Introduction to SOLOMONS DREAM

Solomons Dream, as the final volume of a four-novel cycle

relating the life of Richard Butler, marks the culmination of
21 years of artistic endeavour. What has been achieved here,
the apotheosis of a modern hero, was possible only through a
curious concatenation of coincidences or serendipities.
Some of this material had been gathered, for other reasons,
during the 1980s, while significant sections had to be
worked out on the fly during the writing of SD in the latter
half of 1991.

SOLOMONS DREAM Summary

The novel is a love story inspired by a curious feature of the
life of King Solomon, that though granted the power to
understand man he is later condemned for worshipping the
god of his wives. The story is set in the West Country and
concerns an Irish writer, Richard Butler, escaping London
and a failed relationship, who becomes involved with what
seems at first a literary coterie but which turns out to be a
magic circle intent upon the salvation of a culture. Knowing
that magic requires a sacrifice of love, Butler tries to protect
the likely victim, only to find himself, through his love for
Louise Grainger, the daughter of the hidden master of the
circle, intended as the sacerdos of the operation. There ensues
2

a struggle between the magicians and Richard and Louise,

pitting the truth of art against the corruptions of will, that
leads the couple to undertake a counter-work of love, an act
of purgation intended to define the only possible basis for the
regeneration of a corrupted world.
The novel is not an indulgent fantasy, characterisation and
the rendering of situations and events are kept within the
bounds of conventional realism. Some sections convey
imaginative experiences, extensively in the latter half of the
novel; these are realised without straining the credulity of the
reader (1) by careful preparation of contexts in the first half
of the work and (2) by having Butler narrate the work as a
journal, which permits the use a range of techniques to
juxtapose and overlap different levels of experience. There
are, unavoidably, some rebarbative elements, but an attempt
is made to redeem these by careful attention to
characterisation and motivation, and by the employment of
humour, black and not so dark, and, most of all, by insight.
SOLOMONS DREAM is 126,000 words long.

SOLOMONS DREAM

PHILIP MATTHEWS

Philip Matthews 1991

To Mirn
Writing in your absence.

Dynamical things are generally counterintuitive, and

the heart is no exception.
Arthur T Winfree

NOTEBOOK ONE
9 June BRISTOL
It was in the park.
I turned to Louise and behind her head I saw the
shadow under the trees and felt a new fear, almost terror.
Louise said, uncharacteristically, We wont have rain, will
we? And I heard the Stones singing Have you seen your
mother, baby, standing in the shadows.
I left Angie and came down here about 3 months ago.
That was my first response to reading what I had written. I
dont think I ever loved her. Not even affection. She was hard
to like, at least later. The sheer charm of the young is easy to
like.
Why the bitterness. Rita is bitter. But she has a rising
quality in her. The femme fatale. Like a flame to a moth,
shining. The charm of the young. Yes. God yes. It wasnt
terror. With the fear came recognition.
10 June
I came down to Bristol giving five days to find a flat or
get stuck in London for ever. I found this place on the fifth
day, exhausted. You go to Clifton for the first look round. A
poetry group in a pub on the Square. It was a basement room
6

full of very intent people. A reading had just finished, I think.

Then someone said You promised, Louise. Now please
read. Then this sulky young woman went up the room. She
had red hair, long, and a pure white skin. Her face was like
the moon, only alive. She read clearly, and with a conviction
that showed as purpose, what I afterwards discovered to be a
Greek magical chant:
Greetings, entire edifice of the Spirit of the air;
Greetings, Spirit that penetrates from heaven to earth,
and from earth, which abides in the midst of the abyss;
Greetings, Spirit that penetrates into me, and shakes
me, and parts from me in goodness according to Gods will.
Greetings, beginning and end of irremovable Nature;
Greetings thou who resolves the elements which
untiring render service.
Greetings, brightly sun, whose radiance ministers to
the world;
Greetings, moon shining by night with disk of fickle
brilliance;
Greetings, all you spirits of the demons of the air;
Greetings, you for whom the Greeting is offered in
praise, brothers and sisters, devout men and women.
O great, greatest, incomprehensible fabric of the
world, formed in a circle!
Heavenly One, dwelling in the heavens, aetherial
spirit, dwelling in the aether,
knowing the form of water, of earth, of fire, of wind,
7

of light, of darkness, star-glittering, damp-fiery-cold

Spirit!
I praise thee, God of Gods, who has fashioned the
world,
who has established the depths upon the invisible
support of their firm foundations,
who has separated heaven and earth,
and has encompassed the heavens with golden, eternal
wings, and founded the earth upon eternal bases,
who has hung the aether high above the earth,
who has scattered the air with the self-moving wind,
who has laid the waters round about,
who calls forth the tempests, the thunder, the lightning,
the rain:
Destroyer, Begetter of living things,
God of the Aeons, great their art,
Lord, God, Ruler of All!
She made at least one mistake. Instead of praise, she
said pleas or maybe please. No clues from her tone. She
knew what she was doing. Yes, she did. I realise that only
now. But she didnt know I was in the room. They were
pleased and it set them talking, so intently. I have never seen
a group so at peace. Even Louise was chatting, with good
gestures. She wore a long white gown, chosen for the
performance, but that didnt stop me. She was hysterical,
which made her outgoing. She was highly sexed, with
remarkable awareness of the physical. But you could see she
was afraid of sexuality. Just like Angie? No, Angie hasnt
8

that sensitive awareness. Then she turned and looked at me.

Her look said she knew and would keep her distance. I must
have looked shocked; her expression opened. Her eyes were
blue. I looked away, of course. And so did she.
I went each week. She always became aware of me
immediately; you could see that in the slight jolt of her body.
A flaring body, always clad in dark tights, even in the hottest
weather. I saw Simon once ask her how high they went and
lift her skirt. She screamed and slanged him until he called
her a bimbo. She always turned around at some stage and
stared at me.
On the fourth visit, Simon came and asked me if I was
new. I said yes, that I had recently come down from London.
That set us chatting about London, and then London and
Bristol. We bought each other a round. Taller than me, about
twenty seven, a mixture of deference and irony. The curl of
his lip wasnt intentional. After a while I wondered why he
was spending so much time with me. He wasnt homosexual.
It was late in the evening before I realised I hadnt looked for
Louise. She didnt look at me that night. Simon suddenly
said, Damn. Is it that late? and asked me if I wanted to go
somewhere else. I said yes immediately. Chatting with him
was fun.
He suggested I leave my car in Clifton and he would
drive me back afterwards. He lived nearby. He drove down in
silence to the one-way streets of the city centre. It was a club,
earnest bouncers on the door. Waved through at once. Going
in Simon said to me, I want to meet someone here. She was
about nineteen and liked looking up at Simon. And he was
different, syrup in his tone. He could do it very well. Perhaps
how he wants to be. Like
9

