novelist by 1936, when he published Eyeless in Gaza. The later novel is far richer and far more ambitious than the earlier. It does not content itself with skimming wittily across the surface of life, but attempts (successfully, in my view) to go deep.

Eyeless in Gaza is not a novel for those readers who complain when they can’t find anyone to like or admire in a work of fiction. Most of the characters are more or less morally reprehensible; and those few that aren’t, like the kind, hapless, vulnerable Brian Foxe, the protagonist’s boyhood friend, don’t prosper in the novel’s cruel world. Everyone is more or less damaged, propping themselves up with drugs or alcohol or sex or intellectual speculation. (As an intellectual himself, Huxley is funny and perceptive on the ways in which ideas and reading can serve as ways of hiding from the world.)

Huxley once stated that his aim in his fictional works was to “arrive, technically, at a perfect fusion of the novel and the essay,” and Eyeless in Gaza is pretty unashamedly a novel of ideas. The novel is complex in its structure, threading together different chronological moments in the life of its semi-autobiographical protagonist, Anthony Beavis, from his boyhood at the turn of the twentieth century, through to his early forties, in 1933-34. Together with the third-person narrative, we have extracts from Anthony’s diary, which allow us to see him in first person, cogitating furiously away in an attempt to dig himself out of his spiritual impasse. We also have a few episodes narrated through different focalizers, such as Brian Foxe and Anthony’s on-off love interest, the angry, mercurial Helen Ledwidge, née Amberley, who was, for me, the standout character of the novel. (I was interested to read that the character was based in part on the German-Jewish novelist Sybille Bedford, whom Huxley and his wife befriended in the 1930s in the South of France).

I was quite surprised at how visceral some of the episodes in this novel are, despite the generally cerebral character of Huxley’s narration. The scene in which Helen and Anthony’s moment of post-coital reflection on a roof terrace in the South of France is interrupted when a dog splatters to its death on them, dropped from a passing plane has probably left an indelible mark on my memory, as has that in which a young, rebellious Helen concludes an afternoon’s serial shoplifting, intended to shock her more conventional sister, by stealing a kidney from a slab in a butcher’s shop.

I puzzled for a while over the title of the novel, Eyeless in Gaza, which comes from Milton’s Samson Agonistes, where the blinded Samson bitterly portrays himself as the former predicted “deliverer of Israel”, now to be found “eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves”. I think the point of it is to try to capture Anthony’s state as the novel closes, morally abject and blind in some ways, but at the beginning of an upwards curve (into Huxley’s own mysticism and pacifism). I found it poignant, though, in the way in which it likened the partially sighted Huxley to the blind Milton and, beyond them, the blind archetype of Samson. From abjection and blindness come the possibility of redemptive insight—that was, perhaps, ultimately, what I saw as Huxley's message in this book.
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Mj
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April 28, 2011
I read Eyeless in Gaza when I was 18 and again in my 20's. In my opinion this is Huxley's best novel. Early on Huxley's main character, who is no doubt based on himself, states:

"Like all other human beings, I know what I ought to do, but continue to do what I know I oughtn't to do"

And that sums up his quest for transformation. The novel simultaneously weaves together 3 separate story timelines showing how his childhood shapes the mistakes of his adolescents and the cushion his sardonic personality provides in adulthood.

Ultimately I think this is a novel about one trying to engage their real self and transcend their mistakes and fears by finding meaning in a higher power. For Huxley that was mysticism and pacifism right before WWII broke out.

The text is quite often cerebral and cynical but other times is beautifully poetic and optimistic. I can hardly believe this is same author who wrote Brave New World.

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Lavinia
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March 13, 2009
Roman de idei, foarte concentrat dpdv intelectual, nu foarte lejer pentru neuronii mei. Nu e greu, dar nu e totusi o lectura de vacanta, ca sa zic asa. Motiv pentru care am luat si retetele Babettei pe linga, ca suport :)
Ma bucur ca nu i-am dat pace si m-am tot caznit cu el, putin cite putin. Ceea ce a fost foarte bine, pentru ca finalul, sa zicem ultimele 150 de pagini, dupa ce m-am prins eu cum sta toata treaba, a fost excelent.

Pe linga faptul ca e asa mai intelectuala de felul ei, cartea e scrisa sub forma unui puzzle. Cele 50 si ceva de capitole se intind pe vreo 30 de ani, dar din fericire se concentreaza pe citeva evenimente (disparate) mai importante, iar cititorul nu are decit sa faca legaturile de rigoare pentru a stabili continuitatea. Si odata ce te obisnuiesti cu stilul, povestea e intr-adevar captivanta. Cum spuneam, pe mine m-a prins mai mult in partea a doua, cind deja am reusit sa fac multe dintre legaturi.

Romanul se concentreaza pe viata lui Anthony Beavis si a cercului sau de prieteni din scoala generala, trecuti prin Eton si apoi Oxford, deci intelectuali din stratul superior al societatii: Brian, Hugh,Mark. In plus, Mary Amberley, care devine la un moment dat un soi de marchiza de Merteuil si din jocurile si pariurile careia se naste unul dintre cele mai dramatice momente ale romanului - sinuciderea lui Brian. Dramatic e si destinul ei, pentru ca dintr-o doamna sofisticata ajunge o mizerabila dependenta de morfina. Fiica ei, Helen, cu care Anthony are o relatie esuata, e unul din personajele cele mai interesante si consistente.
Am un singur regret, ca nu am citit-o in engleza; tatal lui Anthony e lingvist si face tot timpul jocuri de cuvinte amuzante, unele dificil sau imposibil de tradus, imi dau seama.

Cartea e in pregatire la Polirom, ceea ce e bine, editia pe care eu o am, cumparata de la anticariat, e aparuta in ’74, iar de atunci nu cred sa se mai fi republicat la noi.
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John Anthony
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July 29, 2022
Through apparently random journal entries (1902-1935) we follow the life of Anthony Beavis and his circle of friends, lovers, family and acquaintances. What a time to be ‘growing up’ (something of a misnomer when applied to Anthony) . It takes in WW1 and the palpable lead up to WW2. It feels very autobiographical: is the author Anthony? If so, he is far from easy on himself. We are in Anthony’s /Huxley’s mind for the duration. An outsider/voyeur afraid to get ‘involved’ with the dirty business of ‘Life’, keen therefore to avoid the pain which must inevitably accompany it.

In choosing such a course he weaves a tangled web for himself and others and ultimately must change direction. I felt to be there with him, looking through his eyes. The death and destruction of the Great War, consequent revenge on Germany, a General Strike in the land fit for heroes. The rise of Hitler and the Beast in the East. Communism v Fascism, Old world v new.

Superb writing and so quotable. But this little snip will have to do: “...she suffered herself to be kissed and, her face still set and stony, stepped across the threshold into the horribly familiar nightmare of her mother’s life.”
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Phrodrick
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July 3, 2017
Eyeless in Gaza has me frustrated. This is very high quality writing and some high level plotting. Evan so I am not a fan. Our central character, Anthony Beavis, is a scholar attuned to fining meaning in obscure scholarship. He is sufficiently well off that he can peruse a comfortable and self-centered life style. He and most of the people around him are more or less self-centered and un happy. There are several discontinuous time periods ranging from before WWI and some vague point past the European version of America’s depression. Time jumps are artfully used to give us a deep understanding of Anthony, how he came to be who he is and why he has reason to be dissatisfied. We are given many chapters to come to dislike this person and then asked to care about his recognition that he does not like himself either. Having laid out a complex and unhappy persona, the resolution is too pat and for me unsatisfying. The added irony is that the book ends and was written just before World War II which could mock its resolution. Mine Is not the general opinion. I admire the writing but was not convinced by the plotting.

It has been decades since I last attempted an Aldus Huxley book. I remember being very happy with Brave New World, and Brave New World Revisited. After Many a Summer (Dies the Swan) was a warning that I probably missed much in all of 3 these books and should re-read them. I take up Eyeless in Gaza as a more mature and better read person. I do not believe I missed anything important, but I know I will not be re-reading this one.

Anthony Bevis is not a nice person. As a youth he was something of a victim to his father’s scholarly but boring and aesthetic preferamces. The mother to his future best and closest friend will provide for him holidays where the two boys can experience some of the good life but with constant urgings to lead spiritual lives. The friend, Brian Foxworthy becomes extreme about being exactly the perfect person his mother most wants and in so doing becomes the victim of Anthony’s casual disinterestedness and preference for compromise and accommodation.

By seeing Anthony in time slices assembled in thematic rather than temporal sequence Huxley maneuvers the reader from some level of sympathy to a full agreement with Anthony’s dissatisfaction with himself. This is the central conflict of the plot and upon its resolution hangs the pleasure in; or disappointment in the book.

There are some wonderfully deep thoughtful quotations and scholarly essays. These are 'heavy' thoughts on the human condition. For me these tended to be too long and to contribute to the heavy handed preachiness of this novel. The writer has an assumption that his reader is also well read and a deep thinker. Too much so. A lighter hand might have made this book more accessible and less like an extended sermon. I appreciate that this kind of writing is respectful towards the reader. I like being treated like an intelligent person, but this goes beyond that.

Having built the book on the assumption that we are thoughtful and well read, the resolution did not work for me. It approached the trivial and was almost predictable. We are asked to read a long pages in preparation for Anthony to squarely face himself only to be dropped into his life after an incomplete melodrama that is the climax of the book.

The question that Huxley may not have appreciated as he finished this book in 1936 was: Is the resolved Anthony Bevis ready for what is about to happen two years later?

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September 16, 2007
on speech-giving:
"It's easy enough, once you've made up your mind that it doesn't matter if you make a fool of yourself. But it's depressing. There's a sense in which 500 people in a hall aren't concrete. One's talking to a collective non, an abstraction, not to a set of individuals. Only those already partially or completely convinced of what you're saying even want to understand you."

on marriage:
only boring people stay married.

Empirical facts:
1. We are all capable of love.
2. We impose limitations.
3. We can transcend self-imposed limitations.
4. Love breeds love. Hate breeds hate.

Anthony on his celibacy:
"Mark's asceticism was undertaken for its own sake and above all, for HIS, that he might feel himself more separate, more intensely himself in a better position to look down on other people. Whereas what I was trying to do was to avoid occasions for emphasizing individual separateness through sensuality. Hate, anger, ambition explicitly deny human unity; lust and greed do the same indirectly and by implication - by insisting exclusively on particular individual experiences and in the case of lust, using other people merely as a means for obtaining such experiences... lust is still incompatible with pacifism; be made compatible only when it ceases to be an end in itself and becomes a means towards the unification through love of two separate individuals. Such a particular union, a paradigm of union in general."

On God:
"God may or may not exist. But there is the empirical fact that contemplation of the divinity - of goodness in the its most unqualified form - is a method of realizing that goodness to some degree in one's own life."

There is a stormy base to all life, then darkness/peace connected at one point, at the end is light, the final peace.
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David Stephens
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August 25, 2012
There is a Latin phrase used early in Aldous Huxley’s Eyeless in Gaza that reads, “Video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor,” which, near as I can tell, means, “I see better things, and approve, but I follow worse.” This saying does a good job tying together the events in the novel. Many of the characters know how they should behave, and yet, they do just the opposite. They act foolishly or callously when it is more convenient, amusing, or less painful—both for themselves and the others in their lives—to do so. On top of these often unlikable decisions they make, many of the characters are intellectuals who are divorced from reality. They are capable of analytically dissecting their peers, but they have no skills or desire to interact; they prefer to know but not experience.

The chief example of this is Anthony Beavis, the protagonist who is based heavily on Huxley himself. His erudition is unmatched by most of the other intellectuals in the novel, yet he can’t grasp the emotions of those around him. He often finds himself knowing what to do but resists because it is simply easier to remain passive. His one true friend, Brian Foxe, similarly realizes the problematic nature of the gap between his knowledge and actions. He so believes in a pure, ideal version of love that he thinks any physical expressions of that love will tarnish it. It is his inability to express this love which prevents him from achieving happiness in his only relationship.

Outside of these two, there is an interesting, if not greatly flawed, array of characters who pop in and out of the story. They are easily able to do this because of the structure Huxley establishes. The narrative jumps back and forth from Anthony’s early childhood to his middle age after he has made numerous mistakes throughout his life. This method not only allows for easily changeable views of the characters when readers learn about their earlier lives, but helps build the story to a more emotional climax than it otherwise would have done. Several outcomes are mentioned early on in the novel, but readers don’t find out the intimate details or what decisions the characters made until the very end.

If there is a central plot in the novel, then it is one of Anthony overcoming his shyness and aversion to an involvement with reality. He slowly recognizes his need to work with others and put his theories in to practice, no matter what the consequences. Huxley periodically inserts journal entries from Anthony in his forties that describe his transition from arrogant intellectual to selfless mystic. These entries cover a range of topics that are largely still relevant today: the tug of war between institutionalists and insurrectionists, how much effect art can really have on people, individual desires that drive military aggression, and the heightening of political divisions to Manichean levels. What Anthony ultimately discovers, though, is that he must “cultivate the difficult art of loving people” to achieve the true pacifism he advocates. It takes him the entire course of the novel to get to this realization and manage to go through with it. While this may seem like a simple process, the “art of loving people” means not only acknowledging that others should be treated well but working tirelessly to ensure that they are. This is a notion most people probably realize and strive towards but few ever attain.
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Ben Weeks
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January 24, 2011
I was very surprised by Eyeless in Gaza. From the books that Huxley is well know for, I was expecting a dystopian commentary involving various chemical mind-states. What I got was a deep inquiry into the nature of man through the telling of various social circumstances of a fictional British bourgeois circle in the early 1900s. His criticisms of the idle rich are quite endearing, and seem to warn of the sort of dystopic future that he paints in his other novels. Huxley treads the line of being moralistic without being overbearing quite well. While he clearly has an agenda which settles in a Buddhist inspired active pacifism, he tells the story quite well, with well written and contrasting characters that made me inquisitive and inspired until the very end.

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August 14, 2012
Originally published on my blog here in August 2000.

The title of this novel refers to the Biblical story of Samson. Having told Delilah the secret of his strength - that it depended on his hair remaining uncut - Samson was betrayed to his enemies the Philistines, and taken with a shorn head to be a slave in their city of Gaza. Blinded to make him harmless, he was forgotten until brought before the crowd on a feast day. By then his hair had regrown, and even blind he was able to pull down the temple on the heads of the celebrating Philistines (and kill himself at the same time).

This story may not seem immediately relevant to Huxley's novel, which is about the confused arguments of thirties intellectuals, mainly left wing, and the events which shaped their ideas. This is particularly the case when we remember that the novel was published several years before the Second World War broke out, so that the war cannot be seen as the bringing down of the temple unless we credit Huxley with an uncanny gift for accurate prophecy. (Additionally, Samson deliberately brought down the building to destroy others, and this cannot be said of the origins of the Second World War in the political debates of the thirties.)

The real meaning of the title must be a pointer to the way in which the characters in the novel think that they are doing something new and revolutionary, something that will destroy the outdated society around them. This would of course give it an ironic twist, since Huxley must have been aware that this feeling was shared by the radical intellectuals of every generation and of every political viewpoint.

The novel is centred around Anthony Beavis, and tells the story of his life by picking out the important events in the development of his personality, from the death of his mother during his childhood onwards. The arrangement of these events is not chronological, but parallel - dated chapters, like entries in a diary, are arranged so that the significant events are revealed together, alternating between the different periods of Beavis' life. Some days have several chapters - a description of a party in 1926 occupies six of them - and the main concentration is on the period from autumn 1932 to spring 1935, which sees Beavis involved in an uprising in Central America and in public speaking for the pacifist movement.

An oblique connection is made between the events of the novel and the First World War. One of the most important sequences of events, which leads up to the suicide of one of Beavis' closest friends, takes place in July 1914 between the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the declaration of war on Serbia by the Austro-Hungarian Empire. This war was of course the one which entailed the self-destruction of the former world order, as the major colonial powers tore themselves apart. The War itself is hardly mentioned directly; Beavis' part in it was minor and overshadowed by the suicide.

The clear symbolic nature of this event leads one to look for connections between historical events and other important turning points in the novel. The most prominent of these are accompanied by two of the most repulsive descriptions in modern literature. The end of an affair between Beavis and Helen Elberley is caused by her repulsion when a dog falls from an aeroplane onto the house where they are staying, covering them in blood; and the revolution in Latin Anerica causes another old friend of Beavis', Mark Staithes, to lose a leg when a wound becomes gangrenous. (Other important moments are the abduction of Helen's later lover, the Communist agitator Ekki Giesebrecht, by Nazi agents in Switzerland, and the final event of the novel, in which Beavis goes to speak at a pacifist meeting in the fact of death threats.)

None of these events actually coincides with important dates in the history of the thirties, as far as I can tell, but they certainly have a symbolic air about them, particularly the dead dog. Whatever the meaning of these events individually, taken together they symbolise the ferment of the thirties, the opposition between political extremes (communism/fascism, pacifism/militarism) that was eventually resolved by the war.
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Jonathan
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March 13, 2017
I almost didn't read this, looking through unread books that I thought I might never start. It had been on my shelf for a few years, a nice old copy from 1938, thick paper making it look even longer than it was. Then I read the first page and was thankful that I had just finished my last book. The plot revolved around the life of Anthony Beavis, moving back and forth between 1904, when he was a child, attending the funeral of his mother, to the mid-1930s, watching the world on the brink of another war. Central to his adult life is an early love affair with an older woman, an affair that has consequences in the lives of his friends as much as in his own. School, university, love and loss, mistakes and adventures all play their part in the novel. Occasional philosophical asides reminded me of Iris Murdoch in part, and just like her books, showed that novels which on the surface are about human relationships, can also make us think about the bigger things in life. A very good book, if slightly of its time.
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James
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February 13, 2014
A difficult read which attempts to examine the whole of human behavior with an ever-present underlying theme: The only outcome of violence is more violence and even though love often causes confusion, disorientation, heart-break, and endless guilt, it is the only possible way to move forward.

For those thinking they might want to dive in to this, I'd highly recommend noting the dates of each chapter. The non-linear presentation was very confusing before I started actively paying attention to what time period in which each chapter took place. Also, there may be times when a seemingly pointless exchange between characters brings you to tears of boredom, but hang on, there are so many worthwhile descriptions, so many thoughtful observations that by the time you reach the last page, enlightenment will be the strongest lingering emotion, leaving the brief frustration a faded memory.

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Kristin
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March 22, 2018
Some books can be read in large chunks and some cannot. Wanting to meet a book club deadline, I read this in daily 50 page chunks. Disadvantaged also by not knowing 4 additional languages (including Latin) and philosophical schools of thought and certain artists, I may have missed some of the salient points. Add in a non-chronological time sequence and I have to conclude this is a challenge to read. The sections of the book I enjoyed most were when the characters actually did something or at least talked about doing something versus the parts of the book that were so much "washing machine" cycles with trains of thought going round and round.
The book club discussion added some context so that I had a better grasp of what the author was trying to accomplish and I award him an "A" for effort. In the end, this will probably be the last of this author I read as I also did not enjoy Brave New World for different reasons.

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Andreea
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March 16, 2011
...although the last chapter seems somehow from another book (something like "I do not truly believe this, but this is where the writing brought me")... It is about how people change, how they turn to be totally and unexpectedly different from what they considered their true nature... It is very intelligently built, bringing past events in the present, there are no corny characters, archetypes are absent (I wouldn't think of the doctor as archetype, as long as one may trace down his evolution), the charaters are alive and kicking...

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Agne Zainyte
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March 29, 2019
This book will leave you broken into thousand pieces and it will be up to you to decide how do you want to "glue" yourself back. But make no mistake, you will be broken afterward.

Absolute masterpiece! I found myself lucky to read this book in my early 20's as I could relate to young Anthony so much (we happen to share the same cynical worldview as well as similar philosophies).

I could not grasp the impact of this book until I finished it. Then all I wanted is to read it again, recycle all that material, analyse it as now I know the consequences. Jumping between timelines works brilliantly in this type of storytelling.

In one of the chapters Mark complains about written novels not being real enough, characters are never flawed enough to resemble real people (and then he gives an example that empty cigarette box sometimes can upset more than lost loved one) and that is what Huxley did in this book. He presented characters, flawed and real, there were no protagonists or antagonists, there were only people.

Ending of the book was the most visual experience I have ever read, but then I realised that it felt so not because of the visual written scenery but because of extensively written character emotional landscape.

That is why this book is so powerful: there are no good guys, no bad guys. The reader equally finds oneself empathising with the protagonists and antagonists (although there is no line separating them). All characters are charming and witty and at the same time broken and filthy. What is it like to be human? There is no one answer, or as it is said in the book "knowledge and experience are two separate things", knowing what is it to be human and experiencing it are two different things.

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George
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March 21, 2021
3.5 star. An interesting, thought provoking, character based, long novel about Anthony Beavis and his close friends and associates, covering the significant events in Anthony’s life during the period 1903 to 1935. The novel moves backwards and forwards in time. Anthony is a lost soul, finding it difficult to make firm decisions and commit fully to relationships. He tends to go with the flow. He seeks enlightenment. During the course of the novel there are a number of intellectual meditations on topics including sociology, democracy and authoritarianism. Where does individualism fit in civilised societies.

Here are some examples of the author’s writing style:
‘Certain memories, certain trains of thought are like the aching tooth one must always be touching just to make sure it still hurts.’
‘That was the chief difference between literature and life. In books, the proportion of exceptional to commonplace people is high; in reality, very low.’
‘Leaving you defenceless against the full consciousness of the fact that you can’t do without your fellow humans, and that, when you’re with them, they make you sick.’

The novel was first published in 1936.
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Zainab
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December 17, 2015
"I've had a queer feeling that I'm not really there..."

Huxley has some things to communicate to us about pacifism and human nature and some other stuff. But by the end he does so with such vehemence it's as if you're reading a different book altogether. Or more likely I only woke up to the message closer to the end. Anyways, his embarrassing descriptive precision makes for a sumptuous read. It's terribly interesting how Brian, Anthony, and Helen all change dramatically as they grow older and yet somehow stay the same, or become more of themselves.

'That was the chief difference between literature and life. In books, the proportion of exceptional to commonplace people is high; in reality, very low.
"Books are opium," said Mark.
"Precisely."'

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Jens Personius
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January 20, 2017
This book delves into and dissects both social issues and conflicts of the human psyche through engaging dialogue and monologues. Reading Eyeless in Gaza feels like peering into the genius mind of Huxley himself. This book is not one which you can easily pick up, read a few pages, then set down and come back to a couple of days later. Certainly this book is not for everyone, but if you are an active and involved reader who can enjoy a book more for its intellectual content rather than just its storyline, then I'm sure you will very much enjoy this read.
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Горана Ђурић

September 5, 2023
После Врлог новог света, била сам убеђена да више нећу читати Хакслија, каква је то грешка могла да буде!!!!!
Одличан роман, инспирисан делом животом писца, радња не тече линеарно, већ се иде напред и назад кроз године са причом о губитку и издаји и кукавичлуку и кривици и љубави и недостатку љубави, о пацифизму и социјализму и капитализму и бесмиселености свега тога. Све ово звучи сувопарно, а има и делова за умирање од смеха, или бар прилично комичних ситуација. Браво, Хаксли, не одустајем од тебе!

『멋진 신세계』를 읽고 나서는 헉슬리의 책은 다시는 읽지 않겠다고 다짐했었는데, 정말 큰 착각이었어요! 작가의 삶에서 영감을 얻은 이 훌륭한 소설은 줄거리가 순차적으로 흘러가지 않고, 상실과 배신, 비겁함과 죄책감, 사랑과 사랑의 부재, 평화주의와 사회주의, 자본주의, 그리고 이 모든 것의 무의미함에 대한 이야기를 과거와 현재를 오가며 풀어냅니다. 이런 설명들이 다소 딱딱하게 들릴 수도 있지만, 배꼽 빠지게 웃게 만드는 부분도 있고, 적어도 아주 유쾌한 상황들도 있습니다. 헉슬리, 정말 훌륭해요! 저는 당신을 포기하지 않을 겁니다!
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세진님, 질문하신 올더스 헉슬리의 <가자에서 눈이 멀어 (Eyeless in Gaza)>는 결론부터 말씀드리면 오늘날 뉴스에 나오는 팔레스타인의 가자 지구 분쟁을 다룬 역사·정치 소설이 아닙니다.

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이 소설의 제목은 구약성경에 나오는 영웅 삼손의 이야기에서 유래했습니다. 블레셋 사람들에게 붙잡혀 두 눈이 뽑힌 채 '가자(Gaza)'의 맷돌을 돌리는 노예가 되었던 삼손의 절망적인 상태를 묘사한 존 밀턴의 시 <투사 삼손 (Samson Agonistes)>의 한 구절("Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves")을 인용한 것입니다. 즉, 헉슬리는 20세기 초반 영국 상류층 지식인들이 물질주의와 쾌락, 이념의 과잉 속에서 영적·도덕적으로 '눈이 먼 채' 무의미한 일상을 반복하는 모습을 삼손에 비유하여 제목으로 삼았습니다.

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가자에서 눈이 멀어 (Eyeless in Gaza) 요약과 평론

1. 요약: 분절된 시간 속에서 방황하는 지식인의 초상

올더스 헉슬리의 1936년작 소설 <가자에서 눈이 멀어>는 주인공 앤서니 비비스(Anthony Beavis)라는 영국의 상류 중산층 지식인이 도덕적 냉소주의와 개인주의에서 벗어나 보편적 사랑과 평화주의라는 영적 각성에 이르는 과정을 그린 작품이다. 이 소설의 가장 큰 특징은 연대기적 순서를 완전히 뒤흔든 비선형적(Non-linear) 구성에 있다. 작품은 1902년부터 1935년까지 약 30여 년의 세월을 다루며, 앤서니의 유년 시절, 대학 시절, 청년기, 그리고 중년기의 이야기가 총 54개의 장 속에서 무작위처럼 섞여 교차된다. 헉슬리는 인간의 기억이 흘러가는 방식 그대로 독자에게 파편화된 스냅숏을 제시하며, 앤서니라는 인물의 정신적 성장을 추적한다.