11 June
Louise came out by bus, which meant of course that I
would drive her back. Says she cant stand driving up the hill.
Sometimes she likes the bus journey; sometimes she loathes
it. Certain kinds of people send her wild. She hates being
played up to. Seeing the notebook and pencil she asked me if
I was writing another novel. I said no, they were just notes.
About what?
Not a novel, anyway.
She didnt think much of that and gave me the familiar
introduction, Why isnt there a phone in this place? I like
her a lot when she says that. It ravishes her. Then to business.
Then I feel so far from her. And I know she feels something
like that too. Rita is going to try one of her evenings again.
Shed be over the moon if it worked. Youll do that for her,
Richard, wont you. The tone of this was deliberately
ambiguous. She doesnt get on with Rita: shes jealous of her
in a way that puzzles her. And yet I think she wanted it to
work. It did work to a point but that was only because Rita
thought I was making it work. She was thrilled and everyone
was very nice to her. She talked a lot she doesnt chat. She
looked more than ever the Country and Western dream: the
woman in the tight skirt in the all-night caff. I heard her
asking Alvin if thinking was real. She has obviously read the
letter carefully. Alvin got so excited that he kept touching the
small of her back. Men really like her. Their eyes on her, not
focused, jumping from place to place. And she always stares
at them with her dark spaniel eyes. Short sighted. Always
into the face. Except once. The first time I met her, when I
10

stood up, she involuntarily looked down at my genitals. I

looked at her breasts and she turned her head to the right so I
could look.
It was nice to be in the room with her, knowing she
was having a success. I looked forward to talking to her. Seen
from the distance, she looks deeply fatigued, a stoop already
in her shoulders. But the warmth I feel when I speak to her is
pure chemistry. Shes like a child perpetually reaching for
something and each time it has been snatched away from her.
On the Tor she told me she wanted to know. I told her the
truth in the letter. But before she could come, Jonas talked to
me about New Jerusalem. I can follow the geometry in the
book he loaned me, but I dont see the idea expanding. Thats
because Jerusalem has walls. Jonas cant grasp that, or rather,
that ideas grow if you let them. Whats the geometry of a
garden? Yet how the idea grows. And its never a memory of
an actual garden the memory will become ideal. Im afraid I
did carp at Jonas theory. That was in part because I was
jealous of Alvin and all the others that Rita spoke to. I wanted
Rita to myself, even though a sense of complicated disaster
hangs over her. To touch her would be to anchor something
final and beautiful. I have experienced this before, but never
have I had such awareness of its meaning. To touch is a
means to an end, like all sensibility; now I can see it as an
end in itself, but an end opening on to another knowledge.
I excused myself from Jonas at an opportune moment
and went over to Louise and asked her, rhetorically, how she
thought the evening was going. The irony in her eyes told me
she thought she was the cause of the success. She was
wearing a plain dress that revealed her padded, strong body.
Before we could chat, the venerable Edward came up, hardly
11

noticing me, put his arm around her shoulder and drew her
away. Off-balance, I turned, seeing the familiar crack in the
facade. The more we project, the more clear is the emptiness
inside us. That emptiness is so constant and invariant. I try to
attend to it at moments like this, but there is nothing to attend
to.
Rita had her luminous blind gaze on me. I went over
and asked her if she could see me at that distance. She
surprised me by pretending she could. When she knew I saw
her pretence, she admitted in her clipped London voice that I
was a bit hazy. I relented. She had known who she was
looking at. For once she wasnt wearing one of the little black
numbers that Louise jeers. A tight striped skirt and a moodyred shirt with a buoyant collar that looked fresh on her. Her
figure is not good, angular and underweight, but her thighs
suited the skirt. Her breasts are padded, Im sure; they are too
high and stiff for a mother of two of her age. Her eyes were
as settled as always but they were also dancing with light. I
wanted to talk to her about chemistry. She is the first English
woman to stimulate that in me. But Peter came and joined us,
his nimble charm capturing us. He should be an ageing hippy
with granny glasses and thinning red hair tied back. Instead,
he is a finance director with a reputation for having worked
off-shore tricks in the Bahamas. Surprisingly at the time, he
concentrated on me. I could see Rita fade and I reminded
myself then, and do so again now, to tell her that Peter likes
her, but that he would reveal something about himself if he
showed it. Though he has cultivated charm fairly thoroughly,
his ruthlessness is still dogged, which makes me think that his
mother nagged and worried him into ambition. He persisted
until he prised Rita and I apart. I could see Rita fall back on
12

her determination, retreat silently, and I searched her eyes

until they focused on mine and then I gazed for as long as I
could.
Louise told Peter about these notes and he wants me to
give a reading. I laughed with distracted exasperation and
told him I had only started them last night (Saturday night.
The party was Sunday. Im writing this Monday morning in
bed.) He tightened his mouth, not liking that. Then would I
read from one of my novels. I should try someday to explain
that they are not my novels. I am the husk these novels have
left. (I like that. But its not true. They have left me a measure
of privacy. The novels are not mine because I have gone
beyond them.) I told Peter I never read from my work
because it makes no sense to me, because the effect of any
part of the work is part of the whole effect. He didnt grasp
that, just clung to his doggedness. I could see that he was
prepared to coax me, then he decided not to. He was afraid of
me. No. Intimidated is the word. I looked around the large
room. The trees in the little square outside were blowing in
the south-west breeze and another shower was coming up.
There were no lights on in the room so the sunlight at the
window flared brilliantly. Edward and Louise were framed in
the window, Louises body jutting at the groin and hips. She
keeps those orifices tightly shut. I dont want to touch Louise
in the way I want to touch Rita. Touching Louise is like
touching a trapped animal. To touch Rita will be to find
beauty that bears a heavy price-tag. My only fear, in fact the
real terrible fear, is that I may only find a wrecked cockney
looking for terminal support, for then I would see my own
terminus.
13

I searched for Rita in the crowd. She was sitting by the

table with her hands on her exposed knees listening to Simon,
who leaned forward across the angle of the table separating
them. He was unusually earnest. Rita is his step-mother of
sorts. Her two sons live with their respective fathers. Her
present husband, her third, Simons father, and Louises, by
another woman, lives somewhere on the outskirts of London.
She either didnt understand what Simon was telling her or
she wasnt interested. She seemed bewildered even. She may
find him too different, lacking in purpose or need that she
could recognise, acting as though he was about something
when he was only clinging. Most men in the group are like
that that: detached and drifting in their minds. The few
women, mostly quite old, are more like Louise than Rita. I
avoid them when I can: they have nothing to lose. Rita was
slightly hunched, hands on her knees, guarding her
determination. I may be prejudiced, but I dont think she is a
social climber. She pursues what she believes is a good for
her. Marrying an accountant must seem a step in the right
direction, and she does try to live up to it.
Peter brought me a drink and I decided to try out what
I had discovered about Graves. He waited while I sipped the
wine. He knew I would give a reading.
When do you want it? This he had decided already.
How his desire and my disposition dovetailed.
The week after next, Richard. John is down to talk
about the structure of fairytales next week. He looks
furtively to his left, a habit he seems unaware of. He works
two frames of reference all the time. The plush successful
executive and the only son driven by pity for his mother.
Will that suit you?
14

The poems are in the red notebook with the spiral

spine. The comments too. I can leave the conclusion until the
reading. May need to develop the comments. I agreed and
then tried to get him to chat about the Bahamas and the work
he did there, but he wriggled away and told me instead about
the ruins in Mexico. He doesnt care for his work. Nor could
he quite get into the Mexican ruins. He witnessed them and
they left him perplexed. He loves his memories of them.
Simon said something about his collection of photographs, all
carefully mounted in albums. Yes. The ruins are exotic;
purely different. He loves that, even while it confounds him.
Telling me about them made him uneasy. I think he feels that
for me he should appear more the master of these
experiences. He must believe that I am master of my love.
What an insight. To have mastered love. Peter doesnt know
the secret, and I dont think he ever will. Always behind him
is his mother, telling him why he must do what he is doing.
He enacts a womans life. He must pretend he has achieved
her dreams. Rita would like that if she knew he was attracted
to her. Yet her husband, the father of Louise and Simon, is
not like that. Louise told me he drinks heavily and has been
violent towards her. Thats a male life. Why would that
attract Rita? Ah. She didnt know. She wants energy in men.
Thats what the chemistry is for her. (No. Not quite. She
charges all men. I think she tries to choose then what she
wants from them. She wants knowledge from me.)
Simon came over then. I looked for Rita and didnt see
her. He butted in, lip curled, and said: Rita has gone up.
Shes tired. Richard, she told me to tell you that she is writing
to you. His smile balanced a smirk at me and something
15

elusive, a loss that made him peevish and lonely. Peter

floundered. Getting attention is important to him, a privilege
of rank he needs. Simon nodded down to him, Peters quite
short and dumpy, and said to me in a forced drawl: Talking
about Mexico, is he? Thunderbirds and all that. Peter jerked
his head up, glanced sideways, and started to talk to Simon
about the Thunderbird god, about the representations he had
witnessed. Jonas came back to me then and said, Did you
read Michel? It was sinking in then that Rita was gone. That
worried me for some reason. It was only ten oclock.
Naturally I assumed that Peter had spoiled things. Its not
everyone that wants you to teach them to know. I told Jonas I
couldnt see the point in harping on the numbers. I said,
Twelve cubed is a fact only. Twelve is the number of
establishment. Jonas was patient now that I was engaged.
But why establishment, Jonas? Its either there or it
isnt.
Its established for man, outside nature.
Its merely a geometrical pattern. Its another fact.
I used the word fact again deliberately and this time
Jonas caught it and said, That demonstrates its reality,
Richard.
But its only a fact of geometry, not of divine
providence.
Peter and Simon were listening, both studying me.
Yes, Richard. But the fact that geometry is like that is
part of the design. Its built into the fabric of existence.
I put my head down, as I always do when I resist an
argument. Disappointment and its companion, exclusion,
made matters worse. Its absurd to think you have mastered
16

love. You can only know it, and theres nothing you can do
about it. Cornered, I said:
What is the geometry of gardens then, Jonas? Or the
sea?
He smiled and Simon grinned and Peter looked as
though he wanted to say something: They are ruled by
natural geometries. They are not part of the geometry,
Richard.
Suddenly I knew I was being trapped, and in the trap
being tested. There was sense in what he said; I could see
why foundation was so important to him. But I stuck to my
earlier argument: Bring up an image of the sea, Jonas. Do it.
I want to show you something.
Peter said, tactlessly, wanting to say something: The
sea makes me sick. Simon sniggered, stepped back and
stepped forward again, and said down to Peter: Thats not an
image.
I gazed at Jonas. He has liquid brown eyes, keen and
quick. He placated me with a waved hand and said, All right,
Richard, closed his eyes and recited: Deep. Green. No
movement in the depths. I can see eyes, but there is no sound.
I am cold. He opened his eyes and scrutinised my eyes. I
think he saw something there that interested him.
Have you ever experienced that?
No. Never. I dont think about the sea much.
You see, Jonas. The idea grows. Try sometime to will
a chosen image of the sea, then watch it change.
Jonas smiled, genuinely impressed by what had
happened. He touched my arm and said: If you will do the
same with the City, Richard. Will you? Thats only fair.
17

I blurted out, knowing how Peter had felt: If I think

about a city, I want to leave it. I was afraid.
Jonas nodded, looking around, readying himself to
leave: Try it anyway, Richard. Find out how to leave the
City. And find out where you go. He took my hand to shake,
a most un-English gesture, and said as he held my hand
lightly: Id like to know. Out of curiosity, I mean.
Jonas departed, touching shoulders and elbows in
farewell. Too quickly, Peter said to Simon and me, as though
he had been holding it back: Fancy a meal or something. Its
still early.
Too fucking right I wont! Louise shouting at the
window. Edward flapped his hands, bending towards her.
Angry, Louise looked extremely provocative.
Peter said to Simon: Still trying to persuade her to go
to university? Simon sneered down at him and stalked across
the room to Louise. Edward began explaining. Simon
touched Louises upper arm and she shivered.
Peter said: Oh yes. That was a standard psychological
technique, you know.
The miseries of Louise and Simon were identical and
intense. Its not, Peter. In psychology, images are symptoms
and therefore sensations of sorts. Representations, if you
like.
And your images? Peter was furtive: perhaps he had
joined the group to discover things like this.
They tend to the ideal.
Jasons was hardly ideal. Pretty wretched, if you ask
me.
Jason had examined it for only a second or two.
How long then before hed reach the ideal, Richard?
18

Maybe never. Its always approaching the ideal. Its a

long way, Peter.

12 June
Are these conversations right? The second with Peter
rings true, except that I said long twice I was suddenly
weary then. The evening was a disaster, again. I think holding
these gatherings in a private house causes them to talk rather
than chat, as they do in their pub. The talk with Jonas was
very good. It must have been the talk with Peter then. No. It
is a long and long way. Its no harm to admit it. I didnt say
representations. But I would have said it if I had thought of
it then. But does Peter know the word? Does it matter? Ill
report more accurately in the future. A small notebook.
Something happened to Simon that first night. Writing
about him has made me aware of that. He has said nothing
about that girl to me since. She seemed very attracted to him.
Too much so. It must have been Simon. He did say
something about her. I wrote it down: Slide her down my lap
and slip into her, sitting her up dancing on my prick.
We had a few drinks in that club. Didnt mind the
noise except that the music was rotten. Danced with her once.
Shouting at one another on the floor. She seemed boneless.
Absolutely no resistance in her. I could see how Simon could
come to say that. Extraordinary. I mean, she had no resistance
to me, either. I put my arm around her waist, just to feel the
suppleness. She smiled at me. We left soon after. Simon was
getting drunk and becoming earnest. I wasnt allowed walk
up to Clifton for the car. We were silent for most of the way
19