유년기와 청년기: 상실과 도덕적 회피 1902년, 앤서니는 어머니의 죽음을 겪으며 깊은 상실감 속에서 성장한다. 속물적이고 나약한 아버지 밑에서 자란 그는 타인과 깊은 감정적 유대를 맺는 것을 두려워하게 된다. 에드워드 시대의 명문 사립학교와 옥스퍼드 대학을 거치면서 그는 똑똑하지만 냉소적인 지식인으로 성장한다. 그에게는 성실하고 도덕적인 친구 브라이언 폭스(Brian Foxe)가 있었다. 하지만 앤서니는 냉소적이고 매혹적인 여성 메리 앰벌리(Mary Amberley)의 유혹과 충동질에 넘어가, 브라이언의 약혼녀인 조안을 유혹하는 배신을 저지른다. 이 사실을 알게 된 순결한 도덕주의자 브라이언은 투신자살을 선택한다. 이 비극은 앤서니의 마음에 평생 지울 수 없는 부채감과 죄책감을 남기지만, 그는 이를 직면하는 대신 타인과의 관계를 끊고 학문과 지적 유희 뒤로 숨는 '감정적 고립'을 택한다.

중년기: 쾌락의 허무와 파시즘의 도래 1930년대에 이른 앤서니는 사회학자로서 명성을 얻었지만, 삶의 의미를 찾지 못한 채 메리 앰벌리의 딸인 헬렌(Helen)과 공허한 육체적 관계를 이어간다. 헬렌 역시 불행한 결혼 생활과 어머니의 몰락을 지켜보며 냉소주의에 빠진 인물이다. 두 사람이 프랑스의 한 옥상에서 햇볕을 쬐며 누워 있을 때, 상공을 지나던 비행기에서 떨어진 개 한 마리가 그들의 몸 바로 옆에서 폭발하듯 추락하는 사건이 발생한다. 이 기괴하고 충격적인 사건은 앤서니에게 육체적 쾌락과 지적 초연함이 얼마나 허망하고 유약한 것인지를 단번에 깨닫게 하는 계기가 된다. [?]  한편, 시대는 바야흐로 공산주의와 파시즘이라는 극단적 이념이 대립하며 제2차 세계대전의 전조를 풍기던 폭력의 시대였다. 앤서니의 대학 동창인 마크 스태이츠(Mark Staithes)는 마르크스주의 혁명가로 변신하여 폭력적 투쟁 속에서 삶의 의미를 찾으려 한다.

멕시코 여정과 영적 각성 앤서니는 마크의 권유로 멕시코의 혁명 운동에 동참하기 위해 길을 떠난다. 그러나 그곳에서 마크는 다리를 다쳐 부패해가는 고통을 겪고, 혁명의 실상은 환멸로 가득 차 있을 뿐이었다. 폭력의 한복판에서 앤서니는 스코틀랜드 출신의 의사이자 인류학자인 제임스 밀러(James Miller)를 만난다. 밀러는 불교적 명상과 기독교적 박애주의가 결합한 독자적인 평화주의 철학을 실천하는 인물이었다. 밀러와의 만남을 통해 앤서니는 마침내 자신의 냉소주의가 지적 고결함이 아니라 도덕적 겁쟁이의 도피처였음을 깨닫는다. 그는 인간 개개인이 내면의 변화를 통하지 않고서는 그 어떤 정치적 이념이나 제도 개혁으로도 세계의 폭력을 멈출 수 없다는 결론에 도달한다.

결말: 평화주의자로의 재탄생 영국으로 돌아온 앤서니는 완전히 다른 사람이 된다. 그는 명상을 통해 내면의 평화를 수행하고, 밀러가 이끄는 평화주의 운동 단체에 가입하여 대중 강연을 시작한다. 1935년 2월, 소설의 마지막 장에서 앤서니는 자신의 강연회에 폭력적인 국수주의 단체가 난입하여 자신을 암살하거나 폭행할 것이라는 경고를 받는다. 과거의 앤서니였다면 도망쳤겠지만, 각성한 그는 죽음의 공포를 극복하고 진정한 내면의 자유와 보편적 인류애를 느끼며 강연장으로 향한다. 두 눈을 멀게 했던 에고(Ego)의 감옥에서 벗어나 진정한 '빛'을 마주하는 것으로 소설은 끝을 맺는다.

2. 평론: 이념의 시대, 내면의 구원을 향한 헉슬리의 실험

올더스 헉슬리의 <가자에서 눈이 멀어>는 그의 가장 유명한 디스토피아 SF <멋진 신세계 (Brave New World)>(1932)와 문학적 궤적을 같이하면서도, 헉슬리 개인의 사상적 전환점을 가장 극명하게 보여주는 기념비적인 '관념 소설(Novel of Ideas)'이다. 1930년대 유럽은 대공황의 여파와 파시즘의 대두, 그리고 스페인 내전의 발발 등으로 인해 지식인들에게 극단적인 선택을 강요하던 시기였다. 지식인들은 마르크스주의자가 되거나, 혹은 파시즘에 맞서 무기를 들 것을 요구받았다. 이러한 시대적 배경 속에서 헉슬리는 정치적 집단주의가 아닌 '개인의 영적 구원과 절대적 평화주의'라는 제3의 길을 제시한다.

시간의 분절이 가지는 문학적 효과 

이 소설의 서사 구조는 당대 모더니즘 문학의 시간 실험 중에서도 매우 과감하다. 헉슬리는 연대기적 순서를 완전히 파괴하여, 주인공이 지적으로 성숙한 중년의 일기 바로 뒤에 유년 시절의 미성숙한 에피소드를 배치하는 식의 구성을 취한다. 이러한 비선형적 배치는 인간의 정체성이란 고정되거나 직선적으로 발전하는 것이 아니라, 끊임없이 과거의 기억과 현재의 행동이 상호작용하는 '상태들의 집합'이라는 작가의 철학을 형식적으로 구현한 것이다. 독자는 앤서니의 부끄러운 과거와 영적으로 각성한 미래를 동시에 목격하면서, 그가 왜 냉소주의자가 될 수밖에 없었는지, 그리고 그 냉소를 깨뜨리기 위해 얼마나 거대한 도덕적 충격이 필요했는지를 입체적으로 이해하게 된다.

지식인의 냉소주의에 대한 자성적 비판 

주인공 앤서니 비비스는 작가 올더스 헉슬리 자신의 자조적인 자화상이다. 헉슬리는 당대 영국 상류층 지식인들이 누리던 '초연함(Detachment)'을 날카롭게 해부한다. 타인의 고통이나 사회적 모순을 관찰하고 분석할 뿐, 스스로 책임지거나 상처받지 않으려는 태도는 지적 정직함이 아니라 사실상 '이기적인 맹목(Eyelessness)'에 불과하다는 것이다. 소설 속에서 앤서니가 친구 브라이언을 파멸로 몰고 간 사건이나, 헬렌과의 관계에서 보여준 무책임함은 모두 이러한 도덕적 맹목의 결과물이다. 헉슬리는 삼손이 눈이 먼 채 맷돌을 돌렸듯, 현대 지식인들 역시 지적 유희와 성적 쾌락이라는 맷돌에 갇힌 노예라고 꼬집는다.

정치적 이념에 대한 환멸과 평화주의 

작품 내에서 마크 스태이츠로 대표되는 마르크스주의적 폭력 혁명 노선은 철저한 실패와 환멸로 귀결된다. 헉슬리는 세상을 바꾸겠다는 거대한 이념들이 정작 인간 개개인의 증오와 권력욕을 정당화하는 수단으로 전락하기 쉽다고 보았다. 외적인 제도나 정치 체제를 바꾸는 것으로는 인간의 근본적인 폭력성을 치료할 수 없다는 진단이다. 그렇기에 앤서니가 멕시코에서 밀러를 만나 불교적 명상과 신비주의에 경도되는 과정은 당대 평론가들에게 '나약한 도피주의'라는 비판을 받기도 했다. 다가오는 나치즘의 위협 앞에서 비폭력 평화주의를 외치는 것은 현실성 없는 공상이라는 지적이었다.

그러나 헉슬리의 메시지는 단순한 방관적 도피가 아니다. 마지막 장에서 앤서니가 폭력의 위협을 인지하고도 강연장으로 걸어 들어가는 장면은, 그가 선택한 평화주의가 도망이 아닌 가장 적극적이고 용기 있는 형태의 도덕적 투쟁임을 보여준다. 증오를 증오로 갚지 않고, 내면의 신성한 일체감(Unity)을 통해 외계의 분열을 극복하려는 태도는 헉슬리 후기 사상의 핵심이 되는 '영원한 철학(The Perennial Philosophy)'의 출발점이다.

총평 <가자에서 눈이 멀어>는 구조의 복잡함과 지나친 관념적 토론으로 인해 대중적인 재미는 덜할지 모른다. 그러나 시대의 광기와 폭력 앞에서 지식인이 취해야 할 진정한 책임이 무엇인가를 묻는다는 점에서 이 소설의 울림은 깊다. 헉슬리는 인간이 스스로의 이기심과 냉소라는 눈꺼풀을 벗겨내고 보편적 유대감을 마주할 때만, 비로소 시대가 강요하는 맷돌의 사슬을 끊고 진정한 자유를 얻을 수 있음을 앤서니의 고통스러운 여정을 통해 증명해 냈다.

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혹시 작품의 비선형적 구조나 헉슬리가 주장한 평화주의 철학에 대해 더 궁금한 점이 있으십니까?

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아닙니다. Aldous Huxley의 <Eyeless in Gaza>는 <팔레스타인 가자지구 이야기>가 아닙니다.

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제목의 “Gaza”는 성서 <사사기>의 삼손 이야기에서 온 것입니다. 삼손은 눈이 뽑힌 뒤 가자에서 블레셋 사람들에게 조롱당하다가 마지막 힘으로 신전을 무너뜨리지요. “Eyeless in Gaza”는 존 밀턴의 시 <Samson Agonistes>에도 나오는 표현입니다. 그러므로 제목은 지리적·정치적 가자라기보다, <눈먼 인간>, <도덕적 방향을 잃은 현대인>, <자기 파괴와 깨달음>을 상징합니다.

요약+평론

올더스 헉슬리의 <Eyeless in Gaza>는 1936년에 발표된 장편소설로, 그의 대표작 <Brave New World>와는 성격이 상당히 다르다. <Brave New World>가 미래 사회를 풍자한 디스토피아라면, <Eyeless in Gaza>는 한 개인의 내면 변화와 도덕적 각성을 추적하는 철학적·심리적 소설이다. 중심 인물은 앤서니 비비스다. 그는 지적이고 예민하지만, 자기 삶에 대해 깊은 책임감을 느끼지 못하는 영국 상류 중산층 남성이다. 소설은 그의 어린 시절, 청년기, 중년기의 장면들을 시간 순서대로 배열하지 않고, 파편적으로 제시한다. 이 비연대기적 구성 때문에 독자는 앤서니가 어떤 사건을 통해 지금의 인물이 되었는지 조각들을 맞추듯 읽어야 한다.

소설 초반의 앤서니는 냉소적인 지식인이다. 그는 세상을 관찰하고 분석하는 능력은 뛰어나지만, 사랑하거나 헌신하거나 책임지는 능력은 부족하다. 그는 인간관계를 진지한 윤리적 관계로 받아들이기보다, 지적 유희나 감각적 경험의 대상으로 대한다. 헉슬리는 이런 앤서니를 통해 20세기 초 영국 지식인 계층의 공허함을 그린다. 그들은 종교적 확신은 잃었고, 전통 도덕도 믿지 않으며, 정치적 이념에도 쉽게 냉소를 보낸다. 그러나 그 냉소는 자유가 아니라 무력감으로 귀결된다.

앤서니의 삶에서 중요한 인물은 여러 명이다. 브라이언 폭스는 앤서니의 친구로, 순수하고 진지한 성격을 지녔다. 그는 앤서니와 달리 감정적으로 깊고, 도덕적 진실성을 가진 인물이다. 그러나 그는 앤서니 주변의 복잡한 인간관계와 배신, 사랑의 실패 속에서 비극적 죽음을 맞는다. 브라이언의 죽음은 앤서니에게 오래도록 죄책감으로 남는다. 앤서니가 겉으로는 냉정한 지식인처럼 행동하지만, 내면 깊은 곳에서는 자신이 타인의 삶을 망가뜨리는 데 기여했다는 사실을 피하지 못한다.

또 다른 중요한 인물은 헬렌이다. 그녀는 앤서니의 연인이지만, 이 관계 역시 안정된 사랑으로 발전하지 않는다. 앤서니는 사랑을 원하면서도 사랑에 자신을 맡기지 못한다. 그는 타인을 진심으로 받아들이기보다, 자기 의식 속에서 해석하고 거리 두는 습관을 가진다. 이 점에서 그는 현대 지식인의 전형이다. 많이 알고, 많이 분석하지만, 정작 삶 속에서는 제대로 사랑하지 못하고 책임지지 못한다.

소설의 후반으로 갈수록 앤서니는 점차 변화한다. 중요한 계기는 마크 스테이트와의 만남이다. 마크는 평화주의자이며, 도덕적 실천을 중시하는 인물이다. 그는 폭력과 전쟁을 거부하고, 인간이 자기중심적 욕망을 넘어서야 한다고 본다. 앤서니는 처음에는 이런 태도를 순진하거나 비현실적인 것으로 여긴다. 그러나 점차 그는 자신의 냉소가 사실은 지혜가 아니라 회피였음을 깨닫는다. 헉슬리가 이 소설에서 말하고자 하는 핵심은 바로 여기에 있다. 지적 회의주의만으로는 인간이 구원받을 수 없다. 삶에는 어떤 형태로든 헌신, 사랑, 자기 초월, 비폭력적 실천이 필요하다.

이 소설의 제목 <Eyeless in Gaza>는 매우 중요하다. 앞서 말했듯, 이는 팔레스타인의 가자지구를 다룬 제목이 아니다. 삼손은 힘은 있었지만 눈을 잃었고, 결국 가자에서 죽음을 맞는다. 헉슬리에게 “눈먼 삼손”은 현대 인간의 상징이다. 현대인은 지식, 기술, 감각, 권력은 가지고 있지만, 정작 보아야 할 것을 보지 못한다. 앤서니도 마찬가지다. 그는 똑똑하지만 눈멀었다. 타인의 고통을 보지 못하고, 자기 행동의 윤리적 결과를 보지 못하며, 사랑의 요구를 보지 못한다. 따라서 소설은 앤서니가 “눈을 뜨는” 과정이다.

형식적으로 이 작품은 쉽지 않다. 시간 순서가 뒤섞여 있고, 장면과 장면 사이의 연결이 즉각적으로 설명되지 않는다. 그러나 이 구조는 단순한 실험이 아니다. 인간의 삶은 언제나 현재에서 과거를 다시 해석하는 방식으로 이해된다. 앤서니의 현재를 이해하려면 그의 과거를 알아야 하지만, 그 과거는 직선적으로 주어지지 않는다. 기억처럼, 죄책감처럼, 후회처럼, 과거는 불쑥불쑥 현재 속으로 침입한다. 이 점에서 소설의 파편적 구성은 주제와 잘 어울린다.

평론적으로 볼 때, 이 작품의 가장 큰 장점은 헉슬리가 지식인의 허무주의를 매우 정직하게 해부한다는 점이다. 앤서니는 악인이 아니다. 오히려 세련되고, 교양 있고, 감수성도 있다. 그러나 바로 그런 사람이 타인에게 상처를 줄 수 있다는 것이 헉슬리의 통찰이다. 교양은 윤리를 보장하지 않는다. 지성은 사랑을 대신하지 못한다. 냉소는 진실의 증거가 아니라, 때로는 책임 회피의 방식이다.

다만 약점도 있다. 후반부의 평화주의적·신비주의적 전환은 독자에 따라 설득력이 약하게 느껴질 수 있다. 헉슬리는 앤서니가 냉소에서 비폭력과 영적 각성으로 나아가는 과정을 그리고 싶어 하지만, 그 전환이 때로는 소설적 필연성보다 사상적 선언처럼 보인다. 즉 인물의 변화라기보다 작가의 사상적 결론이 인물에게 부여된 듯한 느낌이 있다. 특히 오늘의 독자에게는 이 평화주의가 현실 정치의 폭력성과 구조적 억압을 충분히 다루지 못하는 개인 윤리 중심의 해결책처럼 보일 수도 있다.

그럼에도 <Eyeless in Gaza>는 헉슬리 문학에서 중요한 작품이다. 이 소설은 인간이 어떻게 지적으로는 성숙하면서도 도덕적으로는 미성숙할 수 있는지를 보여준다. 또한 냉소, 성적 자유, 지적 유희, 정치적 회의주의가 인간을 자동으로 자유롭게 만들지는 않는다는 사실을 말한다. 헉슬리는 결국 인간에게 필요한 것은 더 많은 정보가 아니라 더 깊은 시야라고 본다.

한 문장으로 정리하면, <Eyeless in Gaza>는 팔레스타인 가자의 이야기가 아니라, <눈먼 현대 지식인이 자기 삶의 죄책감과 공허를 통과해 도덕적 시야를 회복하려는 이야기>다. 제목의 가자는 실제 정치 지명이 아니라 성서적 상징이며, 삼손처럼 힘은 있으나 눈먼 인간의 운명을 비추는 거울이다.

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이 책은 헉슬리의 자전적인 이야기일까요? 
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 <상당히 자전적입니다.> 다만 그대로의 자서전은 아닙니다.

주인공 앤서니 비비스는 헉슬리 자신을 강하게 반영한 인물로 보는 것이 일반적입니다. 일본 <코토뱅크/일본대백과전서> 항목도 이 작품을 “자서전적 요소가 농후한 소설”이라고 설명합니다.

자전적 요소는 특히 네 가지입니다.

첫째, <어머니의 죽음>입니다. 헉슬리는 14세 때 어머니를 잃었습니다. 소설 속 앤서니도 어린 시절 어머니의 죽음을 겪고, 그 경험이 인생 전체의 허무감과 죽음 의식에 깊게 남습니다. 헉슬리 연구 자료도 <Eyeless in Gaza>에서 주인공 어머니의 죽음 처리가 헉슬리 자신의 상처와 연결된다고 설명합니다.

둘째, <친구의 죽음>입니다. 원작의 브라이언 폭스는 헉슬리의 실제 친구이자 가까운 인물이었던 “Trev”의 기억을 반영한다고 설명됩니다. 브라이언은 소설에서 앤서니의 죄책감과 도덕적 각성의 핵심 인물입니다.

셋째, <냉소적 지식인에서 평화주의자로의 변화>입니다. 앤서니는 처음에는 관찰자, 회의주의자, 감정적으로 거리 두는 지식인입니다. 하지만 나중에는 자기의 냉소가 지혜가 아니라 도덕적 비겁함이었다는 것을 깨닫고 평화주의 쪽으로 갑니다. 현대판 소개문도 앤서니가 “삶에서 물러나려는 사람”이며, 자기의 분리가 “지적 정직성”이 아니라 “도덕적 비겁함”이었음을 깨닫는다고 요약합니다.

넷째, <헉슬리 자신의 사상적 전환>입니다. 1920년대의 헉슬리는 냉소와 풍자의 작가였지만, 1930년대 중반 이후에는 평화주의, 신비주의, 영적 훈련, 비폭력 쪽으로 이동합니다. 1936년 당시 <뉴요커> 평도 이 작품을 헉슬리가 냉소적 세계관에서 “영적 이상주의”로 이동한 전환점으로 읽었습니다.

그러므로 이 책은 <사실 그대로의 자서전>이 아니라, <헉슬리 자신의 상처, 지적 방황, 죄책감, 평화주의적 회심을 소설 형식으로 변형한 자전적 소설>이라고 보는 것이 정확합니다.
==
안토니는 사회학자라고 나오는데, 어떤 학자였나 더 정보가 있는가요?
==

소설 속 안토니 비비스(Anthony Beavis)가 추구한 사회학은 당대의 주류 학문과는 완전히 궤를 달리하는 독특한 성격을 지니고 있다. 작가인 올도스 헉슬리가 안토니라는 인물을 통해 지식인의 한계와 사상적 전환을 보여주려고 했기 때문이다.

안토니 비비스가 어떤 학자였는지에 대한 구체적인 특징은 다음과 같다.

1. 파편화된 사실만을 수집하는 냉소적 학자

소설 초반부의 안토니는 인간 사회의 본질을 거시적으로 탐구하는 학자가 아니다. 그는 세계를 의미 있는 하나의 전체로 보기를 거부하고, 무수한 역사적 사실과 사회학적 데이터를 그저 파편적으로 수집하여 분류하는 일에만 몰두한다. 이러한 태도는 그가 삶에서 마주하는 감정적 고통이나 책임감으로부터 도피하기 위한 일종의 방어기제이다. 그는 사회학적 연구를 통해 인간의 행동을 냉소적으로 관찰할 뿐, 그 안에서 어떠한 도덕적 가치나 의미도 찾으려 하지 않는다.

2. 과학적 유토피아주의에 대한 회의

안토니는 헉슬리의 이전 작가적 성향을 대변하는 인물이다. 헉슬리는 초기 작가 시절에 과학 기술이나 합리주의가 인간을 구원할 수 없다고 보았다. 소설 속 안토니의 사회학 역시 마찬가지이다. 그는 통계와 제도를 통해 사회를 완벽하게 개혁할 수 있다는 당대 유토피아주의적 사회학을 신뢰하지 않는다. 오히려 인간 본성의 복잡함과 이기심 때문에 제도적 접근만으로는 사회적 모순을 해결할 수 없음을 간파한 회의주의적 시선을 유지한다.

3. 지적 오만과 감정적 단절의 도구

안토니에게 사회학은 타인과 거리를 두기 위한 완벽한 도구이다. 그는 인간의 관계와 감정을 연구 대상으로만 삼을 뿐, 스스로는 누구에게도 깊이 몰입하거나 책임지려 하지 않는다. 타인의 고통을 보면서도 이를 관찰 가능한 사회학적 현상으로 치부해 버리는 그의 모습은, 지식인이 빠지기 쉬운 전형적인 지적 오만과 감정적 단절을 상징적으로 보여준다.

4. 멕시코 여행을 통한 사상적 전향

소설의 후반부에서 안토니는 전환점을 맞이한다. 친구인 마크 스태틀스(Mark Staithes)와 함께 떠난 멕시코 여행에서 혁명주의자이자 의사인 제임스 밀러(James Miller)를 만나게 된다. 밀러는 안토니의 냉소적이고 이론적이기만 한 사회학을 강하게 비판하며, 인간에 대한 실천적 사랑과 비폭력 평화주의를 제시한다.

이 만남을 계기로 안토니는 단순한 학문적 관찰자에서 벗어나기 시작한다. 그는 동양 철학과 불교적 명상, 그리고 전체론적(holistic) 시각을 수용하면서, 인간 개개인의 내면적 변화가 선행되어야만 진정한 사회적 개혁과 평화가 가능하다는 결론에 이르게 된다.

<가자에서 눈이 없이>는 안토니라는 냉소적인 사회학자가 지식인의 상아탑을 깨고 나와, 인류의 고통에 책임감을 느끼는 평화주의 사상가로 거듭나는 정신적 순례기라고 할 수 있다.

세진님, 헉슬리가 안토니의 직업을 사회학자로 설정한 것은 당대 유럽 지식인 사회의 메마른 주지주의를 비판하기 위함이었습니다. 혹시 안토니의 사상적 변화를 이끈 계기나, 그와 대조적인 가치관을 가졌던 주변 인물들과의 관계에 대해 더 알고 싶으신 부분이 있으신가요?

==

네. 더 말할 수 있습니다. 다만 중요한 점은, 앤서니 비비스가 <전문적 의미의 사회학자>라기보다는 <사회학을 쓰는 문필가형 지식인>에 가깝다는 것입니다.

소설 속 앤서니는 옥스퍼드 교육을 받은 상류 중산층 지식인으로 제시되고, 1930년대 현재 시점에서는 프랑스에서 헬렌 앰벌리와 관계를 지속하면서 <사회학 교과서 혹은 사회학 책>을 쓰고 있는 인물로 나옵니다. 작품 개요들도 그를 “sociologist”라고 부르지만, 실제 대학 교수, 현장조사자, 통계사회학자 같은 직업적 사회학자로 세밀하게 설정하지는 않습니다. 오히려 그는 헉슬리 자신처럼 문학, 철학, 심리학, 정치, 종교를 넘나드는 백과전서적 지식인입니다.

앤서니의 사회학은 대략 이런 성격으로 볼 수 있습니다.

<첫째, 관찰자의 사회학>입니다. 그는 사회를 살지만 사회에 깊이 참여하지 않습니다. 사람들을 사랑하거나 책임지기보다 관찰하고 분류하고 해석합니다. 그래서 그의 사회학은 학문이라기보다 그의 성격을 드러내는 장치입니다. 그는 인간을 너무 잘 분석하지만, 정작 인간과 함께 사는 능력은 부족합니다.

<둘째, 냉소적 상류층 사회학>입니다. 앤서니가 관찰하는 세계는 노동자 계급의 현실이나 제국주의 식민지의 현장이 아니라, 영국 상류층·지식인·문학 살롱·성적 자유·정치적 냉소의 세계입니다. 그는 사회 구조를 연구한다기보다, 자기가 속한 계급의 공허함을 내부에서 체험합니다. 그래서 그의 사회학은 “현장사회학”이 아니라 “자기 계급의 도덕적 해부”에 가깝습니다.