up, then Simon and the girl started bickering. The last thing I
heard before dozing off was the girl say in exasperation: You
just cant please everybody.
The change in him: a very profound disappointment.
Hes always distant, but there is something darker there.
Simon woke me up and when I asked he told me
Fremantle Square. I asked him where Fremantle Square
was. Kingsdown. This is a rampart of the Bristol
bourgeoisie. Great-grandfather made a pile out of condoms
and bought this house about seventy-five years ago. Half
asleep, I said mutely: Condoms? Simon was earnest: He
thought that if people could choose, there would be no
unwanted children in the world. He smiled for the first time.
Thats when I first saw the darkness in him. He seemed to
know so much more than his great-grandfather. Yes. His
irony has an edge, as though he had found a weapon. He
hefted his keys and asked me in to refresh myself before
driving out to Kingswood. We went down to the kitchen.
Louise was sitting at the table, drinking from a mug. Her
surprise was as great as mine. Simon told me that he and
Louise were half brother and sister. Louise glared at me, then
at Simon, put the mug down with a bang and literally swept
from the room. Simon made tea and found some biscuits.
Then he left the room and returned in about ten minutes in his
dressing gown, hair wet, smelling resinous. He asked me why
I had come to Bristol. To get out of London. Why Bristol?
No reason. I spotted it in a map one day and I decided to
come here. Was I married: No. Did I have any children:
No. Did I live with someone: Not here. I did in London. I
tried to steer him off this topic. He guessed a separation and
asked why. I said, though it is by no means the whole truth:
20

She wants to marry another man. He studied me closely, his

eyes tight. I felt the difference in years then that I could say
that so simply. Simon wouldnt take it so easily. Then he said
he had read some of my work. I went on my guard, as usual.
He said, You take a lot for granted about women, Richard.
That surprised me. All I could say was, How do you mean,
Simon?
You say so much about them, yet they always seem to
escape you in some way.
Isnt that true of the male characters too?
No. They like you. His voice softened then and I felt
the first advance of friendship from him. That allowed me to
be more open with him.
Tell me, how do the women escape me? Im curious
to know.
The question pleased him, though I didnt intend to
flatter him. You spend all your time studying them. You
have to tie a woman to you. Otherwise they float on to
someone else. I can feel the weapon there. Its crude. I
asked:
How do you tie a woman to you?
Marriage, children, money. Give her what she wants
most. Then shell never leave you.
I decided to tease him a little:
Then I mustnt know what a woman wants most,
Simon.
He saw the tease immediately and sneered slightly.
What he was going to say was pre-empted when the door
opened and a woman in a black dressing gown came in. She
asked Simon, What time is it? And I saw that she was
staring at me.
21

This is my step-mother, Rita. This is the chap we told

you about, Rita. Remember, the Irish writer, Richard Butler.
She seemed reluctant to shake my hand, so I simply
stood up and said Hello. I knew at once she was shortsighted, with the feeble focus spectacles induce. There were
deep dark rings around her eyes and her skin was sallow and
had the texture of hot wax on a candle. She made tea and
asked Simon about the reading. He told her in a flat driving
voice and I noticed the slump of her shoulders then. And how
nice her feet and hands were. Then Simon said, more loudly,
Richard and I have been discussing what women want most
of all. He gave me a long ironic look. Richard doesnt seem
to know. Rita was staring at me again. It had a funny, but
pleasant, effect: it put me tottering between selfconsciousness and a desire to bask. I found that in return I
studied her face in great detail; I think because her eyes
wouldnt respond at that distance. A rather plain face,
squarish, moderate forehead, but lovely lips and luminous
eyes. Her skin managed to be both soft and tired. Do you?
she asked Simon, London chill in her voice. Simon stared at
the floor. I said, teasing Simon to ease the atmosphere, He
said marriage, children and money (I was deliberately
tendentious). For a second, Rita radiated ice, then a kind of
intense grainy smoulder: Just like his father. But she was
smiling at me, no rancour. The imbalance in the kitchen
unsettled me, so I said I had better go. Simon offered to drive
me over to my car and went up to dress. Rita sat in his chair
and stared at me. I talked to her about London and Bristol and
she said she was glad she got out too. Then Simon called me
from the hall above. I stood up and Rita stood up also and
22

glanced down and then turned her face so I could see her.
Then I knew I hadnt desired a woman for over fifteen years.
I mean, wanted her.
13 June
Thats true. And yet I have done nothing about it.
Louise, I suppose, at least. I am infatuated with her, though
thankfully not carried away by it. I look at Louise but stare at
Rita.
Note from Angie. Looks as though sale of flat is going
through. She reckons Ill get up to a hundred and fifty
thousand from it. Would have more if we hadnt pushed for a
quick sale. Ill put my things into storage for the moment.
Dont want them here.
Separated, I can see that our relationship was always
the same, from beginning to end. She asked me once, around
the time we moved to Epsom, why I wouldnt love her. I
told her I couldnt because it wasnt there. I dont think she
ever understood that. How often she tried to work up love.
Her Romantic evenings and the tedious mechanics
afterwards. Men still chat her up. But she always went absent
in bed, surrendering me her body. Perhaps some men like
that: humping nine and a half stone of inert meat and blood.
Even so, I think she has finally got what she wants. I knew
from the beginning what she wanted: its in Rehearsals. Talk.
Unlike Rita, who wants, or says she wants, to know, Angie
wanted to talk as a way of distracting from threat. Her
experience of her uncle made me feel guilty. Sometimes I
was deeply ashamed of our relationship. Men would look at
her, then look at me in a knowing way, as much as to say:
23

Give her one for me too, without glimpsing the sterility. So

much talk about sex is fantasy.
But all our talk has helped her to the point where she
can marry what for her is the kind of man she likes. Im glad
of that. Its good to see her beginning to live. And she did
help. She is very erotic, though she says she isnt. Visually
erotic. She gave me the stability that got me through the years
of writing. And she got me out of London, at last.

14 June
Went over to Clifton early last night and had a drink
upstairs before the reading. Tiny bar, thankfully not crowded.
An old lad eyed me for a while and then came over and said
in a thick Bristol accent: Woman shit out their babies. He
glanced back at the bar, leaned close to me and added: And
you know what the shit is? The woman behind the bar told
him to shut up and said to me: Its our dad, going funny.
Dont you mind him. She was drying glasses and seemed
perfectly at ease. He sat up on a stool at the bar and said to
her in a muttering whine, Its true, Bessie, darned right it is,
winked at me and mouthed one word: men.
He sniggered into his glass until the woman told him to
stop that too.
Peter came in then, bringing the curious attenuation of
his work with him. I bought him a drink and we stood at the
bar chatting. He was more forthcoming about his work this
time and I learned that he worked for a national company that
traded world wide. I realised after a while that he spoke about
his work in much the same way he had spoken about the
Mexican ruins. The only thing he said that interested was
24

how home-orientated English people are. You couldnt ring

up and suggest a drink or a party at short notice. He found he
spent most evenings alone. Jonas came in then, followed by
Alvin and some others of the group I didnt know. After
another drink Peter suggested moving down stairs. There was
a bit of a muddle then, mainly because people were running
at different speeds. Just as I was taking my turn to descend
the tight stairs, Louise pushed in behind me and whispered in
a vacant voice: Can I talk to you later? I nodded and she
brightened and said, Keep me a seat. Ill get some wine. I
got the chairs under the print of the Great Britain and felt the
hollowness in my stomach that literary societies always give
me, a feeling I had as a child sitting in church before Mass.
One of the old women came over and asked if she
could sit in the chair next to me. When I told her I had
reserved one of them for Louise, she frowned and drifted
away. It looks as though Im becoming associated with a
group within the group. Simon came down, looking very
distracted. He skirted Peter, thrusting his hands out as though
to push him away, and came and sat beside me. He was in a
leery jovial mood and I thought he was drunk, though the
mood was uncharacteristic of him. He seemed about to talk to
me, then he drifted away in himself and took to gazing at the
print above us. He nodded and said to me, eyes very intense
and fixed: He made iron float. He proved that things dont
have complete natures in themselves. I realised he was
stoned. The way images are closed and meanings are given.
Thats no harm in itself, providing you dont believe that any
closure of the image is the final one. You can learn, and
know that always there is more to come. He leaned over and
said in a low voice: I want to tell you something, Richard.
25

He studied me, then his manner changed abruptly, the leer

becoming more threatening: But I dont think youd
understand, you know. Youre so nice to the ladies and yet
such a bastard. If he wanted to make me nervous, then he
had succeeded. Peter noticed, came over and asked Simon to
help John put up the demonstration screen. Simon replied
from the corner of his mouth: Fuck off, Peter, and do it
yourself. The victory seemed to placate him, for he put his
arm around my shoulder, shook me gently and said: You can
really turn them on. He paused, choosing an image, waiting
for the next line: No. You can walk away from them. He
grinned, leery again, showing his long uneven teeth, took his
arm away and leaned on his knees. Louise came down, bottle
and glass in her hands. Tonight she was wearing a tight dark
blue miniskirt and a low cut pink tee shirt that hugged her
closely. Dark stockings as usual. She has a superb figure in
every possible way. Simon glanced at her and turned to me:
Thats the way to do it. I was surprised by the loss in his
eyes. His switches in mood had affected me (three gins) and I
felt myself skittering across nameless emotions. The
expression in his eyes was a dark tunnel going down and
down.
Louise sat on the other side of me, crossed her legs,
poured wine into her glass and in on top of the remains of the
gin in mine. She was concentrating intensely on the room, no
doubt gauging the response to her sitting with me and
perhaps also with stoned Simon. But she said suddenly:
Simons stoned. Tell him to fuck off. Simon went limp,

26

NOTEBOOK TWO
studying the carpet. I said: Hes behaving himself, Louise.
She snorted and drank off her glass of wine.
The group doesnt hold formal meetings, so Peter
simply called for attention and introduced John and sat down.
John came forward to the lectern, paused as the moment
arrived and vacated itself so that his prepared talk became
linear and attenuated. I copied his diagrams and made notes,
an activity everyone had the decency to ignore.
Generally, he argued that fairy tales contain buried
structures that reveal the archetypal dispositions of
mankind, and as such serve as deep orientations for cultures
over very long periods of time. In some cases, these
dispositions run counter to ostensible social norms and can at
times be quite horrifying in what they tell us about how
people really feel and understand their lives. The example he
chose was the tale called Babes in the Wood. He dovetailed
two variants which, keying up the first diagram, he defined as
variants I and II; arranged in the diagram as follows:

27

The tale begins with the brother and sister being

abandoned in the wood because the parents can no longer
feed them. He told us to notice that it is the mother who
decides on the abandonment; the father is passive and his
only act is the gesture of giving them a small amount of food.
In the wood, in the section called Ia, Hansel is offered the
choice of personae, that of Lion, Wolf, or Faun. But it is
Gretel who determines his choice of Faun and she signifies
this by placing a ribbon about his neck and leading him into
the next section, designated II in the diagram.
At this point Louise nudged me abruptly and said, I
did that to him, nodding towards Simon. She leaned across
and shook his shoulder: Show Richard, Simon. Simon
looked wretched by now the hashish was exhausting him as
it produced image after image, meaning after meaning. He
stared at her, the tunnels still in his eyes. She leaned across
and thrust her head into the open neck of his shirt and drew
out a slim chain with a small plain cross suspended from it.
Her right elbow was jammed into my thigh and every
movement caused it to slide towards my groin. She said, her
face inches from mine: I made him be a lamb and I gave him
this to remind him. Simon obviously couldnt grasp what she
was saying; instead he was receiving doped-out images with
other meanings. He leered crookedly, stopped it suddenly
then smiled at Louise, then at me. Provocatively, he said:
Only for you, dear sister. Only for you. He pulled Louises
hand away and raised the cross to me and whispered in my
ear, his mouth so close that bristle scraped my cheek: The
cross is also a sword. He blanked out again as another image
came to him. Louise pulled back and poured wine into her
glass and topped mine to the brim. Simon surfaced and hissed
28

with a kind of despairing conviction: No death is in vain.

He slumped again, still holding the cross and returned to
contemplating the carpet. Louise stared at him, obviously
trying to understand him, and said to me in a low awed voice
of realisation: He killed his mother when he was three.
All this whispering distracted the group and John
hesitated. Peter clenched his legs together and looked
meaningfully at me, as though I were the cause. I was now
part of a sub-sub-group of three and tainted by the wildness
of Louise and Simon. However, John picked up the thread
and analysed his section II. The appearance of the cottage is
false, seductive but actually ugly. The witch pretends to care
for them, whereas she is planning to eat Hansel. But Gretel
pushes the witch into the fire instead and then they discover
the witchs treasure. In the first section, the mother-figure
abandons Hansel to his death in the wood and the father
offers a gesture of life. In the second section, the motherfigure plans to kill him, but it is the sister this time who saves
him. What must be noticed here at this stage is that while
Hansel is saved again, he is not transformed in any way. In
the final section, Ib, Hansel and Gretel live in the cottage and
against Gretels ban Hansel sneaks into the wood. He first
sees the King, then the King sees him and wounds him and
then follows him to the cottage, where he sees Gretel, falls in
love with her, and takes her to his castle. Gretel brings
Hansel, still in the guise of fawn, with her and he serves as a
kind of pet. Notice here that while there is no transformation,
Gretel sets another restriction, which Hansel this time breaks.