<셋째, 참여 없는 지성의 상징>입니다. 이 점이 가장 중요합니다. 앤서니는 “사회학자”인데도 사회적 책임을 지지 않습니다. 그는 전쟁, 빈곤, 정치적 폭력, 사랑의 실패를 모두 지적으로 설명할 수 있지만, 행동하지 않습니다. <뉴요커>의 1936년 평도 앤서니를 “인생의 목적과 자리를 찾으려는 인물”로 보면서, 그가 책·성·모험을 통한 현실도피를 넘어서야 한다고 설명했습니다.

그러므로 헉슬리가 앤서니를 사회학자로 설정한 것은 우연이 아닙니다. 사회학자는 원래 사회를 보아야 하는 사람입니다. 그런데 앤서니는 “보는 사람”이면서도 “눈먼 사람”입니다. 이것이 제목 <Eyeless in Gaza>와 연결됩니다. 그는 사회를 분석하지만 인간의 고통을 보지 못하고, 타인의 마음을 해석하지만 타인에게 책임지지 못합니다. 즉 <사회학자이지만 사회적 인간이 되지 못한 사람>입니다.

헉슬리 자신의 모습도 여기에 들어 있습니다. 헉슬리는 사회학자가 아니었지만, 과학·문학·철학·심리학·종교·정치·사회비평을 두루 읽고 쓰던 “종합 지식인”이었습니다. 한 후기 평론도 헉슬리가 과학, 역사, 정치, 사회학, 심리학, 종교를 폭넓게 읽었다고 설명합니다. 앤서니의 사회학자 설정은 이런 헉슬리 자신의 지식인적 자화상을 소설 속에서 조금 비틀어 넣은 것으로 볼 수 있습니다.

좀 더 비판적으로 말하면, 앤서니는 <좋은 사회학자>가 아닙니다. 그는 사회를 연구하지만 사회적 고통의 현장으로 내려가지 않습니다. 그는 계급, 전쟁, 폭력, 성, 가족, 우정의 문제를 알고 있지만, 그것을 자기 삶의 윤리로 바꾸지 못합니다. 그래서 소설의 핵심 변화는 “사회학자 앤서니가 더 훌륭한 이론가가 되는 것”이 아니라, “관찰자 앤서니가 실천적 평화주의자가 되는 것”입니다.

한 줄로 정리하면 이렇습니다.

<앤서니 비비스는 직업적 사회학자라기보다, 사회를 분석할 줄은 알지만 사회적 책임을 회피하는 헉슬리식 지식인의 초상이다. 그의 ‘사회학’은 학문 분야라기보다 도덕적 실명의 상징이다.>

==
멕시코 여행은 몇째 장에 나오나요?

===

멕시코 여행은 <제41장>부터 본격적으로 나옵니다.

정확히는 이렇게 보면 됩니다.

<제41장, 1933년 12월>
앤서니와 마크가 파나마의 콜론을 거쳐 배로 북상하며 멕시코 쪽으로 들어가는 대목입니다. 장은 “At Colon…”으로 시작하고, 운하와 중미 항구들을 지나가는 여행 분위기를 보여줍니다. 여기서부터 멕시코 행이 시작됩니다.

<제47장, 1934년 1월 10–11일>
멕시코 여행의 핵심 사건이 본격화됩니다. 돈 호르헤의 암호 같은 전보가 오고, 앤서니와 마크가 타파틀란 근처 산악지대로 노새를 타고 들어갑니다. 마크는 돈 호르헤의 정치적 봉기, 일종의 쿠데타를 도우려 합니다.

<제49장, 1934년 1월 12–14일>
마크가 부상과 감염으로 위독해지고, 앤서니가 의사를 찾으러 가다가 제임스 밀러를 만납니다. 이 만남이 앤서니의 사상적 전환, 즉 평화주의와 영적 각성의 결정적 계기가 됩니다.

<제51장, 1934년 2월 7일>
밀러가 마크를 돌보고, 돈 호르헤의 봉기가 실패했다는 소식이 나옵니다. 멕시코 여행의 정치적 모험은 실패로 끝나지만, 앤서니에게는 오히려 결정적인 내면 변화의 계기가 됩니다.

그러므로 간단히 말하면:

<멕시코 여행은 제41장에서 시작되고, 제47장·49장·51장에서 핵심적으로 전개됩니다.>

특히 중요한 장은 <제49장>입니다. 왜냐하면 여기서 앤서니가 제임스 밀러를 만나고, 그 만남이 소설 후반의 평화주의적 전환을 가능하게 하기 때문입니다.



===

CHAPTER XLVII

January 10th and 11th 1934

OSTENSIBLY, DON JORGE’S telegram was an order for the immediate sale

of six hundred bags of coffee. In fact, it announced that the moment

had come, and that he was urgently expecting them.

Mark looked at his companion with an expression that was frankly

hostile. ‘Those blasted guts of yours!’ he said.

Anthony protested that he was all right again.

‘You’re not fit to do the journey.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘You’re not,’ Mark repeated with a solicitude that was at the same

time a passionate resentment. ‘Three days on a mule across these

damned mountains. It’s too much for anyone in your condition.’

Piqued by the other’s words, and afraid, if he agreed with Mark, of

seeming unwilling to face the difficulties and dangers that lay in

front of them, Anthony insisted obstinately that he was fit for

anything. Wishing to believe it, Mark soon allowed himself to be

persuaded. An answer was despatched to Don Jorge – the six hundred

bags were being sold immediately; he might expect to hear further

details on Friday – and, after lunch, in the blazing heat of the

early afternoon, they set out for the finca, lying high in the

mountains above Tapatlan, where one of Don Jorge’s friends would put

them up for the night. Mark produced his pocket Shakespeare once

again, and, for four hours, they spurred their reluctant beasts, up

and up, between dusty maize stubbles, and, above the fields, through

a dry leafless scrub that gave place at last to the green darkness

and golden lights of coffee plantations under their towering shade

trees. Up and up, while Mark read the whole of Hamlet and two acts

of Troilus and Cressida, and Anthony sat wondering, in a mist of

fatigue, how much longer he could stand it. But at last, as night

was falling, they reached their destination.

At four the next morning they were in the saddle again. Under the

trees there was a double night of starless shadow; but the mules

picked their way along the windings of the track with a reassuring

certainty. From time to time they rode under invisible lemon trees,

and in the darkness the scent of the flowers was like the brief and

inenarrable revelation of something more than earthly – a moment’s

ecstasy, and then, as the mules advanced, hoof after hoof, up the

stony path, the fading of the supernatural presence, the return to a

common life symbolically represented by the smell of leather and

sweat.

The sun rose, and a little later they emerged from the cultivated

forest of the coffee plantations into an upland country of bare

rocks and pine woods. Almost level, the track went winding in and

out along the buttressed and indented flank of a mountain. To the

left, the ground fell steeply away into valleys still dark with

shadow. Far off, through air made hazy by the dry season’s dust and

the smoke of forest fires, a dim whiteness high up in the sky was

the Pacific.

Mark went on reading Troilus and Cressida.

A descent so steep that they had to dismount and lead their animals

brought them in another hour to the banks of a river. They forded

it, and, in the blistering sunshine, began to climb the slope

beyond. There was no shade, and the vast bald hills were the colour

of dust and burnt grass. Nothing stirred, not even a lizard among

the stones. There was no sight or sound of life. Hopelessly empty,

the chaos of tumbled mountains seemed to stretch away interminably.

It was as though they had ridden across the frontier of the world

out into nothingness, into an infinite expanse of hot and dusty

negation.

At eleven they halted for a meal, and an hour later, with the sun

almost perpendicularly above them, were off once more. The path

climbed, dropped fifteen hundred feet into a ravine and climbed

again. By three o’clock Anthony was so tired that he could scarcely

think or even see. The landscape seemed to advance and retreat

before his eyes, turned black sometimes, and faded away altogether.

He heard voices, and, in his mind, his thoughts began to lead a life

of their own – a life that was autonomous in its mad and maddening

irrelevance. Image succeeded image in a phantasmagoria that it was

beyond his power to exorcize. It was as though he were possessed, as

though he were being forced to lead someone else’s life and think

with another person’s mind. But the sweat that poured like water off

his face and soaked through his shirt and cotton riding-breeches,

the intolerable aching of loins and thighs – these were his own. His

own and excruciating, intolerable. He was tempted to groan, even to

burst into tears. But through the other person’s delirium he

remembered his assurances to Mark, his confident promise that he

wouldn’t be tired. He shook his head and rode on – rode on through

the illusory world of alien fancy and half-seen, vanishing

landscape, rode on through the hideous reality of his pain and

fatigue.

Mark’s voice startled him out of his stupor.

‘Are you all right?’

Looking up, and, with an effort, focusing his eyes, he saw that Mark

had halted and was waiting at the turn of the track just above him.

Fifty yards further up the slope the mozo was riding behind the

baggage-mule.

‘Mula-a-a!’ came the long-drawn shout, and along with it the dull

thump of a stick on mule-skin.

‘Sorry,’ Anthony mumbled, ‘I must have dropped behind.’

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

He nodded.

‘There’s less than an hour to go,’ said Mark. ‘Stick it out if you

can.’ In the shadow of the enormous straw hat, his worn face twisted

itself into a smile of encouragement.

Touched, Anthony smiled back and, to reassure him, tried to make a

joke about the hardness of the wooden saddles on which they were

riding.

Mark laughed. ‘If we get through intact,’ he said, ‘we’ll dedicate a

pair of silver buttocks to St James of Compostella.’

He jerked the reins and gave his mule the spur. The animal started

up the slope; then, in a slither of rolling stones, stumbled and

fell forward on its knees.

Anthony had shut his eyes to rest them a moment from the glare. At

the noise he opened them again and saw Mark lying face downwards on

the ground and the mule heaving itself, in a series of violent

spasms of movement, to its feet. The landscape snapped back into

solidity, the moving images fell still. Forgetting the pain in his

back and legs, Anthony swung himself down from the saddle and ran up

the path. As he approached, Mark rolled over and raised himself to a

sitting position.

‘Hurt?’ Anthony said.

The other shook his head, but did not speak.

‘You’re bleeding.’

The breeches were torn at the left knee, and a red stain was

creeping down the leg. Anthony shouted to the mozo to come back with

the baggage-mule; then, kneeling down, opened his penknife, slid the

blade into the rent and sawed a long jagged split in the tough

material.

‘You’re spoiling my bags,’ Mark said, speaking for the first time.

Anthony did not answer, only tore away a wide panel of the stuff.

The whole knee-cap and the upper part of the shin were skinless red

flesh, grey, where the blood was not oozing, with dust and grit. On

the inner side of the knee was a deep cut that bled profusely.

Anthony frowned, and, as though the pain were his own, caught his

lower lip between his teeth. A pang of physical disgust mingled with

his horrified sympathy. He shuddered.

Mark had leaned forward to look at the damaged knee. ‘Messy,’ was

his comment.

Anthony nodded without speaking, unscrewed the stopper of his waterbottle, and, wetting his handkerchief, began to wash the dirt out of

the wounds. His emotion disappeared; he was wholly absorbed in his

immediate task. Nothing was important any more except to wash this

grit away without hurting Mark in the process.

By this time, the mozo had come back with the baggage-mule and was

standing beside them in silence, looking down with expressionless

black eyes on what was happening.

‘I expect he thinks we’re making an unnecessary fuss,’ said Mark,

and made an attempt to smile.

Anthony rose to his feet, ordered the mozo to untie the mule’s load,

and, from one of the canvas bundles, pulled out the medicine-chest.

Under the sting of the disinfectant Mark gave vent to an explosive

burst of laughter. ‘No humanitarian nonsense about iodine,’ he said.

‘The good old-fashioned idea of hurting you for your own good. Like

Jehovah. Christ!’ He laughed again as Anthony swabbed another patch

of raw flesh. Then, when the knee was bandaged, ‘Give me a hand,’ he

went on. Anthony helped him to his feet, and he took a few steps up

the path and back again. ‘Seems all right.’ He bent down to look at

the fore-legs of his mule. They were hardly scratched. ‘Nothing to

prevent us pushing on at once,’ he concluded.

They helped him to mount, and, spurring with his uninjured leg, he

set off at a brisk pace up the hill. For the rest of the way he was,

for Anthony, mostly a straight and rigid back, but sometimes also,

at the zigzags of the path, a profile, marbly in its fixed pallor –

the statue of a stoic, flayed, but still alive and silently

supporting his agony.

In less than the appointed hour – for Mark had chosen to keep up a

pace that set the mules blowing and sweating in the afternoon heat –

they rode into San Cristobal el Alto. The thirty or forty Indian

ranchos of which the village consisted were built on a narrow ridge

between plunging gulfs, beyond which, on either side, the mountains

stretched away chaotically, range after range, into the haze.

Seeing distinguished travellers, the village shopkeeper hurried out

on to the plaza to offer them accommodation for the night. Mark

listened to him, nodded and made a movement to dismount; then,

wincing, let himself fall back into his saddle.

Without turning his head, ‘You’ll have to get me off this blasted

mule,’ he called in a loud, angry voice.

Anthony and the mozo helped him down; but, once on the ground, he

refused any further assistance.

‘I can walk by myself,’ he said curtly, frowning while he spoke, as

though, in offering an arm, Anthony had meant to insult him.

Their quarters for the night turned out to be a wooden shed, half

full of coffee bags and hides. After inspecting the place, Mark

limped out again to look at the thatched lean-to, where the mules

were to be stabled; then suggested a walk round the village, ‘to see

the sights,’ he explained.

Walking, it was evident, hurt him so much that he could not trust

himself to speak. It was in silence that they crossed the little

plaza, in silence that they visited the church, the school, the

cabildo, the village prison. In silence, and one behind the other.

For if they walked abreast, Anthony had reflected, he would be able

to see Mark’s face, and Mark would feel that he was being spied

upon. Whereas if he walked in front, it would be an insult, a

challenge to Mark to quicken his pace. Deliberately, Anthony lagged

behind, silent, like an Indian wife trailing through the dust after

her husband.

It was nearly half an hour before Mark felt that he had tortured

himself sufficiently.

‘So much for the sights,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s go and have

something to eat.’

The night was piercingly cold, the bed merely a board of wood. It

was from a restless and unrefreshing sleep that Anthony was roused

next morning.

‘Wake!’ Mark was shouting to him. ‘Wake!’

Anthony sat up, startled, and saw Mark, in the other wooden bed,

propped on his elbow and looking across at him with angry eyes.

‘Time to get away,’ the harsh voice continued. ‘It’s after six.’

Suddenly remembering yesterday’s accident, ‘How’s the knee?’ Anthony

asked.

‘Just the same.’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘No, of course not,’ Mark answered irritably. Then, looking away, ‘I

can’t manage to get out of bed,’ he added. ‘The thing’s gone stiff

on me.’

Anthony pulled on his boots and, having opened the door of the shed

to admit the light, came and sat down on the edge of Mark’s bed.

‘We’d better put on a clean dressing,’ he said, and began to untie

the bandage.

The lint had stuck to the raw flesh. Anthony pulled at it

cautiously, then let go. ‘I’ll see if they can give me some warm

water at the shop,’ he said.

Mark uttered a snort of laughter, and taking a corner of the lint

between his thumb and forefinger, gave a violent jerk. The square of

pink fabric came away in his hand.

‘Don’t!’ Anthony had cried out, wincing as though the pain were his.

The other only smiled at him contemptuously. ‘You’ve made it bleed

again,’ he added, in another tone, finding a medical justification

for his outburst. But in point of fact, that trickle of fresh blood

was not the thing that disturbed him most when he bent down to look

at what Mark had uncovered. The whole knee was horribly swollen and

almost black with bruises, and round the edges of the newly opened

wound the flesh was yellow with pus.

‘You can’t possibly go with your knee in this state,’ he said.

‘That’s for me to decide,’ Mark answered, and added, after a moment,

‘After all, you did it the day before yesterday.’

The words implied a contemptuous disparagement. ‘If a poor creature

like you can overcome pain, then surely I . . .’ That was what they

meant to say. But the insult, Anthony realized, was unintended. It

sprang from the depths of an arrogance that was almost child-like in

its single-minded intensity. There was something touching and absurd

about such ingenuousness. Besides, there was the poor fellow’s knee.

This was not the time to resent insults.

‘I was practically well,’ he argued in a conciliatory tone. ‘You’ve

got a leg that’s ready to go septic at any moment.’

Mark frowned. ‘Once I’m on my mule I shall be all right,’ he

insisted. ‘It’s just a bit stiff and bruised; that’s all. Besides,’

he added, in a contradiction of what he had said before, ‘there’ll

be a doctor at Miajutla. The quicker I get this thing into his

hands, the better.’

‘You’ll make it ten times worse on the way. If you waited here a day

or two . . .’

‘Don Jorge would think I was leaving him in the lurch.’

‘Damn Don Jorge! Send him a telegram.’

‘The line doesn’t go through this place. I asked.’

‘Send the mozo then.’

Mark shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t trust him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll get drunk at the first opportunity.’

‘In other words, you don’t want to send him.’

‘Besides, it would be too late,’ Mark went on. ‘Don Jorge will be

moving in a day or two.’

‘And do you imagine you’ll be able to move with him?’

‘I mean to be there,’ said Mark.

‘You can’t.’

‘I tell you, I mean to be there. I’m not going to let him down.’ His

voice was cold and harsh with restrained anger. ‘And now help me

up,’ he commanded.

‘I won’t.’

The two men looked at one another in silence. Then, making an effort

to control himself, Mark shrugged his shoulders.

‘All right, then,’ he said, ‘I’ll call the mozo. And if you’re

afraid of going on to Miajutla,’ he continued in a tone of savage

contempt, ‘you can ride back to Tapatlan. I’ll go on by myself.’

Then, turning towards the open door, ‘Juan,’ he shouted. ‘Juan!’

Anthony surrendered. ‘Have it your own way. If you really want to be

mad . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘But I take no

responsibility.’

‘You weren’t asked to,’ Mark answered. Anthony got up and went to

fetch the medicine-chest. He swabbed the wounds and applied the new

dressing in silence; then, while he was trying to bandage, ‘Suppose

we stopped quarrelling,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t that make things

easier?’

For a few seconds Mark remained hostile and averted; then looked up

and twisted his face into a reconciliatory smile of friendliness.

‘Peace,’ he said, nodding affirmatively. ‘We’ll make peace.’

But he had reckoned without the pain. It began, agonizingly, when he

addressed himself to the task of getting out of bed. For it turned

out to be impossible for him, even with Anthony’s assistance, to get

out of bed without bending his wounded knee; and to bend it was

torture. When at last he was on his feet beside the bed, he was pale

and the expression on his face had hardened to a kind of ferocity.

‘All right?’ Anthony questioned.

Mark nodded, and, as though the other had become his worst enemy,

limped out of the shed without giving him a glance.

The torture began again when the time came for mounting, and was

renewed with every step the mule advanced. As on the previous day,

Mark took the lead. At the head of the cavalcade, he proved his

superiority and at the same time put himself out of range of

inquisitive eyes. The air was still cold; but from time to time,

Anthony noticed, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, as

if he were sweating. Each time he put the handkerchief away again,

he would give the mule a particularly savage dig with his one

available spur.

The track descended, climbed again, descended through pine woods,

descended, descended. An hour passed, two hours, three; the sun was

high in the sky, it was oppressively hot. Three hours, three and a

half; and now there were clearings in the woods, steep fields, the

stubble of Indian corn, a group of huts, and an old woman carrying

water, brown children silently playing in the dust. They were on the

outskirts of another village.

‘What about stopping here for some food?’ Anthony called, and

spurred his animal to a trot. ‘We might get some fresh eggs,’ he

continued as he drew up with the other mule.

The face Mark turned towards him was as white as paper, and, as he

parted his clenched teeth to speak, the lower jaw trembled

uncontrollably. ‘I think we’d better push on,’ he began in an almost

inaudible voice. ‘We’ve still got a long way . . .’ Then the lids

fluttered over his eyes, his head dropped, his body seemed to

collapse upon itself; he fell forward on to the neck of his mule,

slid to one side, and would have pitched to the ground if Anthony

had not caught him by the arm and held him up.