29

John keyed up a second diagram at this point and used

a laser pencil to indicate on the diagram the analysis that
concluded his talk:

John pointed out that each section contains three

significant events or situations, and that they are given their
emblematic or symbolic meaning in the first section. If these
emblems or symbols are applied to the remaining sections
and to the tale as a whole, a first depth is revealed. The Lion
symbolises Royalty and therefore can refer to the King in Ib.
So the first event in Ia, where Hansel is offered the guise of
the Lion, that is Royalty, and which is denied to him by
Gretel, is in a sense repeated in the first event in Ib, when
Hansel, against Gretels in effect second ban, sees the King,
the Lion. The Wolf symbolises devouring, and we can see the
sense of Gretels denial of this form to Hansel, for there is the
danger that Hansel as Wolf might devour her bear in mind
that the Wolf devours women, as in Little Red Riding
30

Hood. But in Hansel and Gretel, the second event in the

last section gives a context to the symbol of the Wolf in the
story: The King wounds Hansel, he does not devour him.
Consider this in the light of the sequel to the wounding and
you will get a glimpse of another meaning of the Wolf as
symbol: the blood released by the wound leads the King to
Gretel. In a complex way, the Wolf is a symbol of
transformation: the King replaces the Faun that replaced the
boy.
Before I can show this more clearly, John continued, I
need to complete the analysis of the remaining section and of
the tale as a whole. In section II Hansel is obviously the
Faun; a faun would be eaten. But who of the remaining
characters, Gretel and the Witch, is the Wolf and who is the
Lion? We know from section Ib that the Wolf wounds:
therefore it must be that Gretel is the Wolf. This means that
the Witch is the Lion, the female version of the King, that is,
the Queen. Considered in terms of transformation, this makes
sense. In section Ib, the King replaces Hansel beside Gretel,
that is, Hansel is transformed into the King. Knowing this, we
can then see the death of the Witch-Queen as the
transformation of Gretel into the Queen. And this is
reinforced by the finding of the Treasure, for on one hand,
this amply represents Royalty and on the other, Gretel takes
charge of the Treasure Hansel remains the Faun. This also
makes greater sense in the last section, for the King comes to
the Queen, not to a poor girl in a cottage.
This analysis shows up the first dark layer of the tale.
Consider how the male and the female elements are
respectively transformed into full being, that is, Royalty. For
the male element, Royalty is achieved by transforming the
31

Faun by means of the Wolf into the Lion: the transformation

is represented by the wound and the spilling of blood, in
much the same way as Jesus passage to Christ. For the
female element, however, it is not by means of an inner
transformation that Queen-hood is achieved, but by murder
and replacement. The darkness is twofold here: one, the girl,
immature, her actions a result of her immaturity, becomes
Queen without personal development, without maturation,
and two, the Queen is also the Witch, who herself betrays her
immaturity by the means she chooses to join with the Faun,
potential King. You can see now that by electing to break
Gretels ban, Hansel seeks one, his own maturity, and two,
the salvation of his sister, now Witch-Queen, by means of his
own maturity.
Analysis of the whole tale shows an even greater
darkness. Let us see where the symbols of Lion, Wolf and
Faun apply here. First of all, one item in each section serves
as a bridge to the next. In the first section, the ribbon placed
around Hansels neck by Gretel serves to lead him to the
second section. The bridge from section two to section three
is the Treasure, and the implied bridge beyond the tale is
Hansels blood. Two of these objects are easily symbolised:
the blood is royal, therefore symbolised by the Lion, and the
necklace represents submission and is symbolised by the
Faun. This means that the Treasure is symbolised by the
Wolf. This is noteworthy for two reasons. One, I have already
shown that in the second section itself, the Treasure indicates
Royalty. In the light of this, perhaps we should cast the blood
as Wolf; after all, the Wolf, as sword, causes the blood to
flow. But that is just the point, the Wolf-sword is the agent
releasing the blood, it is not the blood. Therefore, we are to
32

understand that what symbolises Royalty in the second

section, the Treasure, is a true representation, but that it is not
fulfilled in that section. This becomes clear when you
consider the second reason this equation of Treasure and
Wolf is noteworthy. As the symbol of transformation, the
equation of Treasure and Wolf is very good indeed: on one
level it indicates the worth of the Wolf, and on another,
which I will return to later, it tells us a very profound truth
about the Wolf as transformer. Now, in the context of the
middle section, II, what we are to understand is that the
Witch-Queen treats the power of transformation as something
else treasure as stored-up future consumption: that is, the
Witch-Queen uses the power that could make her a more
fully developed being to merely sustain her as she is
presently, the immature Witch.
The darker level I referred to just now, John continued,
is indicated initially by these correlations of Witch and
Queen, and Witch-Queen with Gretel. Consider that it is the
mother who abandons the children in the Wood and the father
who attempts to ease this harsh action. Lets start with Hansel
and Gretel in the wood. Gretel becomes the Witch-Queen and
marries Hansel, who has become the King. Obviously they
have children, a boy and a girl, of course, and in time they
become the old couple who cannot feed their children. Thats
the circle of the tale. To achieve this circuit, the female
abandons her children, her daughter subordinates the male,
kills the mother-figure and replaces her, and in time abandons
her children. The male, meanwhile, is abandoned by the
mother, subordinated, saved and restricted by the sister. His
only action is to break free of the restriction in order that he
might suffer transformation. But the transformation into
33

King, full personality, is thwarted by the female. I have

pointed out that the Witch-Queen uses the Treasure to sustain
her present self; in the end she consumes all of it, which is
why the children are abandoned. All that remains is the blood
spilled by Hansel-the-Fawn, and this is given by their father,
the King, Hansel transformed, to the children in the form of
the small amount of food they take into the wood with them.
Thus the cycle of depletion goes on, the tale tells us,
because the woman will not transform herself, despite being
given the means to do so.
John finished by reminding his audience that his
findings referred to his own interpretations of this particular
fairy-tale and should not be taken as judgements on actual
people. He ended with a laugh, no doubt relieved he had got
through the paper, by saying that life was always more
complicated than any myth.
No one liked the paper. One old lady complained that it
was too academic. John apologised. It was then that I learned
that he taught the philosophy of religion in the university.
Only one question interested me, asked by Peter (who spent
much of the talk looking at his shoes with lips pursed), who
pointed out that the woman who abandons Hansel and Gretel
was the step-mother, and had the evil character normally seen
in fairy-tales: would John reconsider some of the remarks he
had made, or implied, in his discussion of the role of the
mother in the tale. John pulled a small sheet from under his
text and read, obviously expecting this question: If the
woman who abandons Hansel and Gretel is characterised as
the Step-mother, in order to protect the norm of the Mother,
then the question can be asked: Where is the mother?
Nothing in the structure of the tale otherwise indicates her. If
34

the woman abandoning the children is named as the Stepmother, that is false-mother, then she is clearly equated with
the Witch, and Gretels murder of the Witch can be seen also
as replacing the Step-mother. Thus the Queen and the Stepmother are equated. So, if as I said at the end of my paper, the
circuit of depletion is maintained by the womans fear of
transformation, then the male could only view the mother in
the light of the Step-mother of the fairy tale.
That only made matters worse. There was some restive
talk, people looking around as though about to leave some
of the older women did leave but everyone realised that
John was prepared to argue his case. Louise had finished the
wine by now and was very tipsy. She leaned against me and
whispered: I want to ask him a question about step-mothers,
Richard. The hint of wildness in her eyes, of something
bottled up, prompted me to tell her to shut up. She tossed her
red hair and looked beyond me at John and I knew she was in
a way prodding at me. I took the glass and bottle from her,
brought her hands together, pushed them into her lap and
pressed them to her thighs, and told her: Stay quiet, Louise.
Do you want to make a fool of yourself too? She glared at
me, the old keeping-the-distance glare, and tried to pull her
hands free. She was surprised at my strength: writers have
strong hands, at least. So she glared more fiercely and said,
though not too loud which was an option thank goodness:
Fuck you! And I said, feeling cheerful because of the
intimacy with her, And fuck you too, Louise. Her glare
became quizzical, then she let her head swoon on to my
shoulder. I let her rest there, hearing movement around me of
people loosening up. Louise raised her head, looked at me
with bird-like intensity and said, Youre an old ballocks,
35