CHAPTER XLVIII



July 23rd 1914

===
CHAPTER XLVII January 10th and 11th 1934 

OSTENSIBLY, DON JORGE’S telegram was an order for the immediate sale of six hundred bags of coffee. In fact, it announced that the moment had come, and that he was urgently expecting them. Mark looked at his companion with an expression that was frankly hostile. ‘Those blasted guts of yours!’ he said. Anthony protested that he was all right again. ‘You’re not fit to do the journey.’ ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘You’re not,’ Mark repeated with a solicitude that was at the same time a passionate resentment. ‘Three days on a mule across these damned mountains. It’s too much for anyone in your condition.’ Piqued by the other’s words, and afraid, if he agreed with Mark, of seeming unwilling to face the difficulties and dangers that lay in front of them, Anthony insisted obstinately that he was fit for anything. Wishing to believe it, Mark soon allowed himself to be persuaded. An answer was despatched to Don Jorge – the six hundred bags were being sold immediately; he might expect to hear further details on Friday – and, after lunch, in the blazing heat of the early afternoon, they set out for the finca, lying high in the mountains above Tapatlan, where one of Don Jorge’s friends would put them up for the night. Mark produced his pocket Shakespeare once again, and, for four hours, they spurred their reluctant beasts, up and up, between dusty maize stubbles, and, above the fields, through a dry leafless scrub that gave place at last to the green darkness and golden lights of coffee plantations under their towering shade trees. Up and up, while Mark read the whole of Hamlet and two acts of Troilus and Cressida, and Anthony sat wondering, in a mist of fatigue, how much longer he could stand it. But at last, as night was falling, they reached their destination. At four the next morning they were in the saddle again. Under the trees there was a double night of starless shadow; but the mules picked their way along the windings of the track with a reassuring certainty. From time to time they rode under invisible lemon trees, and in the darkness the scent of the flowers was like the brief and inenarrable revelation of something more than earthly – a moment’s ecstasy, and then, as the mules advanced, hoof after hoof, up the stony path, the fading of the supernatural presence, the return to a common life symbolically represented by the smell of leather and sweat. The sun rose, and a little later they emerged from the cultivated forest of the coffee plantations into an upland country of bare rocks and pine woods. Almost level, the track went winding in and out along the buttressed and indented flank of a mountain. To the left, the ground fell steeply away into valleys still dark with shadow. Far off, through air made hazy by the dry season’s dust and the smoke of forest fires, a dim whiteness high up in the sky was the Pacific. Mark went on reading Troilus and Cressida. A descent so steep that they had to dismount and lead their animals brought them in another hour to the banks of a river. They forded it, and, in the blistering sunshine, began to climb the slope beyond. There was no shade, and the vast bald hills were the colour of dust and burnt grass. Nothing stirred, not even a lizard among the stones. There was no sight or sound of life. Hopelessly empty, the chaos of tumbled mountains seemed to stretch away interminably. It was as though they had ridden across the frontier of the world out into nothingness, into an infinite expanse of hot and dusty negation. At eleven they halted for a meal, and an hour later, with the sun almost perpendicularly above them, were off once more. The path climbed, dropped fifteen hundred feet into a ravine and climbed again. By three o’clock Anthony was so tired that he could scarcely think or even see. The landscape seemed to advance and retreat before his eyes, turned black sometimes, and faded away altogether. He heard voices, and, in his mind, his thoughts began to lead a life of their own – a life that was autonomous in its mad and maddening irrelevance. Image succeeded image in a phantasmagoria that it was beyond his power to exorcize. It was as though he were possessed, as though he were being forced to lead someone else’s life and think with another person’s mind. But the sweat that poured like water off his face and soaked through his shirt and cotton riding-breeches, the intolerable aching of loins and thighs – these were his own. His own and excruciating, intolerable. He was tempted to groan, even to burst into tears. But through the other person’s delirium he remembered his assurances to Mark, his confident promise that he wouldn’t be tired. He shook his head and rode on – rode on through the illusory world of alien fancy and half-seen, vanishing landscape, rode on through the hideous reality of his pain and fatigue. Mark’s voice startled him out of his stupor. ‘Are you all right?’ Looking up, and, with an effort, focusing his eyes, he saw that Mark had halted and was waiting at the turn of the track just above him. Fifty yards further up the slope the mozo was riding behind the baggage-mule. ‘Mula-a-a!’ came the long-drawn shout, and along with it the dull thump of a stick on mule-skin. ‘Sorry,’ Anthony mumbled, ‘I must have dropped behind.’ ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ He nodded. ‘There’s less than an hour to go,’ said Mark. ‘Stick it out if you can.’ In the shadow of the enormous straw hat, his worn face twisted itself into a smile of encouragement. Touched, Anthony smiled back and, to reassure him, tried to make a joke about the hardness of the wooden saddles on which they were riding. Mark laughed. ‘If we get through intact,’ he said, ‘we’ll dedicate a pair of silver buttocks to St James of Compostella.’ He jerked the reins and gave his mule the spur. The animal started up the slope; then, in a slither of rolling stones, stumbled and fell forward on its knees. Anthony had shut his eyes to rest them a moment from the glare. At the noise he opened them again and saw Mark lying face downwards on the ground and the mule heaving itself, in a series of violent spasms of movement, to its feet. The landscape snapped back into solidity, the moving images fell still. Forgetting the pain in his back and legs, Anthony swung himself down from the saddle and ran up the path. As he approached, Mark rolled over and raised himself to a sitting position. ‘Hurt?’ Anthony said. The other shook his head, but did not speak. ‘You’re bleeding.’ The breeches were torn at the left knee, and a red stain was creeping down the leg. Anthony shouted to the mozo to come back with the baggage-mule; then, kneeling down, opened his penknife, slid the blade into the rent and sawed a long jagged split in the tough material. ‘You’re spoiling my bags,’ Mark said, speaking for the first time. Anthony did not answer, only tore away a wide panel of the stuff. The whole knee-cap and the upper part of the shin were skinless red flesh, grey, where the blood was not oozing, with dust and grit. On the inner side of the knee was a deep cut that bled profusely. Anthony frowned, and, as though the pain were his own, caught his lower lip between his teeth. A pang of physical disgust mingled with his horrified sympathy. He shuddered. Mark had leaned forward to look at the damaged knee. ‘Messy,’ was his comment. Anthony nodded without speaking, unscrewed the stopper of his waterbottle, and, wetting his handkerchief, began to wash the dirt out of the wounds. His emotion disappeared; he was wholly absorbed in his immediate task. Nothing was important any more except to wash this grit away without hurting Mark in the process. By this time, the mozo had come back with the baggage-mule and was standing beside them in silence, looking down with expressionless black eyes on what was happening. ‘I expect he thinks we’re making an unnecessary fuss,’ said Mark, and made an attempt to smile. Anthony rose to his feet, ordered the mozo to untie the mule’s load, and, from one of the canvas bundles, pulled out the medicine-chest. Under the sting of the disinfectant Mark gave vent to an explosive burst of laughter. ‘No humanitarian nonsense about iodine,’ he said. ‘The good old-fashioned idea of hurting you for your own good. Like Jehovah. Christ!’ He laughed again as Anthony swabbed another patch of raw flesh. Then, when the knee was bandaged, ‘Give me a hand,’ he went on. Anthony helped him to his feet, and he took a few steps up the path and back again. ‘Seems all right.’ He bent down to look at the fore-legs of his mule. They were hardly scratched. ‘Nothing to prevent us pushing on at once,’ he concluded. They helped him to mount, and, spurring with his uninjured leg, he set off at a brisk pace up the hill. For the rest of the way he was, for Anthony, mostly a straight and rigid back, but sometimes also, at the zigzags of the path, a profile, marbly in its fixed pallor – the statue of a stoic, flayed, but still alive and silently supporting his agony. In less than the appointed hour – for Mark had chosen to keep up a pace that set the mules blowing and sweating in the afternoon heat – they rode into San Cristobal el Alto. The thirty or forty Indian ranchos of which the village consisted were built on a narrow ridge between plunging gulfs, beyond which, on either side, the mountains stretched away chaotically, range after range, into the haze. Seeing distinguished travellers, the village shopkeeper hurried out on to the plaza to offer them accommodation for the night. Mark listened to him, nodded and made a movement to dismount; then, wincing, let himself fall back into his saddle. Without turning his head, ‘You’ll have to get me off this blasted mule,’ he called in a loud, angry voice. Anthony and the mozo helped him down; but, once on the ground, he refused any further assistance. ‘I can walk by myself,’ he said curtly, frowning while he spoke, as though, in offering an arm, Anthony had meant to insult him. Their quarters for the night turned out to be a wooden shed, half full of coffee bags and hides. After inspecting the place, Mark limped out again to look at the thatched lean-to, where the mules were to be stabled; then suggested a walk round the village, ‘to see the sights,’ he explained. Walking, it was evident, hurt him so much that he could not trust himself to speak. It was in silence that they crossed the little plaza, in silence that they visited the church, the school, the cabildo, the village prison. In silence, and one behind the other. For if they walked abreast, Anthony had reflected, he would be able to see Mark’s face, and Mark would feel that he was being spied upon. Whereas if he walked in front, it would be an insult, a challenge to Mark to quicken his pace. Deliberately, Anthony lagged behind, silent, like an Indian wife trailing through the dust after her husband. It was nearly half an hour before Mark felt that he had tortured himself sufficiently. ‘So much for the sights,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat.’ The night was piercingly cold, the bed merely a board of wood. It was from a restless and unrefreshing sleep that Anthony was roused next morning. ‘Wake!’ Mark was shouting to him. ‘Wake!’ Anthony sat up, startled, and saw Mark, in the other wooden bed, propped on his elbow and looking across at him with angry eyes. ‘Time to get away,’ the harsh voice continued. ‘It’s after six.’ Suddenly remembering yesterday’s accident, ‘How’s the knee?’ Anthony asked. ‘Just the same.’ ‘Did you sleep?’ ‘No, of course not,’ Mark answered irritably. Then, looking away, ‘I can’t manage to get out of bed,’ he added. ‘The thing’s gone stiff on me.’ Anthony pulled on his boots and, having opened the door of the shed to admit the light, came and sat down on the edge of Mark’s bed. ‘We’d better put on a clean dressing,’ he said, and began to untie the bandage. The lint had stuck to the raw flesh. Anthony pulled at it cautiously, then let go. ‘I’ll see if they can give me some warm water at the shop,’ he said. Mark uttered a snort of laughter, and taking a corner of the lint between his thumb and forefinger, gave a violent jerk. The square of pink fabric came away in his hand. ‘Don’t!’ Anthony had cried out, wincing as though the pain were his. The other only smiled at him contemptuously. ‘You’ve made it bleed again,’ he added, in another tone, finding a medical justification for his outburst. But in point of fact, that trickle of fresh blood was not the thing that disturbed him most when he bent down to look at what Mark had uncovered. The whole knee was horribly swollen and almost black with bruises, and round the edges of the newly opened wound the flesh was yellow with pus. ‘You can’t possibly go with your knee in this state,’ he said. ‘That’s for me to decide,’ Mark answered, and added, after a moment, ‘After all, you did it the day before yesterday.’ The words implied a contemptuous disparagement. ‘If a poor creature like you can overcome pain, then surely I . . .’ That was what they meant to say. But the insult, Anthony realized, was unintended. It sprang from the depths of an arrogance that was almost child-like in its single-minded intensity. There was something touching and absurd about such ingenuousness. Besides, there was the poor fellow’s knee. This was not the time to resent insults. ‘I was practically well,’ he argued in a conciliatory tone. ‘You’ve got a leg that’s ready to go septic at any moment.’ Mark frowned. ‘Once I’m on my mule I shall be all right,’ he insisted. ‘It’s just a bit stiff and bruised; that’s all. Besides,’ he added, in a contradiction of what he had said before, ‘there’ll be a doctor at Miajutla. The quicker I get this thing into his hands, the better.’ ‘You’ll make it ten times worse on the way. If you waited here a day or two . . .’ ‘Don Jorge would think I was leaving him in the lurch.’ ‘Damn Don Jorge! Send him a telegram.’ ‘The line doesn’t go through this place. I asked.’ ‘Send the mozo then.’ Mark shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t trust him.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘He’ll get drunk at the first opportunity.’ ‘In other words, you don’t want to send him.’ ‘Besides, it would be too late,’ Mark went on. ‘Don Jorge will be moving in a day or two.’ ‘And do you imagine you’ll be able to move with him?’ ‘I mean to be there,’ said Mark. ‘You can’t.’ ‘I tell you, I mean to be there. I’m not going to let him down.’ His voice was cold and harsh with restrained anger. ‘And now help me up,’ he commanded. ‘I won’t.’ The two men looked at one another in silence. Then, making an effort to control himself, Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, then,’ he said, ‘I’ll call the mozo. And if you’re afraid of going on to Miajutla,’ he continued in a tone of savage contempt, ‘you can ride back to Tapatlan. I’ll go on by myself.’ Then, turning towards the open door, ‘Juan,’ he shouted. ‘Juan!’ Anthony surrendered. ‘Have it your own way. If you really want to be mad . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘But I take no responsibility.’ ‘You weren’t asked to,’ Mark answered. Anthony got up and went to fetch the medicine-chest. He swabbed the wounds and applied the new dressing in silence; then, while he was trying to bandage, ‘Suppose we stopped quarrelling,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t that make things easier?’ For a few seconds Mark remained hostile and averted; then looked up and twisted his face into a reconciliatory smile of friendliness. ‘Peace,’ he said, nodding affirmatively. ‘We’ll make peace.’ But he had reckoned without the pain. It began, agonizingly, when he addressed himself to the task of getting out of bed. For it turned out to be impossible for him, even with Anthony’s assistance, to get out of bed without bending his wounded knee; and to bend it was torture. When at last he was on his feet beside the bed, he was pale and the expression on his face had hardened to a kind of ferocity. ‘All right?’ Anthony questioned. Mark nodded, and, as though the other had become his worst enemy, limped out of the shed without giving him a glance. The torture began again when the time came for mounting, and was renewed with every step the mule advanced. As on the previous day, Mark took the lead. At the head of the cavalcade, he proved his superiority and at the same time put himself out of range of inquisitive eyes. The air was still cold; but from time to time, Anthony noticed, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, as if he were sweating. Each time he put the handkerchief away again, he would give the mule a particularly savage dig with his one available spur. The track descended, climbed again, descended through pine woods, descended, descended. An hour passed, two hours, three; the sun was high in the sky, it was oppressively hot. Three hours, three and a half; and now there were clearings in the woods, steep fields, the stubble of Indian corn, a group of huts, and an old woman carrying water, brown children silently playing in the dust. They were on the outskirts of another village. ‘What about stopping here for some food?’ Anthony called, and spurred his animal to a trot. ‘We might get some fresh eggs,’ he continued as he drew up with the other mule. The face Mark turned towards him was as white as paper, and, as he parted his clenched teeth to speak, the lower jaw trembled uncontrollably. ‘I think we’d better push on,’ he began in an almost inaudible voice. ‘We’ve still got a long way . . .’ Then the lids fluttered over his eyes, his head dropped, his body seemed to collapse upon itself; he fell forward on to the neck of his mule, slid to one side, and would have pitched to the ground if Anthony had not caught him by the arm and held him up. CHAPTER XLVIII July 23rd 1914