Richard. I took the opportunity, I was still holding her hands

pressed into her lap, of extending the middle finger of my
right hand and pressing its tip into where I judged her clitoris
would be, and said, letting excitement show, Youre quite
right, dear Louise. I thought she didnt notice the prod,
perhaps because she had clothing there I knew nothing of, but
when I did release her hands, the first thing she did was to
touch the spot I had prodded. She saw that I noticed this, so
she said, Thats what all men do when they get the chance,
Richard. So I said Tough bitch? And she said matter-offactly: Actually, I hate dirty old men. That stung me into
silence, then a shame that was unsure of its origins: in me for
my lechery or in Louise, for her perversity. Even so, I knew I
was in the wrong, whatever about Louise. It was then that I
realised that I actually like Louise a lot. I liked her
unpredictability, I liked the look of her, and her what I can
best call the strength of her character interested me. In a
society of clones, one person, especially a superb young
woman like Louise, of such individuality, made a very
valuable friend, even if such friendship was painful.
I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, felt the
effects of gin and wine, sighed to empty my lungs and leaned
across till my nose touched her ear and said: Its easier for
someone like me to touch someone like you, Louise, then it is
for someone of your age to do it. She didnt move her head,
my nose rested in a convolution of her ear: her hair caressed
my left eye and cheek. Why? she asked, equally as quietly.
Because we look for less. Now she turned her head to look
at me. Her lips were very red. How do you mean, Richard?
I smiled, relaxing into the smile and her closeness: Unlike
young men, Louise, I know I cant own you. She went on
36

guard immediately: They cant own me either. I smiled

again, feeling at last the sweetness in her, that lies hidden: I
know. Thats what I mean. And for a moment she did relax,
letting herself sag against my shoulder and arm, her head
coming down against my head, temple to temple.
I heard feet on the stairs and I realised I wanted to ask
John a question. He had left one thread unconnected. I waited
until Louise stirred, when I put my fingers under her chin and
brought her eyes before mine. Ill be back in a moment. I
want to ask John something. She sat up, pulled her skirt
down her thighs and said in a voice of English decency: Will
you take me home? I glanced about and saw Simon talking
to Peter, bending over him, his face crashed. Louise said at
my back: Its OK. Simon is used to looking after himself. I
stood. Tumescence and deflation had jammed my penis in my
knickers. Louise watched me discreetly untangle myself. She
said: I hope you wont seduce me or anything, Richard. I
wouldnt like you to do that. The decency was still there, and
I knew that this was her friendship. I wont, Louise. I
smiled again at her it became easier each time. If I do, try
to remind me that we are friends. She caught the humour,
began to smile too. I added, to increase her smile: I wouldnt
do that to a friend, honest. She stood up and straightened her
clothes. Oh Richard, youre so bloody charming. She said
that in a delicious helpless was that pleased me very much.
Trust is the basis of friendship. So I said to her, with equal
candour: And you are damned near perfect, Louise. I looked
at her so she would know what I meant, looking especially
into the cleavage of her white breasts. She brought her hand
up. Friends. Remember? I turned away, but seeing the
opportunity to tell her something important, I said: Eroticism
37

between friends is OK. That caused her to start and I chose

that moment to slip away.
Fortuitously, John was alone and he seemed to
welcome me. I congratulated him on the paper. He was
pleased but I could see that he did not want to rest on his
laurels there. It was only marginally an academic paper, I
suppose. So I went on directly and asked him about the full
significance of the equation of the Treasure and the Wolf,
reminding him that he had promised in his paper to return to
it. He glanced to one side, and following his glance I saw
Jonas and Edward together, both looking at me. John turned
again, saw Peter draw Simon in our direction, and turned
again until we were facing the Great Britain print, under
which Louise sat talking to two of the old women (one of
whom had wanted to sit beside me).
Im glad you asked that, Richard. I wondered if
anyone would notice.
This was another test, and Jonas and Edward were in
on it. I wondered if the group was a front for some kind of
secret society, some kind of magic circle.
Ill put it in a nutshell for you. I think youll see it.
He paused and I felt I wanted to look around at Jonas and
Edward again. I resisted the temptation to do so. Listen. The
Treasure tells you that the Wolf can transform itself into the
King. I know youve been making notes, but if you want, I
can get a copy of the paper for you.
No, John. Ill try it with the notes first.
He caught me by the elbow. The English are not very
tactile as a rule, but this group certainly used touch in some
way I cannot yet fathom.
38

Remember then, Richard. The Wolf can transform

itself. He looked at his watch. I turned my head. Jonas and
Edward were drifting towards the stairs. Ill have to go. Oh,
youre reading next week apparently. I look forward to
hearing what you have to say.
He went towards Jonas and Edward, touched their
shoulders, waved to everyone remaining, and went at the
stairs two steps at a time. I crossed to Louise, who hastily
said goodnight to the old women and came to meet me.
Would you like something to eat? I asked her. It
wasnt yet ten.
She looked down at herself, skirt and top creased, and I
was afraid she would want to go home directly. Her eyes
seemed bigger now, her face smaller, giving her a much more
approachable quality. I did want to kiss her, and I would have
done if I believed it would have made her happier again. A
hamburger maybe?
It was a question about my taste. I nodded. Not
MacDonalds though. She agreed and said she knew a place
where they still served real half-pounders.
In an obvious way, now that I was conscious of these
signals here, I touched her elbow and guided her towards the
stairs, letting her climb before me. Edward was leaning on
the bar talking to the old lad who had spoken to me earlier.
Louise excused herself to freshen up, so I loitered near the
door, within the ambit of the outdoor air. Then Edward said
to the old lad, who was very drunk and muttering to himself,
something I grasped consciously and wrote down as soon as I
could:
Talking of birds, old Bill. Let me tell you a story I
heard a long time ago. This chap watched some birds in his
39

back garden for a while and he said to the nearest one, a black
bird, You should adopt capitalism and pretty soon you could
get other creatures to collect your food for you. The black
bird answered immediately, We invented capitalism and we
have other creatures to do that. The old boy was surprised
and asked: Who did you get to do it? The black bird shook
its wings. Man, it said. Man? the old boy responded,
puzzled. Yes, said the black bird, so we could fly. And it
flew off.
Louise came out as I finished jotting it down (I had
moved out of the pub). Behind her, Edward stood in the door,
breathing in the evening air. He called out a farewell as we
went down to the car.
More notes? Are you going to write about us?
Hh. Johns talk interested me, Louise.
What did you ask him?
About the Wolf. And the Treasure.
I unlocked the car, got in and let Louise in. She seemed
to fill the seat tonight. Her presence was very strong. Then
she stretched, pressing her palms against the roof of the car.
The hair on my neck bristled. I made a reference to
Rehearsals yesterday. Is it going to be repeated? I dont want
another relationship like that. I started the car and moved it
out.
Which way?
Down Park Street. Do you know the way?
Sure. I crossed into Queens Road. Louise was
flicking through the tapes. I asked her what sort of music she
wanted to hear.
Something fast, please.
40