===

CHAPTER XLVIII July 23rd 1914 ANTHONY HAD DOZED off again after being called, and was late for breakfast. As he entered the little living-room, Brian looked up with startled eyes and, as though guiltily, folded away the letter he had been reading into his pocket, but not before Anthony had recognized from across the room the unmistakable characteristics of Joan’s rather heavy and elaborately looped writing. Putting a specially casual note of cheeriness into his good-morning, he sat down and proceeded to busy himself elaborately, as though it were a complicated scientific process requiring the whole of his attention, with pouring out his coffee. ‘Should I tell him?’ he was wondering. ‘Yes, I ought to tell him. It ought to come from me, even though he does know it already. Bloody girl! Why couldn’t she keep her promise?’ He felt righteously indignant with Joan. Breaking her word! And what the devil had she told Brian? What would happen if his own story was different from hers? And anyhow, what a fool he would look, confessing now, when it was too late. She had robbed him of the opportunity, the very possibility, of telling Brian what had happened. The woman had queered his pitch; and as his anger modulated into self-pity, he perceived himself as a man full of good intentions, maliciously prevented, at the eleventh hour, from putting them into practice. She had stopped his mouth just as he was about to speak the words that would have explained and made amends for everything; and by doing so, she had made his situation absolutely intolerable. How the devil did she expect him to behave towards Brian, now that Brian knew? He answered the question, so far, at any rate, as the next few minutes were concerned, by retiring behind the Manchester Guardian. Hidden, he pretended, while he ate his scrambled eggs, to be taking a passionate interest in all this stuff about Russia and Austria and Germany. But the silence, as it lengthened out, became at last intolerable. ‘This war business looks rather bad,’ he said at last, without lowering his barricade. From the other end of the table Brian made a faint murmur of assent. Seconds passed. Then there was the noise of a chair being pushed back. Anthony sat there, a man so deeply preoccupied with the Russian mobilization that he wasn’t aware of what was going on in his immediate neighbourhood. It was only when Brian had actually opened the door that he started ostentatiously into consciousness. ‘Off already?’ he questioned, half turning, but not so far that he could see the other’s face. ‘I d-don’t think I shall g-go out this m-morning.’ Anthony nodded approvingly, like a family doctor. ‘That’s good,’ he said, and added that he himself proposed to hire a bicycle in the village and nip down to Ambleside. There were some things he had to buy. ‘See you at lunch-time,’ he concluded. Brian said nothing. The door closed behind him. By a quarter to one Anthony had returned his borrowed bicycle and was walking up the hill to the cottage. This time it was settled, definitely, once and for all. He would tell Brian everything – almost everything, the very moment he came in. ‘Brian!’ he called from the doorstep. There was no answer. ‘Brian!’ The kitchen door opened, and old Mrs Benson, who did their cooking and cleaning, stepped out into the narrow hall. Mr Foxe, she explained, had started for a walk about half an hour before; wouldn’t be back for lunch, he had said, but had wanted (would you believe it?) to set off without anything to eat; she had made him take some sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg. It was with a sense of inner discomfort that Anthony sat down to his solitary lunch. Brian had deliberately avoided him; therefore must be angry – or worse, it occurred to him, was hurt – too deeply to be able to bear his presence. The thought made him wince; to hurt people was so horrible, so hurting even to the hurter. And if Brian came back from his walk magnanimously forgiving – and knowing him, Anthony felt convinced that he would – what then? It was also painful to be forgiven; particularly painful in the case of an offence one had not oneself confessed. ‘If only I could have told him,’ he kept repeating to himself, ‘if only I could have told him’; and almost contrived to persuade himself that he had been prevented. After lunch he walked up into the wild country behind the cottage, hoping (for it was now so urgently necessary to speak), and at the same time (since the speaking would be such an agonizing process) profoundly fearing, to meet Brian. But he met nobody. Resting on the crest of the hill, he managed for a little while to forget his troubles in sarcasms at the expense of the view. So typically and discreditably English, he reflected, wishing that Mary were there to listen to his comments. Mountain, valleys, lakes, but on the pettiest scale. Miserably small and hole-and-cornery, like English cottage architecture – all ingle-nooks and charming features; nothing fine or grandiose. No hint of thirteen-century megalomania or baroque gesticulation. A snug, smug little sublimity. It was almost in high spirits that he started his descent. No, said old Mrs Benson, Mr Foxe hadn’t yet come back. He had his tea alone, then sat on a deck-chair on the lawn and read de Gourmont on style. At six, Mrs Benson came out, and after elaborately explaining that she had laid the table and that the cold mutton was in the larder, wished him good-evening and walked away down the road towards her own cottage. Soon afterwards the midges began to bite and he went indoors. The little bird in the Swiss clock opened its door, cuckooed seven times and retired again into silence. Anthony continued to read about style. Half an hour later the bird popped out for a single cry. It was supper-time. Anthony rose and walked to the back door. Behind the cottage the hill was bright with an almost supernatural radiance. There was no sign of Brian. He returned to the sittingroom, and for a change read some Santayana. The cuckoo uttered eight shrill hiccoughs. Above the orange stain of sunset the evening planet was already visible. He lit the lamp and drew the curtains. Then, sitting down again, he tried to go on reading Santayana; but those carefully smoothed pebbles of wisdom rolled over the surface of his mind without making the smallest impression. He shut the book at last. The cuckoo announced that it was half-past eight. An accident, he was wondering, could the fellow have had an accident? But, after all, people don’t have accidents – not when they’re out for a quiet walk. A new thought suddenly came to him, and at once the very possibility of twisted ankles or broken legs disappeared. That walk – he felt completely certain of it now – had been to the station. Brian was in the train, on his way to London, on his way to Joan. It was obvious, when one came to think of it; it simply couldn’t be otherwise. ‘Christ!’ Anthony said aloud in the solitude of the little room. Then, made cynical and indifferent by the very hopelessness of the situation, he shrugged his shoulders and, lighting a candle, went out to the larder to fetch the cold mutton. This time, he decided, as he ate his meal, he really would escape. Just bolt into hiding till things looked better. He felt no compunction. Brian’s journey to London had relieved him, in his own estimation, of any further responsibility in the matter; he felt that he was now free to do whatever suited him best. In preparation for his flight, he went upstairs after supper and began to pack his bag. The recollection that he had lent Brian The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman to red in bed sent him, candle in hand, across the landing. On the chest of drawers in Brian’s room three envelopes stood conspicuously propped against the wall. Two, he could see from the doorway, were stamped, the other was unstamped. He crossed the room to look at them more closely. The unstamped envelope was addressed to himself, the others to Mrs Foxe and Joan respectively. He set down the candle, took the envelope addressed to himself, and tore it open. A vague but intense apprehension had filled his mind, a fear of something unknown, something he dared not know. He stood there for a long time holding the open envelope in his hand and listening to the heavy pulse of his own blood. Then, coming at last to a decision, he extracted the folded sheets. There were two of them, one in Brian’s writing, the other in Joan’s. Across the top of Joan’s letter Brian had written: ‘Read this for yourself.’ He read. ‘DEAREST BRIAN, – By this time Anthony will have told you what has happened. And, you know, it did just happen – from outside, if you see what I mean, like an accident, like being run into by a train. I certainly hadn’t thought about it before, and I don’t think Anthony had – not really; the discovery that we loved one another just ran into us, ran over us. There wasn’t any question of us doing it on purpose. That’s why I don’t feel guilty. Sorry, yes – more than words can say – for the pain I know I shall give you. Ready to do all I can to make it less. Asking forgiveness for hurting you. But not feeling guilty, not feeling I’ve treated you dishonourably. I should only feel that if I had done it deliberately; but I didn’t. I tell you, it just happened to me – to us both. Brian dear, I’m unspeakably sorry to be hurting you. You of all people. If it were a matter of doing it with intention, I couldn’t do it. No more than you could have hurt me intentionally. But this thing has just happened, in the same way as it just happened that you hurt me because of that fear that you’ve always had of love. You didn’t want to hurt me, but you did; you couldn’t help it. The impulse that made you hurt me ran into you, ran over you, like this impulse of love that has run into me and Anthony. I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault, Brian. We had bad luck. Everything ought to have been so good and beautiful. And then things happened to us – to you first, so that you had to hurt me; then to me. Later on, perhaps, we can still be friends. I hope so. That’s why I’m not saying good-bye to you, Brian dear. Whatever happens, I am always your loving friend, JOAN.’ In the effort to keep up his self-esteem and allay his profound disquietude, Anthony forced himself to think with distaste of the really sickening style in which this kind of letter was generally written. A branch of pulpit oratory, he concluded, and tried to smile to himself. But it was no good. His face refused to do what he asked of it. He dropped Joan’s letter and reluctantly picked up the other sheet in Brian’s handwriting. ‘DEAR A., – I enclose the letter I received this morning from Joan. Read it; it will save me explaining. How could he have done it? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself all the morning; and now I put it to you. How could you? Circumstances may have run over her – like a train, as she says. And that, I know, was my fault. But they couldn’t have run over you. You’ve told me quite enough about yourself and Mary Amberley to make it quite clear that there could be no question in your case of poor Joan’s train. Why did you do it? And why did you come here and behave as though nothing had happened? How could you sit there and let me talk about my difficulties with Joan and pretend to be sympathetic, when a couple of evenings before you had been giving her the kisses I wasn’t able to give? God knows, I’ve done all manner of bad and stupid things in the course of my life, told all manner of lies; but I honestly don’t think I could have done what you have done. I didn’t think anybody could have done it. I suppose I’ve been living in a sort of fool’s paradise all these years, thinking the world was a place where this sort of thing simply couldn’t happen. A year ago I might have known how to deal with the discovery that it can happen. Not now. I know that, if I tried, I should just break down into some kind of madness. This last year has strained me more than I knew. I realize now that I’m all broken to pieces inside, and that I’ve been holding myself together by a continuous effort of will. It’s as if a broken statue somehow contrived to hold itself together. And now this has finished it. I can’t hold any more. I know if I were to see you now – and it’s not because I feel that you’ve done something you shouldn’t have done; it would be the same with anyone, even my mother – yes, if I were to see anyone who had ever meant anything to me, I should just break down and fall to bits. A statue at one moment, and the next a heap of dust and shapeless fragments. I can’t face it. Perhaps I ought to; but I simply can’t. I was angry with you when I began to write this letter, I hated you; but now I find I don’t hate you any longer. God bless you, Anthony put the two letters and the torn envelope in his pocket, and, picking up the two stamped envelopes and the candle, made his way downstairs to the sitting-room. Half an hour later, he went to the kitchen, and in the range, which was still smouldering, set fire one by one to all the papers that Brian had left behind him. The two unopened envelopes with their closely folded contents burnt slowly, had to be constantly relighted; but at last it was done. With the poker he broke the charred paper into dust, stirred up the fire to a last flame and drew the round cover back into place. Then he walked out into the garden and down the steps to the road. On the way to the village it suddenly struck him that he would never be able to see Mary again. She would question him, she would worm the truth out of him, and having wormed it out, would proclaim it to the world. Besides, would he even want to see her again now that Brian had . . . He could not bring himself to say the words even to himself. ‘Christ!’ he said aloud. At the entrance to the village he halted for a few moments to think what he should say when he knocked up the policeman. ‘My friend’s lost . . . My friend has been out all day and . . . I’m worried about my friend . . .’ Anything would do; he hurried on, only anxious to get it over. CHAPTER XLIX January 12th and 14th 1934 IT WAS DARK in the little rancho, and from noon till sunset stiflingly hot; then cold all through the night. A partition divided the hut into two compartments; in the middle of the first compartment was a hearth of rough stones, and when the fire was lighted for cooking, the smoke filtered slowly away through the chinks in the windowless wooden walls. The furniture consisted of a stool, two kerosene tins for water, some earthenware cooking-pots, and a stone mortar for grinding maize. On the further side of the partition were a couple of plank beds on trestles. It was on one of these that they laid Mark. By the following morning he was delirious with fever, and, from the knee, the infection had crept downwards, until the leg was swollen almost to the ankle. For Anthony, as he sat there in the hot twilight, listening to the mutterings and sudden outcries of this stranger on the bed, there was, for the moment, only one thing to decide. Should he send the mozo to fetch a doctor and the necessary drugs from Miajutla? Or should he go himself? It was a choice of evils. He thought of poor Mark, abandoned, alone in the hands of these inept and not too well-intentioned savages. But even if he himself were there, what could he do with the resources at his disposal? And suppose the mozo were sent and failed to persuade the doctor to come at once, failed to bring the necessary supplies, failed perhaps to return at all. Miajutla, as Mark had said, was in the pulque country; there would be oceans of cheap alcohol. Riding hard, he himself could be back again at Mark’s bedside in less than thirty hours. A white man with money in his pocket, he would be able to bully and bribe the doctor to bestir himself. Hardly less important, he would know what stores to bring back with him. His mind was made up. He rose, and, going to the door, called to the mozo to saddle his mule. He had ridden for less than two hours when the miracle happened. Coming round a bend in the track he saw advancing towards him, not fifty yards away, a white man, followed by two Indians, one mounted and one on foot, with a couple of laden baggage-mules. As they drew together, the white man courteously raised his hat. The hair beneath it was light brown, grizzled above the ears, and in the deeply bronzed face the blue eyes were startlingly pale. ‘Buenas dias, caballero,’ he said. There was no mistaking the accent. ‘Good-morning,’ Anthony replied. They reined up their beasts alongside one another and began to talk. ‘This is the first word of English I’ve heard for seven and a half months,’ said the stranger. He was an elderly little man, short and spare, but with fine upright carriage that lent him a certain dignity. The face was curiously proportioned, with a short nose and an upper lip unusually long above a wide, tightly shut mouth. A mouth like an inquisitor’s. But the inquisitor had forgotten himself and learned to smile; there were the potentialities of laughter in the deep folds of skin which separated the quiveringly sensitive corners of the mouth from the cheeks. And round the bright enquiring eyes those intricate lines seemed the traces and hieroglyphic symbols of a constantly repeated movement of humorous kindliness. A queer face, Anthony decided, but charming. ‘My name is James Miller,’ said the stranger. ‘What’s yours?’ And when he had been told, ‘Are you travelling alone, Anthony Beavis?’ he questioned, addressing the other, Quaker fashion, by both his names. Anthony told him where he was bound and on what errand. ‘I suppose you don’t know anything about doctors in Miajutla,’ he concluded. With a sudden deepening of the hieroglyphs about the eyes, a sudden realization of those potentialities of laughter round the mouth, the little man smiled. ‘I know about doctors here,’ he said, and tapped himself on the chest. ‘M.D., Edinburgh. And a good supply of materia medica on those mules, what’s more.’ Then, in another tone, ‘Come on,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s get back to that poor friend of yours as quick as we can.’ Anthony wheeled his animal round, and side by side the two men set off up the track. ‘Well, Anthony Beavis,’ said the doctor, ‘you came to the right address.’ Anthony nodded. ‘Fortunately,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t been praying, otherwise I’d have had to believe in special providence and miraculous interventions.’ ‘And that would never do,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Not that anything ever happens by chance, of course. One takes the card the conjuror forces on one – the card which one has oneself made it inevitable that he should force on one. It’s a matter of cause and effect.’ Then, without a pause, ‘What’s your profession?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you’d say I was a sociologist. Was one, at any rate.’ ‘Indeed! Is that so?’ The doctor seemed surprised and pleased. ‘Mine’s anthropology,’ he went on. ‘Been living with the Lacandones in Chiapas these last months. Nice people when you get to know them. And I’ve collected a lot of material. Are you married, by the way?’ ‘No.’ ‘Never been married?’ ‘No.’ Dr Miller shook his head. ‘That’s bad, Anthony Beavis,’ he said. ‘You ought to have been.’ ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘I can see it in your face. Here, and there.’ He touched his lips, his forehead. ‘I was married. For fourteen years. Then my wife died. Blackwater fever it was. We were working in West Africa then. She was qualified too. Knew her job better, in some ways, than I did.’ He sighed. ‘You’d have made a good husband, you know. Perhaps you will do, even now. How old are you?’ ‘Forty-three.’ ‘And look younger. Though I don’t like that sallow skin of yours,’ he protested with sudden vehemence. ‘Do you suffer much from constipation?’ ‘Well, no,’ Anthony answered, smiling, and wondered whether it would be agreeable if everybody were to talk to one in this sort of way. A bit tiring, perhaps, to have to treat all the people you met as human beings, every one of them with a right to know all about you; but more interesting than treating them as objects, as mere lumps of meat dumped down beside you in the bus, jostling you on the pavements. ‘Not much,’ he qualified. ‘You mean, not manifestly,’ said the doctor. ‘Any eczema?’ ‘Occasional touches.’ ‘And the hair tends to be scurfy.’ Dr Miller nodded his own confirmation to this statement. ‘And you get headaches, don’t you?’ Anthony had to admit that he sometimes did. ‘And, of course, stiff necks and attacks of lumbago. I know. I know. A few years more and it’ll be settled in as sciatica or arthritis.’ The doctor was silent for a moment while he looked enquiringly into Anthony’s face. ‘Yes, that sallow skin,’ he repeated, and shook his head. ‘And the irony, the scepticism, the what’s-the-good-of-it-all attitude! Negative really. Everything you think is negative.’ Anthony laughed; but laughed to hide a certain disquiet. This being on human terms with everyone you met could be a bit embarrassing. ‘Oh, don’t imagine I’m criticizing!’ cried the doctor, and there was a note of genuine compunction in his voice. Anthony went on laughing, unconvincingly. ‘Don’t get it into your head that I’m blaming you in any way.’ Stretching out a hand, he patted Anthony affectionately on the shoulder. ‘We’re all of us what we are; and when it comes to turning ourselves into what we ought to be – well, it isn’t easy. No, it isn’t easy, Anthony Beavis. How can you expect to think in anything but a negative way, when you’ve got chronic intestinal poisoning? Had it from birth, I guess. Inherited it. And at the same time stooping, as you do. Slumped down on your mule like that – it’s awful. Pressing down on the vertebrae like a ton of bricks. One can almost hear the poor things grinding together. And when the spine’s in that state, what happens to the rest of the machine? It’s frightful to think of.’ ‘And yet,’ said Anthony, feeling a little piqued by this remorseless enumeration of his physical defects, ‘I’m still alive. I’m here to tell the tale.’ ‘Somebody’s here to tell the tale,’ the doctor answered. ‘But is he the one you’d like him to be?’ Anthony did not answer, only smiled uncomfortably. ‘And even that somebody won’t be telling the tale much longer, if you’re not careful. I’m serious,’ he insisted. ‘Perfectly serious. You’ve got to change if you want to go on existing. And if it’s a matter of changing – why, you need all the help you can get, from God’s to the doctor’s. I tell you this because I like you,’ he explained. ‘I think you’re worth changing.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Anthony, smiling this time with pleasure. ‘Speaking as a doctor, I’d suggest a course of colonic irrigation to start with.’ ‘And speaking for God,’ said Anthony, allowing his pleasure to overflow in good-humoured mockery, ‘a course of prayer and fasting.’ ‘No, not fasting,’ the doctor protested very seriously, ‘not fasting. Only a proper diet. No butcher’s meat; it’s poison, so far as you’re concerned. And no milk; it’ll only blow you up with wind. Take it in the form of cheese and butter; never liquid. And a minimum of eggs. And, of course, only one heavy meal a day. You don’t need half the stuff you’re eating. As for prayer . . .’ He sighed and wrinkled his forehead into a pensive frown. ‘I’ve never really liked it, you know. Not what’s ordinarily meant by prayer, at any rate. All that asking for special favours and guidances and forgivenesses – I’ve always found that it tends to make one egotistical, preoccupied with one’s own ridiculous self-important little personality. When you pray in the ordinary way, you’re merely rubbing yourself into yourself. You return to your own vomit, if you see what I mean. Whereas what we’re all looking for is some way of getting beyond our own vomit.’ Some way, Anthony was thinking, of getting beyond the books, beyond the perfumed and resilient flesh of women, beyond fear and sloth, beyond the painful but secretly flattering vision of the world as menagerie and asylum. ‘Beyond this piddling, twopenny-halfpenny personality,’ said the doctor, ‘with all its wretched little virtues and vices, all its silly cravings and silly pretensions. But, if you’re not careful, prayer just confirms you in the bad habit of being personal. I tell you, I’ve observed it clinically, and it seems to have much the same effect on people as butcher’s meat. Prayer makes you more yourself, more separate. Just as a rump-steak does. Look at the correlation between religion and diet. Christians eat meat, drink alcohol, smoke tobacco; and Christianity exalts personality, insists on the value of petitionary prayer, teaches that God feels anger and approves the persecution of heretics. It’s the same with the Jews and the Moslems. Kosher and an indignant Jehovah. Mutton and beef – and personal survival among the houris, avenging Allah and holy wars. Now look at the Buddhists. Vegetables and water. And what’s their philosophy? They don’t exalt personality; they try to transcend it. They don’t imagine that God can be angry; when they’re unenlightened, they think he’s compassionate, and when they’re enlightened, they think he doesn’t exist, except as an impersonal mind of the universe. Hence they don’t offer petitionary prayer; they meditate – or, in other words, try to merge their own minds in the universal mind. Finally, they don’t believe in special providences for individuals; they believe in a moral order, where every event has its cause and produces its effect – where the card’s forced upon you by the conjuror, but only because your previous actions have forced the conjuror to force it upon you. What worlds away from Jehovah and God the Father and everlasting, individual souls! The fact is, of course, that we think as we eat. I eat like a Buddhist, because I find it keeps me well and happy; and the result is that I think like a Buddhist – and, thinking like a Buddhist, I’m confirmed in my determination to eat like one.’ ‘And now you’re recommending me to eat like one.’ ‘More or less.’ ‘And do you also want me to think like one?’ ‘In the long run you won’t be able to avoid it. But, of course, it’s better to do it consciously.’ ‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Anthony, ‘I do think like a Buddhist already. Not in all ways perhaps, but certainly in many ways. In spite of roast beef.’ ‘You think you think like a Buddhist,’ said the doctor. ‘But you don’t. Thinking negatively isn’t thinking like a Buddhist; it’s thinking like a Christian who’s eating more butcher’s meat than his intestine can deal with.’ Anthony laughed. ‘Oh, I know it sounds funny,’ said the doctor. ‘But that’s only because you’re a dualist.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘Not in theory perhaps. But in practice – how can you be anything but a dualist? What are you, Anthony Beavis? A clever man – that’s obvious. But it’s equally obvious that you’ve got an unconscious body. An efficient thinking apparatus and a hopelessly stupid set of muscles and bones and viscera. Of course you’re a dualist. You live your dualism. And one of the reasons you live it is because you poison yourself with too much animal protein. Like millions of other people, of course! What’s the greatest enemy of Christianity today? Frozen meat. In the past only members of the upper classes were thoroughly sceptical, despairing, negative. Why? Among other reasons, because they were the only people who could afford to eat too much meat. Now there’s cheap Canterbury Lamb and Argentine chilled beef. Even the poor can afford to poison themselves into complete scepticism and despair. And only the most violent stimuli will rouse them to purposive activity, and, what’s worse, the only activity they’ll undertake is diabolic. They can only be stimulated by hysterical appeals to persecute Jews, or murder socialists, or go to war. You personally happen to be too intelligent to be a fascist or a nationalistic; but again, it’s a matter of theory, not of life. Believe me, Anthony Beavis, your intestines are ripe for fascism and nationalism. They’re making you long to be shaken out of the horrible negativity to which they’ve condemned you – to be shaken by violence into violence.’ ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Anthony, ‘that’s one of the reasons why I’m here.’ He waved his hand towards the tumbled chaos of the mountains. ‘Simply to be shaken out of negativity. We were on our way to a revolution when poor Staithes got hurt.’ The doctor nodded. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘you see! And do you suppose you’d be here if you had a healthy intestine?’ ‘Well, I don’t really know,’ Anthony answered, laughing. ‘You know quite well that you wouldn’t,’ said the doctor almost severely. ‘Not on that kind of lunatic’s errand, at any rate. For, of course, you might be here as an anthropologist, say, or a teacher, a healer, whatever you like, so long as it meant understanding people and helping them.’ Anthony nodded his head slowly, but did not speak; and for a long way they rode along in silence. There was light out of doors, and it was cleaner under the sky than in the little rancho. Dr Miller had chosen as his operating theatre a little clearing in the woods, outside the village. ‘Beyond the range of the flies, let’s hope,’ he said, but without seeming too confident of it. A hearth had been built by his two mozos, and on the fire stood a cauldron of boiling water. They had borrowed a table from the schoolmaster and some stools, with bowls for the disinfectant, and a cotton sheet to cover the bedstead. Dr Miller had given him a dose of Nembutal, and when the time came, Mark was carried out unconscious to the clearing among the pine trees. All the boys in the village escorted the stretcher and stood round in attentive silence while the patient was lifted on to the bed. Trousered, and in their wide hats, with their little blankets folded over their shoulders, they seemed, not children, but the absurd and derisive parodies of grown men. Anthony, who had been holding the gangrened leg, straightened himself up, and, looking round, saw the ring of brown faces and the glitter of all those black, blank eyes. At the sight he found his growing apprehension abruptly transformed into uncontrollable anger. ‘Go away!’ he shouted in English, and advanced towards them, waving his arms. ‘Away, you little beasts, away!’ The children retreated, but slowly, reluctantly, with the manifest intention of returning the moment he should turn his back. Anthony made a quick dart and caught one small boy by the arm. ‘Little beast!’ He shook the child violently, then, carried away by an irresistible impulse to inflict pain, gave him a cuff over the head that sent the big hat flying between the trees. Uttering no cry, the child ran away after its companions. Anthony made a last menacing gesture in their direction, then turned and walked back towards the centre of the clearing. He had not taken more than a few steps when a stone, well aimed, caught him full between the shoulders. He swung round furiously, exploding into such obscenities as he had not uttered since he was at school. Dr Miller, who was washing his hands at the table, looked up. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘The little devils are throwing stones.’ ‘Serve you right,’ said the doctor unsympathetically. ‘Leave them alone, and come and do your duty.’ The unfamiliarly clerical and military word startled him into the uncomfortable realization that he had been behaving like a fool. Worse than a fool. With the realization of his discreditable folly came the impulse to justify it. It was in a tone of pained indignation that he spoke. ‘You’re not going to let them look on, are you?’ ‘How am I to prevent them looking on, if they want to?’ asked the doctor, drying his hands as he spoke. ‘And now, Anthony Beavis,’ he went on sternly, ‘pull yourself together. This is going to be difficult enough anyhow, without your being hysterical.’ Silenced and, because he was ashamed of himself, angry with Miller, Anthony washed his hands and put on the clean shirt which had to do duty as overall. ‘Now,’ said the doctor, and stepped forward. ‘We must begin by draining the leg of blood.’ ‘The’ leg, not ‘his’ leg, Anthony was thinking, as he stood beside the doctor, looking down on the man sleeping on the bed. Something impersonal, belonging to nobody in particular. The leg. But Mark’s face, Mark’s sleeping face, now so incredibly calm, so smooth, in spite of the emaciation, as though this death-like stupor had drawn a new skin across the flayed and twisted muscles – this could never be merely ‘the’ face. It was ‘his’, his for all its unlikeness to that contemptuous, suffering mask through which at ordinary times Mark looked out at the world. All the more genuinely his, perhaps, just because of that unlikeness. He remembered suddenly what Mark had said to him, beside the Mediterranean, only four months before, when he had woken to see those eyes, now shut, but then wide open and bright with derision, sardonically examining him through the mosquito net. Perhaps one really is what one seems to be in sleep. Innocence and peace – the mind’s essence, and all the rest mere accident. ‘Take his foot,’ Dr Miller ordered, ‘and lift the leg as nearly vertical as you can.’ Anthony did as he was told. Raised in this grotesque way, the horribly swollen and discoloured leg seemed more impersonal, more a mere thing than ever. The stink of mortified flesh was in his nostrils. From behind them, among the trees, a voice said something incomprehensible; there was a snicker of laughter. ‘Now leave the foot to the mozo and stand by here.’ Anthony obeyed, and smelt again the resin of the forest. ‘Hold that bottle for me.’ There was an astonished murmur of ‘Amarillo!’ as the doctor painted the thigh with flavine. Anthony looked again at his friend’s face; it remained undisturbed in its serenity. Essentially still and pure. The leg with its black dead flesh; the saw there in the bowl of permanganate solution, the knives and forceps; the fascinated children peering out of the forest – all were somehow irrelevant to the essential Mark. ‘Now the chloroform,’ said Dr Miller. ‘And the cotton wool. I’ll show you how to use it. Then you’ll have to go on by yourself.’ He opened the bottle, and the smell of pine trees in the sunshine was overlaid by a rasping and nauseating sweetness. ‘There, do you see the trick?’ asked the doctor. ‘Like that. Go on with that. I’ll tell you when to stop. I’ve got to put on the tourniquet.’ There were no birds in the trees, hardly, even, any insects. The wood was deathly still. This sunny clearing was a little island of speech and movement in an ocean of silence. And at the centre of that island lay another silence, intenser, more complete than the silence of the forest. The tourniquet was in place. Dr Miller ordered the mozo to lower the grotesquely hoisted leg. He pulled up a stool to the bedside, sat down, then rose again and, as he washed his hands for the last time, explained to Anthony that he would have to operate sitting down. The bed was too low for him to be able to stand. Taking his seat once more, he dipped into the bowl of permanganate for a scalpel. At the sight of those broad flaps of skin turned back, like the peel of a huge banana, but from a red and bleeding fruit, Anthony was seized with a horrible sensation of nausea. The saliva came pouring into his mouth and he had to keep swallowing and swallowing to get rid of it. Involuntarily, he gave vent to a retching cough. ‘Steady now,’ said the doctor without looking up. With an artery forceps, he secured the end of an oozing vessel. ‘Think of it scientifically.’ He made another sweeping cut through the red flesh. ‘And if you must be sick,’ he went on with sudden asperity, ‘for God’s sake go and do it quickly!’ Then, in another tone – the tone of the professor who demonstrates an interesting point to his students, ‘One has to cut back the nerves a long way,’ he said. ‘There’s a tremendous retraction as the tissues heal up. Anyhow,’ he added, ‘he’ll probably have to have a re-amputation at home. It won’t be a beautiful stump, I’m afraid.’ Calm and at peace, innocent of all craving, all malice, all ambition – it was the face of one who has made himself free, one for whom there are no more bars or chains, no more sepulchres under a stone, and on whom the birdlime no longer sticks. The face of one who has made himself free . . . But in fact, Anthony reflected, in fact he had had his freedom forced upon him by this evil-smelling vapour. Was it possible to be one’s own liberator? There were snares; but also there was a way of walking out of them. Prisons; but they could be opened. And if the torture-chambers could never be abolished, perhaps the tortures could be made to seem irrelevant. As completely irrelevant as now to Mark this sound of sawing, as this revolting rasp and squeak of the steel teeth biting into the bone, of the steel blade rubbing back and forth in the deepening groove. Mark lay there serene, almost smiling. CHAPTER L Christmas Day 1934 GOD – A PERSON or not a person? Quien sabe? Only revelation can decide such metaphysical questions. And revelation isn’t playing the game – is equivalent to pulling three aces of trumps from up your sleeve. Of more significance is the practical question. Which gives a man more power to realize goodness – belief in a personal or an impersonal God? Answer: it depends. Some minds work one way, some another. Mine, as it happens, finds no need, indeed, finds it impossible to think of the world in terms of personality. Patanjali says you may believe in a personal God, or not, according to taste. The psychological results will be the same in either case. For those whose nature demands personality as a source of energy, but who find it impossible to believe that the universe is run by a person in any sense of the word that we can possibly understand – what’s the right policy? In most cases, they reject any practice which might be called religious. But this is throwing away the baby with the bath water. The desired relationship with a personality can be historical, not ontological. A contact, not with somebody existing at present as manager of the universe, but with somebody known to have existed at some time in the past. The Imitation of Christ (or of any other historical character) is just as effective if the model be regarded as having existed there, then, as it is if the model be conceived as existing here, now. And meditation on goodness, communication with goodness, contemplation of goodness are demonstrably effective means of realizing goodness in life, even when that which is meditated on, communicated with and contemplated, is not a person, but a general mind, or even an ideal supposed to exist only in human minds. The fundamental problem is practical – to work out systems of psychological exercises for all types of men and women. Catholicism has many systems of mental prayer – Ignatian, Franciscan, Liguorian, Carmelite and so on. Hinduism, Northern, Southern and Zen Buddhism also have a variety of practices. There is a great work to be done here. Collecting and collating information from all these sources. Consulting books and, more important, people who have actually practised what is in the books, have had experience of teaching novices. In time, it might be possible to establish a complete and definitive Ars Contemplativa. A series of techniques, adapted to every type of mind. Techniques for meditating on, communicating with and contemplating goodness. Ends in themselves and at the same time means for realizing some of that goodness in practice. January 1st 1935. MACHINERY AND GOOD organization – modern inventions; and, like all blessings, have to be paid for. In many ways. One item is the general belief, encouraged by mechanical and social efficiency, that progress is automatic and can be imposed from outside. We, as individuals, need do nothing about it. Liquidate undesirables, distribute enough money and goods – all will be well. It is a reversion to magic, a pandering to man’s natural sloth. Note the striking way in which this tendency runs through the whole of modern life, cropping up at every point. There seems no obvious connection between the Webbs and the Soviets on the one hand and Modern Catholicism on the other. But what profound subterranean resemblances! The recent Catholic revival essentially a revival of sacraments. From a Catholic point of view, this is a ‘sacramental age’. Magic power of sacraments regarded as sufficient for salvation. Mental prayer conspicuously absent. Exact analogy to the Webbs-Soviet idea of progress from without, through machinery and efficient organization. For English Catholics, sacraments are the psychological equivalents of tractors in Russia. CHAPTER LI February 7th 1934 DR MILLER DISMOUNTED at the open hut, left his beast with the mozo, and stepped into the hut. Propped up on his bed, Mark watched him enter – a small, erect figure, walking briskly, his blue eyes bright with enquiring kindness, the corners of his mouth alive with the potentialities of laughter. ‘And how are all the little patients this evening?’ Mark twisted up his pale and still emaciated face into a ferociously sardonic smile. From the stool on which he was sitting beside the bed, Anthony shot a glance at him, and remembered the serenity of that face three weeks before, in the early morning sunshine among the pine trees. Serene and at peace. But now that life had come back to him, now that he was safely convalescent, the peace had departed, leaving him the embittered enemy of the whole world. There had been hatred in his eyes even before he was strong enough to speak. Hatred for everyone who came near him – above all for old Miller. ‘I can’t bear his perpetual twinkle,’ was what he had said to Anthony later on. ‘Nobody has a right to go about looking like the advertisement of a constipation cure.’ But the real reason for Mark’s dislike was different. He hated old Miller because of his dependence upon him, because of the unflaggingly watchful efficiency of the man’s care. Poor Mark! How acutely he suffered from having to accept a service and, still more, from being compelled by his own physical weakness to ask for it! How bitterly he resented even affection, if it were given by somebody to whom it was impossible for him to feel superior! His dislike for the doctor had been present from the first moment of his return to consciousness, had increased with every day that the old man delayed his departure in order to look after him. ‘But why don’t you get on with your journey?’ he had asked; and when the doctor answered that he was in no hurry and intended to see him safely down to the coast and even, since he himself was leaving, home through the Canal to England, had protested vehemently that his leg was practically healed, that there would be no difficulty in getting back to Puerto San Felipe, that he himself would probably be taking the north-bound boat to Los Angeles. But the doctor had remained, attending to Mark and in the intervals riding out to the neighbouring villages to treat the sick. To the convalescent this was an additional source of irritation – though why it should have annoyed him Anthony could not rightly understand. Perhaps he resented the fact that the benefactor of the Indians was not himself. Anyhow, there it was; he was never tired of baiting old Miller with those ‘little patients’ of his. Then, a fortnight after the operation, had come the news of the ignominious failure of Don Jorge’s attempt at insurrection. He had been surprised with an insufficient guard, taken alive, summarily tried and shot with his chief lieutenant. The report added that the two men had cracked jokes together as they walked between the soldiers towards the cemetery, where their graves were already dug. ‘And he died,’ had been Mark’s comment, ‘believing that I’d taken fright at the last moment and let him down.’ The thought was like another wound to him. ‘If I hadn’t had this blasted accident . . .’ he kept repeating. ‘If I’d been there to advise him . . . That crazy rashness of his! This was why he’d asked me to come. He mistrusted his own judgment. And here was I lying in this stinking pigsty, while the poor devil marches off to the cemetery . . .’ Cracking jokes, as he sniffed the cold morning air. ‘Huele al cimintero, Don Jaime.’ He too would have cracked his joke. Instead of which . . . It was just bad luck, of course, just a typical piece of providential idiocy; but providence was not there for him to vent his grievance on. Only Anthony and the doctor were there. His behaviour towards them, after the news of Don Jorge’s death, had become increasingly bitter and resentful. It was as though he regarded them as personally responsible for what had happened. Both of them, especially the doctor. ‘How’s the delicious bedside manner?’ Mark now went on, in the same derisive tone in which he had asked after the little patients. ‘Wasted, I’m afraid,’ Dr Miller answered good-humouredly as he took off his hat and sat down. ‘Either they haven’t got any beds for me to be at the side of – only a blanket on the floor. Or else they don’t speak any Spanish, and I don’t speak their brand of Indian dialect. And how’s yourself?’ he asked. ‘Myself,’ said Mark, returning the doctor his expression in a tone of emphatically contemptuous disgust, as though it were some kind of verbal ordure, ‘is very well, thanks.’ ‘But doing a slight Bishop Berkeley,’ Anthony interposed. ‘Feeling pains in the knee he hasn’t got.’ Mark looked at him for a moment with an expression of stony dislike; then turning away and fixing his eyes on the bright evening landscape, visible through the open door of the hut, ‘Not pains,’ he said coldly, though it was as pains that he had described them to Anthony only half an hour before. ‘Just the sensation that the knee’s still there.’ ‘Can’t avoid that, I’m afraid.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘I didn’t suppose one could,’ Mark said, as though he were replying with dignity to an aspersion on his honour. Dr Miller broke the uncomfortable silence by remarking that there was a good deal of goitre in the higher valleys. ‘It has its charm,’ said Mark, stroking an imaginary bulge at his throat. ‘How I regret those cretins one used to see in Switzerland when I was a child! They’ve iodined them out of existence now, I’m afraid. The world’s too damned sanitary these days.’ He shook his head and smiled anatomically. ‘What do they do up there in the high valleys?’ he asked. ‘Grow maize,’ said the doctor. ‘And kill one another in the intervals. There’s a huge network of vendettas spread across these mountains. Everybody’s involved. I’ve been talking to the responsible men, trying to persuade them to liquidate all the old accounts and start afresh.’ ‘They’ll die of boredom.’ ‘No, I’m teaching them football instead. Matches between the villages.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve had a lot of experience with vendettas,’ he added. ‘All over the world. They all detest them, really. Are only too thankful for football when they’re used to it.’ ‘Christ!’ ‘Why “Christ”?’ ‘Those games! Can’t we ever escape from them?’ ‘But they’re the greatest English contribution to civilization,’ said the doctor. ‘Much more important than parliamentary government, or steam engines, or Newton’s Principia. More important even than English poetry. Poetry can never be a substitute for war and murder. Whereas games can be. A complete and genuine substitute.’ ‘Substitutes!’ Mark echoed contemptuously. ‘You’re all content with substitutes. Anthony finds his in bed or in the British Museum Reading Room. You look for yours on the football field. God help you! Why are you so frightened of the genuine article?’ For a little while no one spoke. Dr Miller looked at Anthony, and, seeing that he did not propose to answer, turned back to the other. ‘It isn’t a question of being frightened, Mark Staithes,’ he said very mildly. ‘It’s a question of choosing something right instead of something wrong . . .’ ‘I’m suspicious of right choices that happen to need less courage than wrong ones.’ ‘Is danger your measure of goodness?’ Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘What is goodness? Hard to know, in most cases. But at least one can be sure that it’s good to face danger courageously.’ ‘And for that you’re justified in deliberately creating dangerous situations – at other people’s expense?’ Dr Miller shook his head. ‘That won’t do, Mark Staithes. If you want to use courage, why not use it in a good cause.’ ‘Such as teaching blackamoors to play football,’ Mark sneered. ‘Which isn’t so easy, very often, as it sounds.’ ‘They can’t grasp the offside rule, I suppose.’ ‘They don’t want to grasp any rule at all, except the rule of killing the people from the next village. And when you’re between two elevens armed to the teeth and breathing slaughter at one another . . .’ He paused; his wide mouth twitched into a smile; the almost invisible hieroglyphs round his eyes deepened, as he narrowed the lids, into the manifest symbols of an inner amusement. ‘Well, as I say, it isn’t quite so easy as it sounds. Have you ever found yourself faced by a lot of angry men who wanted to kill you?’ Mark nodded, and an expression of rather malevolent satisfaction appeared on his face. ‘Several times,’ he answered. ‘When I was running a coffee finca a bit further down the coast, in Chiapas.’ ‘And you faced them without arms?’ ‘Without arms,’ Mark repeated, and, by way of explanation, ‘The politicians,’ he added, ‘were still talking about revolution in those days. The land for the people – and all the rest. One fine morning the villagers came to seize the estate.’ ‘Which, on your principles,’ said Anthony, ‘you ought to have approved of.’ ‘And did approve, of course. But I could hardly admit it – not in those circumstances.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Well, surely that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?? There they were, marching against me. Was I to tell them I sympathized with their politics and then hand over the estate? No, really, that would have been a bit too simple!’ ‘What did you do, then?’ ‘There were about a hundred of them the first time,’ Mark explained. ‘Festooned with guns and cartridge-belts like Christmas trees, and all with their machetes. But polite, soft spoken. They had no particular quarrel with me, and the revolutionary idea was strange; they didn’t feel too certain of themselves. Not that they ever make much noise,’ he added. ‘I’ve seen them killing in silence. Like fish. It’s an aquarium, this country.’ ‘Seems an aquarium,’ Dr Miller emended. ‘But when one has learnt how the fishes think . . .’ ‘I’ve always found it more important to learn how they drink,’ said Mark. ‘Tequila’s the real enemy. Luckily, mine were sober. Otherwise . . . Well, who knows what would have happened?’ After a pause, ‘They were standing on the cement drying floor,’ he went on, ‘and I was sitting at the door of the office, up a few steps, above them. Superior, as though I were holding a durbar of my loyal subjects.’ He laughed; the colour had come to his cheeks, and he spoke with a kind of gusto, as though the words had a pleasant taste in his mouth. ‘A hundred villainous, coffee-coloured peons, staring up at one with those beady tortoise eyes of theirs – it wasn’t reassuring. But I managed to keep my face and voice from giving anything away. It helped a lot, I found, to think of the creatures as some kind of rather squalid insects. Cockroaches, dung beetles. Just a hundred big, staring bugs. It helped, I say. But still my heart did beat a bit. On its own – you know the sensation, don’t you? It’s as though you had a live bird under your ribs. A bird with its own bird-like consciousness. Suffering from its own private fears. An odd sensation, but exhilarating. I don’t think I was ever happier in my life than I was that day. The fact of being one against a hundred. A hundred armed to the teeth. But bugs, only bugs. Whereas the one was a man. It was a wonderful feeling.’ He was silent for a little, smiling to himself. ‘And what happened then?’ Anthony asked. ‘Nothing. I just gave them a little speech from the throne. Told them the finca wasn’t mine to give away. That, meanwhile, I was responsible for the place. And if I caught anybody trespassing on the land, or doing any mischief – well, I should know what to do. Firm, dignified, the real durbar touch. After which I got up, told them they could go, and walked up the path towards the house. I suppose I was within sight of them for about a minute. A full minute with my back turned to them. And there were at least a hundred of the creatures; nobody could ever have discovered who fired the shot. That bird under the ribs!’ Lifting a hand, he fluttered the fingers in the air. ‘And there was a new sensation – ants running up and down the spine. Terrors – but of the body only; autonomous, if you see what I mean. In my mind I knew that they wouldn’t shoot, couldn’t shoot. A hundred miserable bugs – it was morally impossible for them to do it. Bird under the ribs, ants up and down the spine; but inside the skull there was a man; and he was confident, in spite of the body’s doubts, he knew that the game had been won. It was a long minute, but a good one. A very good one. And there were other minutes like it afterwards. The only times they ever shot at me were at evening, from out of the bushes. I was within their range, but they were out of mine. Out of the range of my consciousness and will. That was why they had the courage to shoot. When the man’s away, the bugs will play. Luckily, no amount of courage has ever taught an Indian to shoot straight. In time, of course, they might have got me by a fluke; but meanwhile revolution went out of fashion. It never cut very much ice on the Pacific coast.’ He lit a cigarette. There was a long silence. ‘Well,’ said Dr Miller at last, ‘that’s one way of dealing with a hostile crowd. And seeing that you’re here to tell us, it’s evidently a way that sometimes succeeds. But it’s not my way. I’m an anthropologist, you see.’ ‘What difference does that make?’ ‘Quite a big one.’ Dr Miller replied. ‘An anthropologist is a person who studies men. But you prefer to deal with bugs. I’d call you an entomologist, Mark Staithes.’ His smile evoked no answering sign of friendliness. Mark’s face was stony as he met the doctor’s eyes and looked away again. ‘Entomologist!’ he repeated scornfully. ‘That’s just stupid. Why do you play with words?’ ‘Because words express thoughts, Mark Staithes; and thoughts determine actions. If you call a man a bug, it means that you propose to treat him as a bug. Whereas if you call him a man, it means that you propose to treat him as a man. My profession is to study men. Which means that I must always call men by their name; always think of them as men; yes, and always treat them as men. Because if you don’t treat men as men, they don’t behave as men. But I’m an anthropologist, I repeat. I want human material. Not insect material.’ Mark uttered an explosive little laugh. ‘One may want human material,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean one’s going to get it. What one actually gets . . .’ He laughed again. ‘Well, it’s mostly plain, undiluted bug.’ ‘There,’ said Dr Miller, ‘you’re wrong. If one looks for men, one finds them. Very decent ones, in a majority of cases. For example, go among a suspicious, badly treated, savage people; go unarmed, with your hands open.’ He held out his large square hands in a gesture of offering. ‘Go with the persistent and obstinate intention of doing them some good – curing their sick, for example. I don’t care how bitter their grievance against white men may be; in the end, if you’re given time enough to make your intentions clear, they’ll accept you as a friend, they’ll be human beings treating you as a human being. Of course,’ he added, and the symbols of inner laughter revealed themselves once more about his eyes, ‘it sometimes happens that they don’t leave you the necessary time. They spear you before you’re well under way. But it doesn’t often happen – it has never happened to me, as you see – and when it does happen, well, there’s always the hope that the next man who comes will be more successful. Anthropologists may get killed; but anthropology goes on; and in the long run it can’t fail to succeed. Whereas your entomological approach . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It may succeed at the beginning; you can generally frighten and overawe people into submission. That’s to say that, by treating them as bugs, you can generally make them behave like bugs – crawl and scuttle to cover. But the moment they have the opportunity, they’ll turn on you. The anthropologist may get killed while establishing his first contacts; but after that, he’s safe; he’s a man among men. The entomologist may start by being safe; but he’s a bug-hunter among bugs – among bugs, what’s more, who resent being treated as bugs, who know they aren’t bugs. His bad quarter of an hour comes later on. It’s the old story: you can do everything with bayonets except sit on them.’ ‘You don’t have to sit on them,’ said Mark. ‘It’s the other people’s bottoms that get punctured, not yours. If you wielded the bayonets with a certain amount of intelligence, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go on ruling indefinitely. The real trouble is, of course, that there isn’t the necessary intelligence. Most bug-hunters are indistinguishable from the bugs.’ ‘Exactly,’ Dr Miller agreed. ‘And the only remedy is for the bughunter to throw his bayonets away and treat the bugs as though they were human beings.’ ‘But we’re talking about intelligence,’ said Mark. The tone of contemptuous tolerance implied that he was doing his best not to get angry with the old fool for his incapacity to think. ‘Being sentimental has nothing to do with being intelligent.’ ‘On the contrary,’ the doctor insisted, ‘it has everything to do with it. You can’t be intelligent about human beings unless you’re first sentimental about them. Sentimental in the good sense, of course. In the sense of caring for them. It’s the first indispensable condition of understanding them. If you don’t care for them, you can’t possibly understand them; all your acuteness will just be another form of stupidity.’ ‘And if you do care for them,’ said Mark, ‘you’ll be carried away by your maudlin emotions and become incapable of seeing them for what they are. Look at the grotesque, humiliating things that happen when people care too much. The young men who fall in love and imagine that hideous, imbecile girls are paragons of beauty and intellect. The devoted women who persist in thinking that their squalid little hubbies are all that’s most charming, noble, wise, profound.’ ‘They’re probably quite right,’ said Dr Miller. ‘It’s indifference and hatred that are blind, not love.’ ‘Not lo-ove!’ Mark repeated derisively. ‘Perhaps we might now sing a hymn.’ ‘With pleasure.’ Dr Miller smiled. ‘A Christian hymn, or a Buddhist hymn, or a Confucian – whichever you like. I’m an anthropologist; and after all, what’s anthropology? Merely applied scientific religion.’ Anthony broke a long silence. ‘Why do you only apply it to blackamoors?’ he asked. ‘What about beginning at home, like charity?’ ‘You’re right,’ said the doctor, ‘it ought to have begun at home. If, in fact, it began abroad, that’s merely a historical accident. It began there because we were imperialists and so came into contact with people whose habits were different from ours and therefore seemed stranger than ours. An accident, I repeat. But in some ways a rather fortunate accident. For thanks to it we’ve learnt a lot of facts and a valuable technique, which we probably shouldn’t have learnt at home. For two reasons. Because it’s hard to think dispassionately about oneself, and still harder to think correctly about something that’s very complicated. Home’s both those things – an elaborate civilization that happens to be our own. Savage societies are simply civilized societies on a small scale and with the lid off. We can learn to understand them fairly easily. And when we’ve learnt to understand savages, we’ve learnt, as we discover, to understand the civilized. And that’s not all. Savages are usually hostile and suspicious. The anthropologist has got to learn to overcome that hostility and suspicion. And when he’s learnt that, he’s learnt the whole secret of politics.’ ‘Which is . . .?’ ‘That if you treat other people well, they’ll treat you well.’ ‘You’re a bit optimistic, aren’t you?’ ‘No. In the long run they’ll always treat you well.’ ‘In the long run,’ said Mark impatiently, ‘we shall all be dead. What about the short run?’ ‘You’ve got to take a risk.’ ‘But Europeans aren’t like your Sunday-school savages. It’ll be an enormous risk.’ ‘Possibly. But always smaller than the risk you run by treating people badly and goading them into a war. Besides, they’re not worse than savages. They’ve just been badly handled – need a bit of anthropology, that’s all.’ ‘And who’s going to give them the anthropology?’ ‘Well, among others,’ Dr Miller answered, ‘I am. And I hope you are, Mark Staithes.’ Mark made a flayed grimace and shook his head. ‘Let them slit one another’s throats,’ he said. ‘They’ll do it anyhow, whatever you tell them. So leave them to make their idiotic wars in peace. Besides,’ he pointed to the basket-work cage that kept the bedclothes out of contact with his wound, ‘what can I do now? Look on, that’s all. We’d much better all look on. It won’t be for long, anyhow. Just a few years; and then . . .’ He paused, looked down and frowned. ‘What are those verses of Rochester’s? Yes.’ He raised his head again and recited: ‘Then old age and experience; hand in hand, Lead him to death, and make him understand, After a search so painful and so long, That all his life he had been in the wrong. Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty and so wise. ‘Huddled in dirt,’ he repeated. ‘That’s really admirable. Huddled in dirt. And one doesn’t have to wait till one’s dead to be that. We’ll find a snug little patch of dirt and huddle together, shall we?’ He turned to Anthony. ‘Huddle together among the cow-pats and watch the doctor trying his best anthropological bedside manner on General Goering. There’ll be some hearty laughs.’ ‘In spite of which,’ said Anthony, ‘I think I shall go and make myself ridiculous with Miller.’ CHAPTER LII July 24th 1914 THERE WERE FOUR of them in the search-party: Anthony, the policeman, an old shepherd, with the grey whiskers and the majestic profile of a Victorian statesman, and a fair, red-faced boy of seventeen, the baker’s son. The boy was made to carry the canvas part of the stretcher, while the shepherd and the policeman used the long poles as staves. They set out from behind the cottage, walking in a line – like beaters, Anthony found himself reflecting – up the slope of the hill. It was a brilliant day, cloudless and windless. The distant hills showed as though through veils, dim with much sunlight and almost without colour. Under their feet the grass and heather were dusty with long drought. Anthony took off his jacket, and then, on second thoughts, his hat. A touch of sunstroke might simplify things; there would be no need to give explanations or answer questions. Even as it was, he felt rather sick and there was a griping in his bowels. But that was hardly enough. How many difficulties would be removed if he could be really ill! Every now and then, as they climbed slowly on, he put his hand to his head, and each time the hair felt hot to the touch, like the fur of a cat that has been sitting in front of the fire. It was a pity, he thought, that his hair was so thick. Three hours later they had found what they were looking for. Brian’s body was lying, face downwards, in a kind of rocky bay, at the foot of a cliff above the tarn. Bracken was growing between the rocks, and in the hot air its sweetish, oppressive scent was almost suffocatingly strong. The place was loud with flies. When the policeman turned the body over, the mangled face was almost unrecognizable. Anthony looked for a moment, then turned away. His whole body had begun to tremble uncontrollably; he had to lean against a rock to prevent himself from falling. ‘Come, lad.’ The old shepherd took him by the arm, and leading him away, made him sit down on the grass, out of sight of the body. Anthony waited. A buzzard turned slowly in the sky, tracing out the passage of time on an invisible clock-face. Then at last they came out from behind the buttress of rock into his view. The shepherd and the boy walked in front, each holding one pole of the stretcher, while the policeman, behind, had to support the weight on both the poles. Brian’s torn jacket had been taken off and spread over his face. One stiffened arm stuck out irrepressibly and, at every step the bearers took, swung and trembled in the air. There were bloodstains on the shirt. Anthony got up, and, in spite of their protestations, insisted on taking half the policeman’s burden. Very slowly, they made their way down towards the valley. It was after three o’clock when at last they reached the cottage. Later, the policeman went through the pockets of coat and trousers. A tobacco pouch, a pipe, Mrs Benson’s packet of sandwiches, six or seven shillings in money, and a notebook half full of jottings about the economic history of the Roman Empire. Not the smallest hint that what had happened had been anything but an accident. Mrs Foxe arrived the following evening. Rigid at first with selfcontrol, she listened in silence, stonily, to Anthony’s story; then, all at once, broke down, fell to pieces as it were, in a passion of tears. Anthony stood by her for a moment, uncertainly; then crept out of the room. Next morning, when he saw her again, Mrs Foxe had recovered her calm – but a different kind of calm. The calm of a living, sentient being, not the mechanical and frozen stillness of a statue. There were dark lines under her eyes, and the face was that of an old and suffering woman; but there was a sweetness and serenity in the suffering, an expression of dignity, almost of majesty. Looking at her, Anthony felt himself abashed, as though he were in the presence of something that he was not worthy, that he had no right, to approach. Abashed and guilty, more guilty even than he had felt the night before, when her grief had passed beyond her control. He would have liked to escape once more; but she kept him with her all the morning, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes speaking in that slow, beautifully modulated voice of hers. To Anthony silence and speech were equally a torture. It was an agony to sit there, saying nothing, listening to the clock ticking, and wondering, worrying about the future – how to get away from Joan, what to tell her about that accursed letter of hers; and every now and then stealing a glance at Mrs Foxe and asking himself what was going on in her mind and whether she had any knowledge, any suspicion even, of what had really happened. Yes, her silences were painful; but equally painful was her speech. ‘I realize,’ she began, slowly and pensively, ‘I realize now that I loved him in the wrong way – too possessively.’ What was he to say? That it was true? Of course it was true. She had been like a vampire, fastened on poor Brian’s spirit. Sucking his life’s blood. (St Monica, he remembered, by Ary Scheffer.) Yes, a vampire. If anyone was responsible for Brian’s death, it was she. But his self-justificatory indignation against her evaporated as she spoke again. ‘Perhaps that was one of the reasons why it happened, in order that I might learn that love mustn’t be like that.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I suppose,’ she went on, ‘Brian had learnt enough. He hadn’t very much to learn, really. He knew so much to start with. Like Mozart – only his genius wasn’t for music; it was for love. Perhaps that was why he could go so soon. Whereas I . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve had to have this lesson. After all these long years of learning, still so wilfully stupid and ignorant!’ She sighed and was silent once more. A vampire – but she knew it; she admitted her share of responsibility. There remained his share – still unconfessed. ‘I ought to tell her,’ he said to himself, and thought of all that had resulted from his failure to tell the truth to Brian. But while he was hesitating, Mrs Foxe began again. ‘One ought to love everyone like an only son,’ she went on. ‘And one’s own only son as one amongst them. A son one can’t help loving more than the rest, because one has more opportunities for loving him. But the love would be different only in quantity, not in kind. One ought to love him as one loves all the other only sons – for God’s sake, not for one’s own.’ The richly vibrant voice spoke on, and, with every word it uttered, Anthony felt more guilty – more guilty, and at the same time more completely and hopelessly committed to his guilt. The longer he delayed and the more she said in this strain of resignation, the harder it was going to be to undeceive her with the truth. ‘Listen, Anthony,’ she resumed, after another long pause. ‘You know how fond of you I’ve always been. Ever since that time just after your mother’s death – do you remember? – when you first came to stay with us. You were such a defenceless little boy. And that’s how I’ve always seen you, ever since. Defenceless under your armour. For, of course, you’ve had an armour. You still have. To protect yourself against me, among other dangers.’ She smiled at him. Anthony dropped his eyes, blushed and mumbled some incoherent phrase. ‘Never mind why you’ve wanted to protect yourself,’ she went on. ‘I don’t want to know, unless you want to tell me. And perhaps you’ll feel you want to protect yourself still more now. Because I’m going to say that I’d like you to take Brian’s place. The place,’ she qualified, ‘that Brian ought to have had if I’d loved him in the right way. Among all the other only sons, the one whom there’s more opportunity of loving than the rest. That’s what I’d like you to be, Anthony. But, of course, I won’t force myself on you. It’s for you to decide.’ He sat in silence, his face averted from her, his head bent. ‘Blurt it out,’ a voice was crying within him. ‘Anyhow, at any price!’ But if it had been difficult before, now it was impossible. Saying she wanted him to take Brian’s place! It was she who had made it impossible. He was shaken by a gust of futile anger. If only she’d leave him in peace, let him go away and be alone! Suddenly his throat contracted, the tears came into his eyes, the muscles of his chest tightened in spasm after violent spasm; he was sobbing. Mrs Foxe crossed the room, and bending over him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Poor Anthony,’ she whispered. He was pinned irrevocably to his lie. That evening he wrote to Joan. This horrible accident. So unnecessary. So stupid in its tragedy. It had happened, as a matter of fact, before he had had an opportunity for telling Brian about those events in London. And, by the way, had she written to Brian? An envelope addressed in her handwriting had been delivered at midday, when the poor fellow had already started out. He was keeping it for her and would return it personally, when he saw her next. Meanwhile, Mrs Foxe was bearing it wonderfully; and they must all be brave; and he was always hers affectionately. CHAPTER LIII February 23rd 1934 HELEN CAME INTO the sitting-room, holding a frying-pan in which the bacon was still spluttering from the fire. ‘Breakfast!’ she called. ‘Komme gleich’ came back from the bedroom, and a moment later Ekki showed himself at the open door in shirtsleeves, razor in hand, his fair ruddy face covered with soapsuds. ‘Almost finished,’ he said in English, and disappeared again. Helen smiled to herself as she sat down. Loving him as she did, she found an extraordinary pleasure in this close and incessant physical intimacy with him – the intimacy that their poverty had perforce imposed on them. Why do people want large houses, separate rooms, all the private hiding-places that the rich find indispensable? She couldn’t imagine, now. Humming to herself, out of tune, Helen poured out the tea, helped herself to bacon, then began to sort the morning’s letters. Helen Amberley. No Mrs. Communist frankness and informality. She opened the envelope. The letter was from Newcastle. Would it be possible for her or Giesebrecht to speak to a group of young comrades on conditions in Germany some time in March? Well, one would have to see. Mr E. Giesebrecht. From Switzerland; and surely that thin spiky writing was Holtzmann’s. Ekki would be pleased. ‘Something from Holtzmann,’ she said as he came in. ‘I wonder what news he’ll have this time?’ Ekki took the letter, and, with that methodical deliberation that characterized all his actions, opened it; then, laid it down beside his plate and cut off a piece of bacon. He poked the bacon into his mouth, picked up the letter again, and, slowly chewing, began to read. An expression of intent and focused gravity came into his face; he could never do anything except thoroughly and wholeheartedly. When he had finished, he turned back to the first page and started reading all over again. Helen’s impatience got the better of her at last. ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked. Holtzmann was the best informed of the exiled journalists; he always had something to communicate. ‘Tell me what he says.’ Ekki did not answer at once, but read on in silence for a few seconds, then folded up the letter and put it away in his pocket. ‘Mach is in Basel,’ he answered at last, looking up at her. ‘Mach?’ she repeated. ‘Do you mean Ludwig Mach?’ In the course of these last months, the name of this most resourceful and courageous of all the German comrades engaged in the dissemination of communist propaganda and censored news had become, for Helen, at once familiar and fabulous, like the name of a personage in literature or mythology. That Ludwig Mach should be at Basel seemed almost as improbable as that Odysseus should be there, or Odin, or the Scarlet Pimpernel. ‘Ludwig Mach from Stuttgart?’ she insisted incredulously. Ekki nodded. ‘I shall have to go and see him. Tomorrow.’ Spoken in that slow, emphatic, foreign way of his, the words had a strange quality of absolute irrevocableness. Even his most casual statements always sounded, when uttered in English, as though he had made an oath. ‘I shall have to go,’ he repeated. Carefully, conscientiously pronounced, each syllable had the same value. Two heavy spondees and the first half of a third. Whereas an Englishman, however irrevocably he had made up his mind, would have spoken the phrase as a kind of gobbled anapaest – I-shall-have-togo. In another man, this way of speaking – so ponderous, so Jehovahlike, as she herself had teasingly called it – would have seemed to Helen intolerably grotesque. But, in Ekki, it was an added attraction. It seemed somehow right and fitting that this man, whom (quite apart from loving) she admired and respected beyond anyone she had ever known, should be thus touchingly absurd. ‘If I couldn’t laugh at him sometimes,’ she explained to herself, ‘it might all go putrid. A pool of stagnant adoration. Like religion. Like one of Landseer’s dogs. The laughter keeps it aired and moving.’ Listening, looking into his face (at once so absurdly ingenuous in its fresh and candid gravity and so heroically determined) Helen felt, as she had so often felt before, that she would like to burst out laughing and then go down on her knees and kiss his hands. ‘I shall have to go too,’ she said aloud, parodying his way of speaking. He thought at first that she was joking; then, when he realized that she was in earnest, grew serious and began to raise objections. The fatigue – for they would be travelling third-class. The expense. But Helen was suddenly like her mother – a spoilt woman whose caprices had to be satisfied. ‘It’ll be such fun,’ she cried excitedly. ‘Such an adventure!’ And when he persisted in being negatively reasonable, she grew angry. ‘But I will come with you,’ she repeated obstinately. ‘I will.’ Holtzmann met them at the station, and, instead of being the tall, stiff, distinguished personage of Helen’s anticipatory fancy, turned out to be short and squat, with a roll of fat at the back of his neck, and, between little pig’s eyes, a soft shapeless nose like a potato. His hand, when she shook it, was so coldly sweaty that she felt her own defiled; surreptitiously, when he wasn’t looking, she wiped it on her skirt. But worse than even his appearance and his sweaty hands was the man’s behaviour. Her presence, she could see, had taken him aback. ‘I had not expected . . .’ he stammered, when Ekki presented her; and his face, for a moment, seemed to disintegrate in agitation. Then, recovering himself, he became effusively polite and cordial. It was gnädige Frau, lieber Ekki, unbeschreiblich froh all the way down the platform. As though he were meeting them on the stage, Helen thought. And acting badly, what was more, like someone in a third-rate touring company. And how detestable that nervousness was! A man had no business to giggle like that and gesticulate and make grimaces. Mopping and mowing, she said under her breath. Walking beside him, she felt herself surrounded by a bristling aura of dislike. This horrible creature had suddenly spoilt all the fun of the journey. She found herself almost wishing that she hadn’t come. ‘What a loathsome man!’ she managed to whisper to Ekki, while Holtzmann was engaged in extravagantly overacting the part of one who tells the porter to be careful with the typewriter. ‘You find him so?’ Ekki asked with genuine surprise. ‘I had not thought . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished and shook his head. A little frown of perplexity wrinkled his smooth forehead. But a moment later, interrupting Holtzmann’s renewed protestations of affection and delight, he was asking what Mach thought of the present situation in Germany; and when Holtzmann replied, he listened, absorbed. Half angry with him for his insensitive obtuseness, half admiring him for his power to ignore everything that, to him, was irrelevant, Helen walked in silence at his side. ‘Men are extraordinary,’ she was thinking. ‘All the same, I ought to be like that.’ Instead of which she allowed herself to be distracted by faces, by gigglings and gestures; she wasted her feelings on pigs’ eyes and rolls of fat. And all the time millions of men and women and children were going cold and hungry, were being exploited, were being overworked, were being treated as though they were less than human, mere beasts of burden, mere cogs and levers; millions were being forced to live in chronic fear and misery and despair, were being dragooned and beaten, were being maddened with lies and cowed with threats and blows, were being herded this way and that like senseless animals on the road to market, to an ultimate slaughterhouse. And here was she, detesting Holtzmann, because he had sweaty hands – instead of respecting him, as she should have done, for what he had dared, what he had suffered for the sake of those unhappy millions. His hands might be sweaty; but he lived precariously in exile, had been persecuted for his principles, was a champion of justice and truth. She felt ashamed of herself, but at the same time couldn’t help thinking that life, if you were like Ekki, must be strangely narrow and limited, unimaginably without colour. A life in black and white, she reflected, hard and clear and definite, like a Dürer engraving. Whereas hers – hers was a vague bright Turner, a Monet, a savage Gauguin. But ‘you look like a Gauguin,’ Anthony had said, that morning on the blazing roof, and here in the chilly twilight of Basel station she suddenly winced, as though with physical pain. ‘Oh, how awful,’ she said to herself, ‘how awful!’ ‘And the labour camps,’ Ekki was asking, intently, ‘what does Mach say about the feeling in the labour camps?’ Outside the station they halted. ‘Shall we begin by taking our things to a hotel?’ Ekki suggested. But Holtzmann would not hear of it. ‘No, no, you must come at once,’ he insisted with a breathless emphasis. ‘To my house at once. Mach is waiting there. Mach wouldn’t understand it if there was any delay.’ But when Ekki agreed, he still stood irresolute and nervous at the pavement’s edge, like a swimmer afraid to plunge. ‘What’s the matter with the man?’ Helen wondered impatiently; then aloud, ‘Well, why don’t we take a taxi?’ she asked, forgetting for the moment that the time of taxis had long since come to an end. One took trams now, one took buses. But Gauguin had precipitated her into the past; it seemed natural to think of taxis. Holtzmann did not answer her; but suddenly, with the quick, agitated movements of one who has been forced by circumstances to take a disagreeable decision, caught Ekki by the arm, and, drawing him aside, began to speak to him in a hurried whisper. Helen saw a look of surprise and annoyance come over Ekki’s face as he listened. His lips moved, he was evidently making an objection. The other replied in smiling deprecation and began to stroke his sleeve, as though in the hope of caressing him into acquiescence. In the end Ekki nodded, and, turning back to Helen, ‘Holtzmann wants you to join us only at lunch,’ he said in his abrupt, heavy way. ‘He says that Mach wouldn’t like it if there is anyone besides me.’ ‘Does he think I’ll give him away to the Nazis?’ Helen asked indignantly. ‘It isn’t you,’ Ekki explained. ‘He doesn’t know you. If he did, it would be different. But he is afraid. Afraid of everyone he does not know. And he is quite right to be afraid,’ he added, in that tone of dogmatic finality which meant that the argument was closed. Making a great effort to swallow her annoyance and chagrin, Helen nodded her head. ‘All right then, I’ll meet you at lunch-time. Though what the point was of my coming here at all,’ she couldn’t help adding, ‘I really can’t imagine.’ ‘Dear Miss Amberley, chère consceur, gnädige Frau, comrade . . .’ Holtzmann overflowed with bourgeois and communist courtesies in all the languages at his disposal. ‘Es tut mir so leid. So very sorry.’ But here was the address of his house. At half-past twelve. And if he might advise her on the best way of spending a morning in Basel . . . She slipped the card into her bag, and without waiting to listen to his suggestions, turned her back on the two men and walked quickly away. ‘Helen!’ Ekki called after her. But she paid no attention. He did not call again. It was cold; but the sky was a clear pale blue, the sun was shining. And suddenly, emerging from behind high houses, she found herself beside the Rhine. Leaning over the parapet, she watched the green water hurrying past, silent, but swift and purposive, like a living thing, like life itself, like the power behind the world, eternally, irresistibly flowing; watching it, until at last it was as though she herself were flowing along with the great river, were one with it, a partaker of its power. ‘And shall Trelawney die?’ she found herself singing. ‘And shall Trelawney die? There’s twenty thousand Cornish men shall know the rea-ea-eason why.’ And suddenly it seemed certain that they would win, that the revolution was only just round the corner – there, after that first bend in the river. Irresistibly the flood drove on towards it. And meanwhile what a fool she had been to be cross with Ekki, what an absolute beast! Remorse gave place, after a little, to the ecstatically tender anticipation of their reconcilement. ‘Darling,’ she would say to him, ‘darling, you must forgive me. I was really too stupid and odious.’ And he would put one arm round her, and with the other hand would push back the hair from her forehead and then bend down and kiss her . . . When she walked on, the Rhine was still rushing within her, and, unburdened of her offence towards Ekki, she felt immaterially light, felt almost as though she were floating – floating in a thin intoxicating air of happiness. The starving millions receded once more into remote abstraction. How good everything was, how beautiful, how exactly as it ought to be! Even the fat old women were perfect, even the nineteenth-century Gothic houses. And that cup of hot chocolate in the café – how indescribably delicious! And the old waiter, so friendly and paternal. Friendly and paternal, what was more, in an astonishing Swiss-German that made one want to roar with laughter, as though everything he said – from his commentaries on the weather to his complaints about the times – were one huge, continuous joke. Such gutturals, such neighings! Like the language of the Houyhnhnms, she thought, and led him on, with an unwearying delight in the performance, to hoick and whinny yet again. From the café she went on at last to the picture gallery; and the picture gallery turned out to be as exquisitely comic in its own way as the waiter’s German. Those Boecklins! All the extraordinary pictures one had only seen on postcards or hanging, in coloured reproduction, on the walls of pensions in Dresden. Mermaids and tritons caught as though by a camera; centaurs in the stiff ungainly positions of race-horses in a pressman’s photograph. Painted with a good faith and a laborious lack of talent that were positively touching. And here – unspeakable joy! – was the Toteninsel. The funereal cypresses, the white tomb-like temples, the long-robed figures, the solitary boat on its way across the wine-dark sea . . . The joke was perfect. Helen laughed aloud. In spite of everything, she was still her mother’s daughter. In the room of the primitives she paused for a moment, on her way out, before a picture of the martyrdom of St Erasmus. An executioner in fifteenth-century costume, with a pale shell-pink cod-piece, was methodically turning the handle of a winch – like Mr Mantalini at the mangle – winding the saint’s intestines, yard after yard, out of a gash in the emaciated belly, while the victim lay back, as if on a sofa, making himself thoroughly comfortable and looking up into the sky with an expression of unruffled equanimity. The joke here was less subtle than in Toteninsel, more frankly a knockabout; but excellent, none the less, in its own simple way. She was still smiling as she walked out into the street. Holtzmann, it turned out, lived only a few hundred yards from the gallery, in a pretty little early nineteenth-century house (much too good for a man with sweaty hands!) set back from the road behind a little square of gravel. A large car was standing at the door. Holtzmann’s? she wondered. He must be rich, the old pig! It had taken her so little time to come from the gallery that it was hardly a quarter-past twelve as she mounted the steps. ‘Never mind,’ she said to herself. ‘They’ll have to put up with me. I refuse to wait one second longer.’ The thought that, in a moment, she would see Ekki again made her heart beat quickly. ‘What a fool I am! What an absolute fool.’ But how marvellous to be able to be a fool! She rang the bell. It was Holtzmann himself who opened – dressed in an overcoat, she was surprised to see, as though he were just going out. The expression with which he had greeted her at the station reappeared on his face as he saw her. ‘You are so soon,’ he said, trying to smile; but his nervousness and embarrassment amounted almost to terror. ‘We had not awaited you until half-one.’ Helen laughed. ‘I hadn’t awaited myself,’ she explained. ‘But I got here quicker than I thought.’ She made a movement to step across the threshold; but Holtzmann held out his arm. ‘We are not yet ready,’ he said. His face was flushed and sweating with embarrassment. ‘If you will return in a quarter hour,’ he almost implored. ‘Only a quarter hour.’ ‘Nur ein Viertel Stündchen.’ Helen laughed, thinking of those embroidered cushions on the sofas where the Geheimrats slept off the effects of noonday eating. ‘But why shouldn’t I wait indoors?’ She pushed past him into a dark little hall that smelt of cooking and stale air. ‘Where’s Ekki?’ she asked, suddenly overcome by the desire to see him, to see him at once, without another second’s delay, so that she could tell him what a beast she had been, but how loving all the same, how adoring in spite of the beastliness, and how happy, how eager to share her happiness with him! At the other end of the vestibule a door stood ajar. Calling his name, Helen ran towards it. ‘Stop!’ Holtzmann shouted behind her. But she was already across the threshold. The room in which she found herself was a bedroom. On the narrow iron bed Ekki was lying with all his clothes on, his head on one side, his mouth open. His breath came slowly in long snores; he was asleep – but asleep as she had never seen him sleeping. ‘Ekki!’ she had time to cry, while a door slammed, another voice joined itself to Holtzmann’s, and the vestibule was loud with violent movement. ‘My darling . . .’ Then suddenly a hand closed on her shoulder from behind. She turned, saw the face of a strange man within a few inches of her own, heard somewhere from the background Holtzmann’s ‘Schnell, Willi, schnell!’ and the stranger almost whispering, between clenched teeth, Schmutziges Frauenzimmer’; then, as she opened her mouth to scream, received a terrible blow on the chin that brought the teeth violently together again, and felt herself dropping into blackness. When she came to herself, she was in bed in a hospital ward. Some peasants had found her lying unconscious in a little wood five or six miles from the town. An ambulance had brought her back to Basel. It was only on the following morning that the effects of the barbitone wore off and she remembered what had happened. But by that time Ekki had been over the frontier, in Germany, for nearly twenty hours. CHAPTER LIV February 23rd 1935 ANTHONY HAD SPENT the morning at the offices of the organization, dictating letters. For the most part, it was a matter of dealing with the intellectual difficulties of would-be pacifists. ‘What would you do if you saw a foreign soldier attacking your sister?’ Well, whatever else one did, one certainly wouldn’t send one’s son to murder his second cousin. Wearisome work! But it had to be done. He dictated twenty-seven letters; then it was time to go to lunch with Helen. ‘There’s practically nothing to eat,’ she said, when he came in. ‘I simply couldn’t be bothered to cook anything. The unspeakable boredom of making meals!’ Her voice took on a note of almost malevolent resentment. They addressed themselves to tinned salmon and lettuce. Anthony tried to talk; but his words seemed to bounce off the impenetrable surface of her sullen and melancholy silence. In the end, he too sat speechless. ‘It’s just a year ago today,’ she brought out at last. ‘What is?’ ‘Just a year since those devils at Basel . . .’ She shook her head and was silent again. Anthony said nothing. Anything he could say would be an irrelevance, he felt, almost an insult. ‘I often wish they’d killed me too,’ she went on slowly. ‘Instead of leaving me here, rotting away, like a piece of dirt on a rubbish heap. Like a dead kitten,’ she added, as an afterthought. ‘So much carrion.’ The words were spoken with a vehement disgust. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked. ‘Because it’s true. I am carrion.’ ‘There’s no need for you to be.’ ‘I can’t help it. I’m carrion by nature.’ ‘No, you’re not,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve said it yourself. When Ekki was there . . .’ ‘No, I wasn’t carrion then.’ ‘What you’ve been once, you can be again.’ ‘Not without him.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, if you want to be, you can. It’s a matter of choosing. Choosing and then setting to work in the right way.’ Helen shook her head. ‘They ought to have killed me. If you only knew how I disgust myself!’ She screwed up her face into a grimace. ‘I’m no good. Worse than no good. Just a lump of dirt.’ After a pause, ‘I’m not even interested in Ekki’s work,’ she went on. ‘I don’t like his friends. Communists. But they’re just beastly little people, like anyone else. Stupid, vulgar, envious, pushing. One might as well have the fun of wearing a chinchilla coat and lunching at Claridge’s. I shall probably end by selling myself to a rich man. That is, if I can find one.’ She laughed again. Then, in a tone of more bitter self-contempt, ‘Only a year today,’ she resumed, ‘and already I’m sick of it all. Utterly sick of it and pining to get out of it. I’m disgusting.’ ‘But are you entirely to blame?’ ‘Of course I am.’ Anthony shook his head. ‘Perhaps it’s also the fault of the work.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Organized hatred – it’s not exactly attractive. Not what most people feel they really want to live for.’ ‘Ekki lived for it. Lots of people live for it.’ ‘But what sort of people?’ he asked. ‘They’re of three kinds. Idealists with an exceptional gift for self-deception. Either they don’t know that it’s organized hatred, or else they genuinely believe that the end justifies the means, genuinely imagine that the means don’t condition the end. Ekki was one of those. They form the majority. And then there are two minorities. A minority of people who know that the thing’s organized hatred and rejoice in the fact. And a minority that’s ambitious, that merely uses the movement as a convenient machine for realizing its ambition. You, Helen – you’re neither ambitious nor self-deceiving. And, in spite of what happened this day last year, don’t really want to liquidate people – not even Nazis. And that’s why the chinchillas and the orchids seem so attractive. Not because you actively long for them. Only because this particular alternative is so unsatisfactory.’ There was a silence. Helen got up, changed the plates and set a bowl of fruit on the table. ‘What is the satisfactory alternative?’ she asked, as she helped herself to an apple. ‘It begins,’ he answered, ‘with trying to cultivate the difficult art of loving people.’ ‘But most people are detestable.’ ‘They’re detestable, because we detest them. If we liked them, they’d be likeable.’ ‘Do you think that’s true?’ ‘I’m sure it’s true.’ ‘And what do you do after that?’ ‘There’s no “after,”’ he replied. ‘Because, of course, it’s a lifetime’s job. Any process of change is a lifetime’s job. Every time you get to the top of a peak, you see another peak in front of you – a peak that you couldn’t see from lower down. Take the mindbody mechanism, for example. You begin to learn how to use it better; you make an advance; from the position you’ve advanced to, you discover how you can use it better still. And so on, indefinitely. The ideal ends recede as you approach them; they’re seen to be other and more remarkable than they seemed before the advance was begun. It’s the same when one tries to change one’s relations with other people. Every step forward reveals the necessity of making new steps forward – unanticipated steps, towards a destination one hadn’t seen when one set out. Yes, it lasts a lifetime,’ he repeated. ‘There can’t be any “after.” There can only be an attempt, as one goes along, to project what one has discovered on the personal level on to the level of politics and economics. One of the first discoveries,’ he added, ‘one of the very first one makes, is that organized hatred and violence aren’t the best means for securing justice and peace. All men are capable of love for all other men. But we’ve artificially restricted our love. By means of conventions of hatred and violence. Restricted it within families and clans, within classes and nations. Your friends want to remove those restrictions by using more hatred and violence – that’s to say, by using exactly the same means as were the original causes of the restrictions.’ He smiled. ‘Can you be surprised if you find the work a bit unsatisfying?’ Helen looked at him for a little in silence, then shook her head. ‘I prefer my chinchillas.’ ‘No, you don’t.’ ‘Yes, I do. I’d rather be a lump of dirt. It’s easier.’ She got up. ‘What about some coffee?’ In the little kitchen, as they were waiting for the water to boil, she suddenly started to tell him about that young man in advertising. She had met him a couple of weeks before. Such an amusing and intelligent creature! And he had fallen violently in love with her. Her face brightened with a kind of reckless, laughing malice. ‘Blue eyes,’ she said, cataloguing the young man’s merits, as though she were an auctioneer, ‘curly hair, tremendous shoulders, narrow hips, first-rate amateur boxer – which is more than you ever were, my poor Anthony,’ she added parenthetically and in a tone of contemptuous commiseration. ‘In fact, thoroughly bedworthy. Or at least he looks it. Because one never really knows till one’s tried, does one?’ She laughed. ‘I’ve a good mind to try tonight,’ she went on. ‘To commemorate this anniversary. Don’t you think it would be a good idea, Anthony?’ And when he didn’t answer, ‘Don’t you think so?’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you think so?’ She looked into his face, trying to detect in it the signs of anger, or jealousy, or disgust. Anthony smiled back at her. ‘It isn’t so easy, being a lump of dirt,’ he said. ‘In fact, I should say it was very hard work indeed.’ The brightness faded out of her face. ‘Hard work,’ she repeated. ‘Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for going on trying.’ After a pause, while she poured the water into the percolator, ‘Did you say you were having a meeting tonight?’ ‘In Battersea.’ ‘Perhaps I shall come and listen to you. Unless,’ she added, making an effort to laugh, ‘unless, of course, I’ve decided to celebrate the anniversary in the other way.’ When they had drunk their coffee, Anthony walked back to his rooms, to put in a few hours’ work at the new pamphlet he had promised to write for Purchas. Two letters had come by the mid-day delivery. One was from Miller, describing the excellent meetings he had been having in Edinburgh and Glasgow. The other, without an address, was typewritten. ‘SIR,’ it began, ‘we have been keeping an eye on you for some time past, and have decided that you cannot be allowed to go on in your present disloyal and treacherous way. We give you fair warning. If you make any more of your dirty pacifist speeches, we shall deal with you as you deserve. Appealing to the police will not do any good. We shall get you sooner or later, and it will not be pleasant for you. It is announced that you are speaking tonight in Battersea. We shall be there. So we advise you, if you value your yellow skin, to keep away. You do not deserve this warning, but we want to behave sportingly even towards a skunk like you. – Yours faithfully, A GROUP OF PATRIOTIC ENGLISHMEN.’ A joke, Anthony wondered? No, probably serious. He smiled. ‘How virtuous they must be feeling!’ he said to himself. ‘And how heroic! Striking their blow for England.’ But the blow, he went on to reflect, as he sat down in front of the fire, the blow would fall upon himself – if he spoke, that was to say, if they weren’t prevented from attacking him. And, of course, there could be no question of not speaking. No question of calling on the police for protection. Nothing to do but practise what he had been preaching. But would he have the strength of mind to see it through? Suppose they set on him, suppose they started to knock him about? Would he know how to stand it? He tried to work on the pamphlet; but the personal questions insistently recurred, thrusting aside those remoter and impersonal problems of colonies and prestige, markets, investment, migration. He visualized the horrible expression of anger on the men’s distorted faces, heard in his fancy their violent insulting words, saw hands, lifted, falling. Would he be able to prevent himself from flinching? And the pain of blows – sharp, excruciating, on the face, heavy and sickening on the body – how much would he be able to bear, for how long? If only Miller were here to give advice and encouragement! But Miller was in Glasgow. Doubt of himself grew upon him. To stand there, letting himself be struck, without hitting back, without giving ground – he would never be able to do that. ‘I shan’t have the guts,’ he kept repeating, and was obsessed by the fear of being afraid. Remembering the way he had behaved at Tapatlan, he blushed with shame. And, this time, the disgrace would be public. They would all know – Helen with the rest. And this time, he went on to think, this time there wouldn’t be the excuse of surprise. They had given him warning – ‘even to a skunk like you.’ And besides, he had been training himself for months past to cope with just such a contingency as this. The scene had been rehearsed. He knew by heart every cue and gesture. But when the time actually came, when the pain was no longer imaginary but real, would he remember his part? What guarantee was there that he wouldn’t hopelessly break down? In front of Helen – when Helen was standing hesitant on the threshold of her own life, perhaps also of his. Besides, if he broke down, he would be discrediting more than himself. To break down would be to deny his convictions, to invalidate his philosophy, to betray his friends. ‘But why are you such a fool?’ a small voice began to question; ‘why do you go and saddle yourself with convictions and philosophies? And why put yourself in the position of being able to betray anyone? Why not go back to doing what nature meant you to do – to looking on from your private box and making comments? What does it all matter, after all? And even if it matters, what can you do? Why not quietly resign yourself to the inevitable, and in the interval get on with the job you can do best?’ The voice spoke out of a cloud of fatigue. For a minute he was nothing but a dead, dry husk enclosing black weariness and negation. ‘Ring them up,’ the voice went on. ‘Tell them you’ve got flu. Stay in bed a few days. Then have yourself ordered to the south of France by the doctor . . .’ Suddenly he laughed aloud. From sinister, from insidiously persuasive, that small voice had become absurd. Carried to such a pitch, expressed so ingenuously, baseness was almost comic. ‘Unity,’ he said in an articulate whisper. He was committed to them, as a hand is committed to the arm. Committed to his friends, committed even to those who had declared themselves his enemies. There was nothing he could do but would affect them all, enemies and friends alike – for good, if what he did were good, for evil if it were wrong. Unity, he repeated. Unity. Unity of mankind, unity of all life, all being even. Physical unity, first of all. Unity even in diversity, even in separation. Separate patterns, but everywhere alike. Everywhere the same constellations of the ultimate units of energy. The same on the surface of the sun as in the living flesh warmed by the sun’s radiance; in the scented cluster of buddleia flowers as in the blue sea and the clouds on the horizon; in the drunken Mexican’s pistol as in the dark dried blood on that mangled face among the rocks, the fresh blood spattered scarlet over Helen’s naked body, the drops oozing from the raw contusion on Mark’s knee. Identical patterns, and identical patternings of patterns. He held the thought of them in his mind, and, along with it, the thought of life incessantly moving among the patterns, selecting and rejecting for its own purposes. Life building up simpler into more complex patterns – identically complex through vast ranges of animate being. The sperm enters the egg, the cell divides and divides, to become at last this man, that rat or horse. A cow’s pituitary will make frogs breed out of season. Urine of a pregnant woman brings the mouse on heat. Sheep’s thyroid transforms the axolotl from a gilled larva into an air-breathing salamander, the cretinous dwarf into a wellgrown and intelligent human being. Between one form of animal life and another, patterns are interchangeable. Interchangeable also between animal and plant, plant and the inanimate world. Patterns in seed and leaf and root, patterns built up from simpler patterns existent in the air and soil – these can be assimilated and transformed by insect, reptile, mammal, fish. The unity of life. Unity demonstrated even in the destruction of one life by another. Life and all being are one. Otherwise no living thing could ever derive sustenance from another or from the unloving substances around it. One even in destruction, one in spite of separation. Each organism is unique. Unique and yet united with all other organisms in the sameness of its ultimate parts; unique above a substratum of physical identity. And minds – minds are also unique, but unique above a substratum of mental identity. Identity and interchangeableness of love, trust, courage. Fearless affection restores the lunatic to sanity, transforms the hostile savage into a friend, tames the wild animal. The mental pattern of love can be transferred from one mind to another and still retain its virtue, just as the physical pattern of a hormone can be transferred, with all its effectiveness, from one body to another. And not only love, but hate as well; not only trust, but suspicion; not only kindness, generosity, courage, but also malevolence and greed and fear. Divisive emotions; but the fact that they can be interchanged, can be transferred from mind to mind and retain all their original passion, is a demonstration of the fundamental unity of minds. Reality of unity, but equal reality of division – greater reality, indeed, of division. No need to meditate the fact of division. One is constantly aware of it. Constantly aware of being unique and separate; only sometimes, and then most often only intellectually, only as the result of a process of discursive thought, aware of being one with other minds, other lives and all being. Occasionally an intuition of unity, an intuition coming at random, or sought for, step by step, in meditation. One, one, one, he repeated; but one in division; united and yet separate. Evil is the accentuation of division; good, whatever makes for unity with other lives and other beings. Pride, hatred, anger – the essentially evil sentiments; and essentially evil because they are all intensifications of the given reality of separateness, because they insist upon division and uniqueness, because they reject and deny other lives and beings. Lust and greed are also insistences upon uniqueness, but insistences which do not entail any negative awareness of the others from whom the unique being is divided. Lust only says, ‘I must have pleasure,’ not ‘You must have pain.’ Green in its pure state is merely a demand for my satisfaction, not for your exclusion from satisfaction. They are wrong in emphasizing the separate self; but less wrong than pride or hatred or anger, because their self-emphasis is not accompanied by denial of others. But why division at all? Why, unavoidably, even in the completest love, and, at the other end of the scale of being, even in that which is or seems to be below right and wrong, why must the evil of separation persist? Separation even of saint from saint, and separation even of mere physical pattern from mere physical pattern. One man cannot eat for another. The best must think, must enjoy and suffer, must touch, see, smell, hear, taste in isolation. The good man is merely a less completely closed universe than the bad; but still closed, even as the atom is closed. And, of course, if there is to be existence – existence as we know it – being must be organized in closed universes. Minds like ours can only perceive undifferentiated unity as nothing. Unescapable paradox that we should desire that n should be equal to one, but that, in fact, we should always find that one is equal to nought. Separation, diversity – conditions of our existence. Conditions upon which we possess life and consciousness, know right and wrong and have the power to choose between them, recognize truth, have experience of beauty. But separation is evil. Evil, then, is the condition of life, the condition of being aware, of knowing what is good and beautiful. That which is demanded, that which men come finally to demand of themselves, is the realization of union between beings who would be nothing if they were not separate; is the actualization of goodness by creatures who, if they were not evil, would not exist. Impossibility – but none the less demanded. ‘Born under one law, to another bound.’ He himself, Anthony went on to think, he himself had chosen to regard the whole process as either pointless or a practical joke. Yes, chosen. For it had been an act of the will. If it were all nonsense or a joke, then he was at liberty to read his books and exercise his talents for sarcastic comment; there was no reason why he shouldn’t sleep with any presentable woman who was ready to sleep with him. If it weren’t nonsense, if there were some significance, then he could no longer live irresponsibly. There were duties towards himself and others and the nature of things. Duties with whose fulfilment the sleeping and the indiscriminate reading and the habit of detached irony would interfere. He had chosen to think it nonsense, and nonsense for more than twenty years the thing had seemed to be – nonsense, in spite of occasional uncomfortable intimations that there might be a point, and that the point was precisely in what he had chosen to regard as the pointlessness, the practical joke. And now at last it was clear, now by some kind of immediate experience he knew that the point was in the paradox, in the fact that unity was the beginning and unity the end, and that in the meantime the condition of life and all existence was separation, which was equivalent to evil. Yes, the point, he insisted, is that one demands of oneself the achievement of the impossible. The point is that, even with the best will in the world, the separate, evil universe of a person or a physical pattern can never unite itself completely with other lives and beings, or the totality of life and being. Even for the highest goodness the struggle is without end; for never in the nature of present things can the shut become the wholly open; goodness can never free itself completely from evil. It is a test, an education – searching, difficult, drawn out through a lifetime, perhaps through long series of lifetimes. Lifetimes passed in the attempt to open up further and a little further the closed universe that perpetually tends to spring shut the moment that effort is relaxed. Passed in overcoming the separating passions of hate and malice and price. Passed in making still the selfemphasizing cravings. Passed in constant efforts to realize unity with other lives and other modes of being. To experience it in the act of love and compassion. To experience it on another plane through meditation, in the insight of direct intuition. Unity beyond the turmoil of separations and divisions. Goodness beyond the possibility of evil. But always the fact of separation persists, always evil remains the very condition of life and being. There must be no relaxation of the opening pressure. But even for the best of us, the consummation is still immeasurably remote. Meanwhile there are love and compassion. Constantly obstructed. But, oh, let them be made indefatigable, implacable to surmount all obstacles, the inner sloth, the distaste, the intellectual scorn; and, from without, the other’s aversions and suspicions. Affection, compassion – and also, meanwhile, this contemplative approach, this effort to realize the unity of lives and being with the intellect, and at last, perhaps, intuitively in an act of complete understanding. From one argument to another, step by step, towards a consummation where there is no more discourse, only experience, only unmediated knowledge, as of a colour, a perfume, a musical sound. Step by step towards the experience of being no longer wholly separate, but united at the depths with other lives, with the rest of being. United in peace. In peace, he repeated, in peace, in peace. In the depth of every mind, peace. The same peace for all, continuous between mind and mind. At the surface, the separate waves, the whirlpools, the spray; but below them the continuous and undifferentiated expanse of sea, becoming calmer as it deepens, till at last there is an absolute stillness. Dark peace in the depths. A dark peace that is the same for all who can descend to it. Peace that by a strange paradox is the substance and source of the storm at the surface. Born of peace, the waves yet destroy peace; destroy it, but are necessary; for without the storm on the surface there would be no existence, no knowledge of goodness, no effort to allay the leaping frenzy of evil, no rediscovery of the underlying calm, no realization that the substance of the frenzy is the same as the substance of peace. Frenzy of evil and separation. In peace there is unity. Unity with other lives. Unity with all being. For beneath all being, beneath the countless identical but separate patterns, beneath the attractions and repulsions, lies peace. The same peace as underlies the frenzy of the mind. Dark peace, immeasurably deep. Peace from pride and hatred and anger, peace from cravings and aversions, peace from all the separating frenzies. Peace through liberation, for peace is achieved freedom. Freedom and at the same time truth. The truth of unity actually experienced. Peace in the depths, under the storm, far down below the leaping of the waves, the frantically flying spray. Peace in this profound subaqueous night, peace in this silence, this still emptiness where there is no more time, where there are no more images, no more words. Nothing but the experience of peace; peace as a dark void beyond all personal life, and yet itself a form of life more intense, for all its diffuseness, for all the absence of aim or desire, richer and of finer quality than ordinary life. Peace beyond peace, focused at first, brought together, then opening out in a kind of boundless space. Peace at the tip, as it were, of a narrowing cone of concentration and elimination, a cone with its base in the distractions of the heaving surface of life and its point in the underlying darkness. And in the darkness the tip of one cone meets the tip of another; and, from a single, focal point, peace expands and expands towards a base immeasurably distant and so wide that its circle is the ground and source of all light, all being. Cone reversed from the broken and shifting light of the surface; cone reversed and descending to a point of concentrated darkness; thence, in another cone, expanding and expanding through the darkness towards, yes! some other light, steady, untroubled, as utterly calm as the darkness out of which it emerges. Cone reversed into cone upright. Passage from wide stormy light to the still focus of darkness; and thence, beyond the focus, through widening darkness into another light. From storm to calm and on through yet profounder and intenser peace to the final consummation, the ultimate light that is the source and substance of all things; source of the darkness, the void, the submarine night of living calm; source finally of the waves and the frenzy of the spray – forgotten now. For now there is only the darkness expanding and deepening, deepening into light; there is only this final peace, this consciousness of being no more separate, this illumination . . . The clock struck seven. Slowly and cautiously he allowed himself to lapse out of the light, back through the darkness into the broken gleams and shadows of everyday existence. He rose at last and went to the kitchen to prepare himself some food. There was not much time; the meeting was at eight, and it would take him a good halfhour to reach the hall. He put a couple of eggs to boil, and sat down meanwhile to bread and cheese. Dispassionately, and with a serene lucidity, he thought of what was in store for him. Whatever it might be, he knew now that all would be well

==

CHAPTER XLVIII 48

July 23rd 1914

ANTHONY HAD DOZED off again after being called, and was late for

breakfast. As he entered the little living-room, Brian looked up

with startled eyes and, as though guiltily, folded away the letter

he had been reading into his pocket, but not before Anthony had

recognized from across the room the unmistakable characteristics of

Joan’s rather heavy and elaborately looped writing. Putting a

specially casual note of cheeriness into his good-morning, he sat

down and proceeded to busy himself elaborately, as though it were a

complicated scientific process requiring the whole of his attention,

with pouring out his coffee.

‘Should I tell him?’ he was wondering. ‘Yes, I ought to tell him. It

ought to come from me, even though he does know it already. Bloody

girl! Why couldn’t she keep her promise?’ He felt righteously

indignant with Joan. Breaking her word! And what the devil had she

told Brian? What would happen if his own story was different from

hers? And anyhow, what a fool he would look, confessing now, when it

was too late. She had robbed him of the opportunity, the very

possibility, of telling Brian what had happened. The woman had

queered his pitch; and as his anger modulated into self-pity, he

perceived himself as a man full of good intentions, maliciously

prevented, at the eleventh hour, from putting them into practice.

She had stopped his mouth just as he was about to speak the words

that would have explained and made amends for everything; and by

doing so, she had made his situation absolutely intolerable. How the

devil did she expect him to behave towards Brian, now that Brian

knew? He answered the question, so far, at any rate, as the next few

minutes were concerned, by retiring behind the Manchester Guardian.

Hidden, he pretended, while he ate his scrambled eggs, to be taking

a passionate interest in all this stuff about Russia and Austria and

Germany. But the silence, as it lengthened out, became at last

intolerable.

‘This war business looks rather bad,’ he said at last, without

lowering his barricade.

From the other end of the table Brian made a faint murmur of assent.

Seconds passed. Then there was the noise of a chair being pushed

back. Anthony sat there, a man so deeply preoccupied with the

Russian mobilization that he wasn’t aware of what was going on in

his immediate neighbourhood. It was only when Brian had actually

opened the door that he started ostentatiously into consciousness.

‘Off already?’ he questioned, half turning, but not so far that he

could see the other’s face.

‘I d-don’t think I shall g-go out this m-morning.’

Anthony nodded approvingly, like a family doctor. ‘That’s good,’ he

said, and added that he himself proposed to hire a bicycle in the

village and nip down to Ambleside. There were some things he had to

buy. ‘See you at lunch-time,’ he concluded.

Brian said nothing. The door closed behind him.

By a quarter to one Anthony had returned his borrowed bicycle and

was walking up the hill to the cottage. This time it was settled,

definitely, once and for all. He would tell Brian everything –

almost everything, the very moment he came in.

‘Brian!’ he called from the doorstep.

There was no answer.

‘Brian!’

The kitchen door opened, and old Mrs Benson, who did their cooking

and cleaning, stepped out into the narrow hall. Mr Foxe, she

explained, had started for a walk about half an hour before;

wouldn’t be back for lunch, he had said, but had wanted (would you

believe it?) to set off without anything to eat; she had made him

take some sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg.

It was with a sense of inner discomfort that Anthony sat down to his

solitary lunch. Brian had deliberately avoided him; therefore must

be angry – or worse, it occurred to him, was hurt – too deeply to be

able to bear his presence. The thought made him wince; to hurt

people was so horrible, so hurting even to the hurter. And if Brian

came back from his walk magnanimously forgiving – and knowing him,

Anthony felt convinced that he would – what then? It was also

painful to be forgiven; particularly painful in the case of an

offence one had not oneself confessed. ‘If only I could have told

him,’ he kept repeating to himself, ‘if only I could have told him’;

and almost contrived to persuade himself that he had been prevented.

After lunch he walked up into the wild country behind the cottage,

hoping (for it was now so urgently necessary to speak), and at the

same time (since the speaking would be such an agonizing process)

profoundly fearing, to meet Brian. But he met nobody. Resting on the

crest of the hill, he managed for a little while to forget his

troubles in sarcasms at the expense of the view. So typically and

discreditably English, he reflected, wishing that Mary were there to

listen to his comments. Mountain, valleys, lakes, but on the

pettiest scale. Miserably small and hole-and-cornery, like English

cottage architecture – all ingle-nooks and charming features;

nothing fine or grandiose. No hint of thirteen-century megalomania

or baroque gesticulation. A snug, smug little sublimity. It was

almost in high spirits that he started his descent.

No, said old Mrs Benson, Mr Foxe hadn’t yet come back.

He had his tea alone, then sat on a deck-chair on the lawn and read

de Gourmont on style. At six, Mrs Benson came out, and after

elaborately explaining that she had laid the table and that the cold

mutton was in the larder, wished him good-evening and walked away

down the road towards her own cottage.

Soon afterwards the midges began to bite and he went indoors. The

little bird in the Swiss clock opened its door, cuckooed seven times

and retired again into silence. Anthony continued to read about

style. Half an hour later the bird popped out for a single cry. It

was supper-time. Anthony rose and walked to the back door. Behind

the cottage the hill was bright with an almost supernatural

radiance. There was no sign of Brian. He returned to the sittingroom, and for a change read some Santayana. The cuckoo uttered eight

shrill hiccoughs. Above the orange stain of sunset the evening

planet was already visible. He lit the lamp and drew the curtains.

Then, sitting down again, he tried to go on reading Santayana; but

those carefully smoothed pebbles of wisdom rolled over the surface

of his mind without making the smallest impression. He shut the book

at last. The cuckoo announced that it was half-past eight.

An accident, he was wondering, could the fellow have had an

accident? But, after all, people don’t have accidents – not when

they’re out for a quiet walk. A new thought suddenly came to him,

and at once the very possibility of twisted ankles or broken legs

disappeared. That walk – he felt completely certain of it now – had

been to the station. Brian was in the train, on his way to London,

on his way to Joan. It was obvious, when one came to think of it; it

simply couldn’t be otherwise.

‘Christ!’ Anthony said aloud in the solitude of the little room.

Then, made cynical and indifferent by the very hopelessness of the

situation, he shrugged his shoulders and, lighting a candle, went

out to the larder to fetch the cold mutton.

This time, he decided, as he ate his meal, he really would escape.

Just bolt into hiding till things looked better. He felt no

compunction. Brian’s journey to London had relieved him, in his own

estimation, of any further responsibility in the matter; he felt

that he was now free to do whatever suited him best.

In preparation for his flight, he went upstairs after supper and

began to pack his bag. The recollection that he had lent Brian The

Wife of Sir Isaac Harman to red in bed sent him, candle in hand,

across the landing. On the chest of drawers in Brian’s room three

envelopes stood conspicuously propped against the wall. Two, he

could see from the doorway, were stamped, the other was unstamped.

He crossed the room to look at them more closely. The unstamped

envelope was addressed to himself, the others to Mrs Foxe and Joan

respectively. He set down the candle, took the envelope addressed to

himself, and tore it open. A vague but intense apprehension had

filled his mind, a fear of something unknown, something he dared not

know. He stood there for a long time holding the open envelope in

his hand and listening to the heavy pulse of his own blood. Then,

coming at last to a decision, he extracted the folded sheets. There

were two of them, one in Brian’s writing, the other in Joan’s.

Across the top of Joan’s letter Brian had written: ‘Read this for

yourself.’ He read.

‘DEAREST BRIAN, – By this time Anthony will have told you what has

happened. And, you know, it did just happen – from outside, if you

see what I mean, like an accident, like being run into by a train. I

certainly hadn’t thought about it before, and I don’t think Anthony

had – not really; the discovery that we loved one another just ran

into us, ran over us. There wasn’t any question of us doing it on

purpose. That’s why I don’t feel guilty. Sorry, yes – more than

words can say – for the pain I know I shall give you. Ready to do

all I can to make it less. Asking forgiveness for hurting you. But

not feeling guilty, not feeling I’ve treated you dishonourably. I

should only feel that if I had done it deliberately; but I didn’t. I

tell you, it just happened to me – to us both. Brian dear, I’m

unspeakably sorry to be hurting you. You of all people. If it were a

matter of doing it with intention, I couldn’t do it. No more than

you could have hurt me intentionally. But this thing has just

happened, in the same way as it just happened that you hurt me

because of that fear that you’ve always had of love. You didn’t want

to hurt me, but you did; you couldn’t help it. The impulse that made

you hurt me ran into you, ran over you, like this impulse of love

that has run into me and Anthony. I don’t think it’s anybody’s

fault, Brian. We had bad luck. Everything ought to have been so good

and beautiful. And then things happened to us – to you first, so

that you had to hurt me; then to me. Later on, perhaps, we can still

be friends. I hope so. That’s why I’m not saying good-bye to you,

Brian dear. Whatever happens, I am always your loving friend,

JOAN.’

In the effort to keep up his self-esteem and allay his profound

disquietude, Anthony forced himself to think with distaste of the

really sickening style in which this kind of letter was generally

written. A branch of pulpit oratory, he concluded, and tried to

smile to himself. But it was no good. His face refused to do what he

asked of it. He dropped Joan’s letter and reluctantly picked up the

other sheet in Brian’s handwriting.

‘DEAR A., – I enclose the letter I received this morning from Joan.

Read it; it will save me explaining. How could he have done it?

That’s the question I’ve been asking myself all the morning; and now

I put it to you. How could you? Circumstances may have run over her

– like a train, as she says. And that, I know, was my fault. But

they couldn’t have run over you. You’ve told me quite enough about

yourself and Mary Amberley to make it quite clear that there could

be no question in your case of poor Joan’s train. Why did you do it?

And why did you come here and behave as though nothing had happened?

How could you sit there and let me talk about my difficulties with

Joan and pretend to be sympathetic, when a couple of evenings before

you had been giving her the kisses I wasn’t able to give? God knows,

I’ve done all manner of bad and stupid things in the course of my

life, told all manner of lies; but I honestly don’t think I could

have done what you have done. I didn’t think anybody could have done

it. I suppose I’ve been living in a sort of fool’s paradise all

these years, thinking the world was a place where this sort of thing

simply couldn’t happen. A year ago I might have known how to deal

with the discovery that it can happen. Not now. I know that, if I

tried, I should just break down into some kind of madness. This last

year has strained me more than I knew. I realize now that I’m all

broken to pieces inside, and that I’ve been holding myself together

by a continuous effort of will. It’s as if a broken statue somehow

contrived to hold itself together. And now this has finished it. I

can’t hold any more. I know if I were to see you now – and it’s not

because I feel that you’ve done something you shouldn’t have done;

it would be the same with anyone, even my mother – yes, if I were to

see anyone who had ever meant anything to me, I should just break

down and fall to bits. A statue at one moment, and the next a heap

of dust and shapeless fragments. I can’t face it. Perhaps I ought

to; but I simply can’t. I was angry with you when I began to write

this letter, I hated you; but now I find I don’t hate you any

longer. God bless you,

Anthony put the two letters and the torn envelope in his pocket,

and, picking up the two stamped envelopes and the candle, made his

way downstairs to the sitting-room. Half an hour later, he went to

the kitchen, and in the range, which was still smouldering, set fire

one by one to all the papers that Brian had left behind him. The two

unopened envelopes with their closely folded contents burnt slowly,

had to be constantly relighted; but at last it was done. With the

poker he broke the charred paper into dust, stirred up the fire to a

last flame and drew the round cover back into place. Then he walked

out into the garden and down the steps to the road. On the way to

the village it suddenly struck him that he would never be able to

see Mary again. She would question him, she would worm the truth out

of him, and having wormed it out, would proclaim it to the world.

Besides, would he even want to see her again now that Brian

had . . . He could not bring himself to say the words even to

himself. ‘Christ!’ he said aloud. At the entrance to the village he

halted for a few moments to think what he should say when he knocked

up the policeman. ‘My friend’s lost . . . My friend has been out all

day and . . . I’m worried about my friend . . .’ Anything would do;

he hurried on, only anxious to get it over.

우리는 무엇을 해야 하는가 | 올더스 헉슬리 1936

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책소개*우리는 무엇을 해야 하는가
(What are you going to do about it)
(건설적 평화를 위한 제언)

이 책은 전쟁의 필연성을 비판하고, 비폭력에 기반한 ‘건설적 평화’의 가능성을 논증한 에세이다. 그는 인간의 행동이 감정·의지·이성의 균형 속에서 이루어져야 한다고 보고, 단순한 평화 감정만으로는 전쟁을 막을 수 없다고 지적한다. 특히 전쟁은 정의나 진보를 가져오기보다 증오와 보복을 낳아 결국 더 큰 전쟁으로 이어진다고 비판한다.
헉슬리는 폭력 대신 비폭력 저항과 예방적 평화 전략이 실제 역사에서도 효과를 보여 왔다고 주장하며, 개인과 사회가 이를 의식적으로 선택해야 한다고 강조한다. 또한 전쟁의 원인을 경제나 정치 구조만으로 환원하지 않고, 인간 내부의 증오와 이기심에서도 찾는다. 따라서 평화는 제도 개혁뿐 아니라 개인의 윤리적 실천과 삶의 방식 변화에서 시작된다고 본다.
결국 이 책은 “전쟁을 반대할 것인가”가 아니라 “당신은 무엇을 해야 하는가”라는 실천적 질문을 던지며, 조직적이고 적극적인 평화 운동의 필요성을 제시하는 사상적 선언문이라 할 수 있다.

목차
머리말
서문
제1장 전쟁은 자연의 법칙인가
제2장 인간은 싸우는 동물인가
제3장 전쟁은 최적자를 선택하는가
제4장 전쟁은 정책의 필연적 수단인가
제5장 사회 질서는 오직 폭력으로 유지되는가
제6장 전쟁은 덕성의 학교인가
제7장 평화주의는 실효성이 있는가: 비폭력 저항의 기술
제8장 교회와 전쟁: 예수는 무엇을 가르쳤는가
제9장 전쟁의 원인은 경제에 있는가
제10장 현재의 위기에 평화주의는 어떻게 작동하는가
제11장 재무장은 평화를 가져오는가
제12장 건설적 평화주의자는 지금 무엇을 해야 하는가

2026/07/01

이홍필 Self, World, and Language: Robert Lowell's Life Studies

Self, World, and Language: Robert Lowell's Life Studies | 이홍필 | 알라딘


Self, World, and Language: Robert Lowell's Life Studies 
이홍필 (지은이)



166쪽
===
책소개

로월의 작품들을 불란서 현대 철학자이자 심리학자인 메를로 뽕띠의 현상학을 통해서 접근, 분석한 로월 시 연구서.


목차

Preface ⅴ

Chapter 1. Introduction 1
1. Life Studies and Contemporary American Literature 1
2. Socio-Cultural Background of Mid-Century American Poetry 10
3. Theoretical Preparation 21
Chapter 2. From the “City of God” to the “City of Man” 35
Chapter 3. The Self Incarcerated in the Family 57
Chapter 4. The Self Remapped in the World 92
Chapter 5. Madness, Tranquilization, and the Self 122
Chapter 6. “Skunk Hour”: Completing Life Studies 152

Bibliography 162

===
책속에서


Introduction

1. Life Studies and Contemporary American Poetry

Robert Lowell’s Life Studies opens with the poet “On the train from Rome to Paris,” which implies Lowell’s metaphorical journey to locate his self in the world. The opening poem “Beyond the Alps” outlines the direction of that poetic tour: the quest for his suffering self---“the blear-eyed ego.” By putting his private situation into a broad historical and geographical context, Lowell seeks to investigate the perimeters of his life in self-revealed language. Put another way, Lowell explores his inner self by displaying his private experiences on to the external world. Lowell pushes his private past into these poems by unreservedly disclosing his family’s shame and humiliation as well as his own madness and imprisonment. In this confrontation with the demons of his life, Lowell relies exclusively upon his own perceptions, without recourse to any transcendental reality or to the concept of an intangible deity. Most important, such a downright engagement with autobiographical data shows that the poet intends to put his whole life into question, thereby identifying his presence in the world.
Such overt self-expression---placing the self in the center of poetry, as M. L. Rosenthal has suggested---was like a reformation in the history of American poetry. James E. Miller identifies “the two poles of American poetry” in Whitman and Eliot, and remarks that “the Eliot dominance” inaugurated by The Waste Land (1922) began to “wane by the late 1950s and continued to fade in the 1960s.” Indeed, Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems (1956) offered American Poetry a new paradigm. In some sense, too, Robert Lowell’s Life Studies (1959) hastened the end of the Pound-Eliot era in terms of its poetic themes and styles. The revolutionary experiment of the mid-century poetry was undeniably against “an orthodoxy” which “derived from the authority of T. S. Eliot and the new critics.” Although many mid-century American poets were schooled under the influence of modernist poetics, later, when they came into their own, some of them fashioned an anti-modernist mode of poetics under which poems like The Waste Land or Cantos were inconceivable. Allen Tate’s comment on Life Studies (“. . . it’s not poetry”), for instance, draws a distinctive borderline between modernist poetry and the poetry since the 1950s.
What, then, was the modernism that contemporary American poets went against? To answer the question, it is necessary to take a brief look at the basic credo of the modernism which dominated literary movements in the first half of this century. Since the appearance of Eliot’s essays “Tradition and the Individual Talent” (1917) and “Hamlet and His Problems” (1919), poetry as escape from personality became one primary element of the modernist poetic fashion. In “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” Eliot sets out an “impersonal theory of poetry” which emphasizes the importance of personality and emotions in the poet and yet argues for an escape from personality as the key prerequisite for poetry. The artist’s escape from personality is to be achieved through a process of transmutation. To explain how the poet’s mind works in the act of creation, Eliot uses a chemical analogy: if oxygen and sulphur dioxide are combined with platinum, they produce sulphurous acid; yet the platinum itself remains intact and the new gas does not contain any traces of platinum. That is, the good poet, through an artistic process, ought to conceal one’s personal voice or purely private impressions behind a poetic persona; likewise, the good critic must seek a certain objectivity by focusing on the work itself rather than on the poet. In his essay on Hamlet, Eliot speaks of the actual transformation of emotion:
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an “objective correlative”; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.
(original italics)
It is the objective correlative that alters personal emotion into “the form of art.” Thus, elements that can be identified with the artist’s biography get transmuted in the process of creation and emerge only as the personality of the work itself.
Similarly, Ezra Pound talks about the reductions of emotions in art in his formulation of the imagist project: “Emotion, seizing upon some external scene or action, carries it in fact to the mind; that vortex purges it of all save the essential dominant or dramatic qualities and it emerges like the external original.” For Pound, writing poetry is the process in which the poet, denying any kind of personal interpretation of the external object, creates a concrete language to represent the world through a linguistic technique. Take “In a Station of the Metro” for example; this poem purges all emotions from its denotative, succinct language. For modernist poets like Eliot and Pound, molding their personal experiences into objective language was the goal. The Eliot-Pound poetics firmly established the objectification of poetry in their reworking of personal experiences. Since they stressed impersonality and objectivity through a wide knowledge of classical literature and “high intelligence,” poetry tended to be intellectual, allusive and highly indirect. They turned to classical mythology for literary experience and looked to French Symbolist poetry and Metaphysical poetry for their use of irony, wit, and conceit. As a result, what readers of their poetry needed was not biographical knowledge of the poets but a sophisticated knowledge of classical literature and the literary conventions of previous ages.
As Robert Bly observes, modernist poets had “more trust in the objective, outer world than in the inner world.” Indeed, they projected their emotion or inner vision into the outer world by using external objects or events---Eliot’s “objective correlative.” Although to a lesser degree than Pound and Eliot, William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens also avoided the direct involvement of their personal experience in their poems. Williams eradicates private experiences by projecting them into external objects, and Stevens fictionalizes himself in the working of the imagnation. Consequently, there remains only a very small amount of the poet’s autobiographical self in the poems.
Just as Pound and Eliot broke from Victorian modes of poetry in the early twentieth century, so poets in the 1950s fashioned a poetics that revolted against their predecessors. Their most conspicuous revolt consists in the direct treatment of their autobiographical facts and the explicit revelation of the self in their poetry. In Cry of the Human, Ralph J. Mills, Jr. observes the tendency toward self-creation in contemporary poetry:
The contemporary poet re-creates himself as a personality, an identifiable self within his poetry, that is, of course, a self who has been selected and heightened in the process, captured in essence, and so is not perhaps a full likeness of the author as a physical, workday person outside the poem yet could not be mistaken for someone else. . . . [w]e recognize a certain maganimous gesture in their acts of creation, a profoundly touching and human gesture through which the poet voluntarily stands exposed as “creation’s very self” before us. (ellipsis mine)
Unlike poets in the 1920s who hid themselves behind language and tradition, many poets since the fifties, preferring personal experiences to tradition, have embraced autobiography as a major theme in their poetry. Instead of relying on classical literature, contemporary poets have sought to build a mythology out of their own experiences in the world. As Marjorie Perloff remarks, Lowell “creates a mythology out of his own life and those of his friends, relatives, or historical counterparts.” Similarly, John Berryman, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath come closest to M. L. Rosenthal’s term “Confessional Poets” in that the poets themselves become the speakers in their poems, and their private experiences of madness, failure, and alienation become the subjects of their poetry.
As the mode of poetic themes altered, mid-century American poets adopted a technique different from the poets of the 1920s and 1930s. Unlike their predecessors, the poets in the 1950s tried to grasp the immediacy of daily experiences and transform them into art, a process that demanded a new creative apparatus. James E. B. Breslin, for example, elaborates on the radical change of theories and practices of poetic form the period saw:
During this time, in fact, the Beats, the Confessional poets, the Black Mountain, New York, and Deep Image groups proposed a range of alternatives to the established mode, and they provided the leading sources of the new paradigms for poetry that became visible in the late fifties and early sixties. These clusters of poets differed from each other in fundamental ways and in some instances were mutually antagonistic; but they agreed in their renunciation of the well-made symbolist poem and in their search for poetic forms that could capture temporal immediacy, for the language of a breakthrough back into life. (emphasis mine)
The demands of self-revelation and promptness of personal experience in the new poetry could not be met by the conventional poetic forms which stressed, among other things, precise prosody of rhyme and meter. Mid-century American poets had therefore to reject the complex techniques of modernist poetry in favor of themes and techniques which accommodated the self and private experience. In the formulation of this revolutionary poetics, Lowell’s Life Studies was an influential and pioneering text. Life Studies’ prose and poetry, expressing a variety of modes with the self as the work’s articulating center, was revolting less than revolutionary in the fifties and was hardly able to be written in the modernist poetics of Eliot, Pound, Tate and Ransom.  접기



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