I fished out Its Only Rock n Roll and put it in for side
two. It was working its way through the long instrumental at
the end, Time waits for no man. Next is Luxury.
Give it a moment or two.
I relaxed in the plush sound.
Whos that?
Wait and see. She was lolling back. The music had
hit her fast.
We came to the bottom of Whiteladies Road as Luxury
came on and I pushed the volume up and booted the car in a
long curve and sped down towards Park Street.
Better?
The Stones?
You know it?
Not this one. Simon has Emotional Rescue.
Good tracks on that.
We got the lights at the University and we dropped
down Park Street at a good pace. The lights of the east of the
city were twinkling below us.
Where to?
Left at the bottom.
Now Dance little sister came on. From the corner of
my eye I saw Louises legs pump to the music.
Do you like dancing, Louise?
To that, yes...Park along here.
I found a spot immediately and parked. We sat
listening to the music. I let my body take up the rhythm.
Richard. Louise had turned towards me, her knees
pushing against the gear stick. I need to say this to someone.
And you seem to be interested in Simon.
41

If you really want to be my friend came on and I shut

the deck off.
Yes?
The chain I gave him. He didnt know. Quite
suddenly, I felt myself being drawn into something dense and
fantastically textured. It required a kind of surrender. I started
the tape again, lowering the volume, and twisted to face
Louise. Her face was strained, a bit wild. He frightened me
tonight. There was a lurch in me and I saw something
terrible.
How?
She reached and took my right hand from the steering
wheel. I squeezed her hand. It was fleshy and soft. She
returned my squeeze in an abrupt way.
I want to tell you some things, Richard. I only ask you
not to tell anyone else. If we never see you again, Ill
understand.
Is this what you wanted to talk about?
No. This has come up tonight. The other thing can
wait. She leaned forward, searching my face. Listen,
Richard. I tamed Simon. About four years ago, when daddy
married Rita. I didnt think the energy would go somewhere
else. I mean...
I dont understand you, Louise.
She took a deep deep breath. Richard, what do you
think of incest?
It clicked into place. But I couldnt see the terrible
thing any longer. Ive never thought about it. I have only a
brother, you see.
OK. Simon and I. She gestured with her free hand.
We started when I was about ten. You know, playing games
42

at first. She squirmed, as though trying to uncoil herself.

When I was fifteen I began to think it was dangerous. Kind
of dangerous. Richard, I was...like an addiction. I stopped it
then.
I nodded, feeling hollow. And still?
Yes.
You could live together somewhere. You dont look
like brother and sister.
No! Her eyes flared. She began to twist my hand. I
said it was dangerous. She looked away, through the
windscreen at the people waiting at a bus stop nearby. I
think obsession is a better word.
Now I saw the terrible thing. And the basis of
friendship crumbled as I saw her need. Im not getting
involved, Louise. Theres nothing, absolutely nothing I can
do here. I said it that way deliberately.
She leaned forward and turned my face to hers. I
know that, Richard. Youre not that sort of man. She smiled.
You dont need to do that.
Go away, Louise. There was a bad taste in my mouth
at the thought of the waste. You cant change anything now.
I could see everything so clearly, down at least to the
darkness. But I could feel what was there.
Louise suddenly started crying, her head going down.
The people at the bus-stop noticed. I started the car, pulled
out and let the traffic lead me. Soon I was lost, driving up a
main artery between dilapidated shops. Louises crying had
turned into a series of enormous sobs. I reversed the tape
machine and set it going, raising the volume for If you can
rock me.
43

My own feelings skittered in all directions. But

implacably I knew that nothing significant could be changed
now. Except, perhaps, that Louise will relent someday, to
some other man. The vision of that stung me deep in the
groin. To be honest, I was tempted then. You see, I knew.
She had given me that power. My head was pounding, my
hands shaking, so I pulled into a residential side street and
cruised till I found a quiet spot.
I sat through Till the next goodbye and thought how
innocent, even good, that pain was. It allowed tenderness and
reconciliation. Even the separation from Angie was a good. It
gave us both the new lives we needed now. Louise had
quietened. I gave her my handkerchief. She had crumpled in a
way, her curves deflated into bulges and rolls. I thought, the
poor girl, if that is what she wants from me.
What can I do for you, Louise? I said this
deliberately. If there was any friendship left, then it was the
only way.
She took a small compact from a slit pocket in her skirt
and started to comb her eyelashes and brows. Then she
applied scarlet lipstick. That shook me. Finally she combed
her hair back with forceful strokes. She looked at me, eyes
dark, lips bright, skin so white. Could you hurt me?
I knew then it was in me. I saw all through my past, all
the way down to the beginning.
I am an innocent.
I took a deep breath now. I smelled the reek of
excitation in the car.
Yes, Louise. I could.
She made me look at her again. Her presence was
overwhelming. Richard, I love you.
44

That hurt. I could feel my adenoids swell as tears came

to my eyes. I didnt know what I was going to cry for. Dont
say that, I muttered, my voice wet. Say what you will do for
me.
She seemed surprised at that.
Louise, I said I would serve you. Now, how will you
serve me?
She pursed her mouth, thinking. Its strange how at
times we say things and only understand them afterwards.
Simon had done nothing for Louise, only for himself.
Youve just said you love me, I prompted.
She deflated quite suddenly, looking at her hands in
her lap. You want to do it to me. Isnt that enough, Richard?
I hit the steering wheel with my flattened palm. No! I
said I would do it for you. I could feel the trap closing fast. I
twisted and pulled myself out of the car. I was shaking. This
is how you lose your place in the world.
I walked down a no-longer innocent street in a nolonger innocent world. And I remembered that the Wolf could
transform itself. For a moment I was completely paranoid,
seeing the scheme of the group.
The Wolf. And the female consuming the Treasure,
unwilling to change.
I looked at a darkened house, the family asleep. What
went on there?
I went back to the car. Louise seemed to be dozing, her
head sideways against the back of the seat. I could only see
desire written in occult lines all over her body.
Louise. She opened her eyes immediately. There
was a French girl in Paris once. Over twenty years ago. I felt
like death for ages afterwards.
45

She nodded.
I put my hand under her left breast, cupping it lightly.
Her breathing deepened, her eyes wavering.
How long, Louise?
Her voice was thick: Years and years. I cant do it for
myself, Richard.
She began to tremble all over, a reek of fire rising from
her body. I held my hand stiff, cupping her breast, applying
only the slightest pressure to it. She arched her head back,
exposing the long line of her neck, flesh tightening all the
way down to the tops of her breasts. I had to quell the tremors
in my own body. Her breast was beautiful beautiful, soft with
little jerks convulsing it.
When her stomach began to thrum, I increased the
pressure on her breast, dragging it down slightly. Then slowly
I moved my thumb and forefinger up her breast and pinched
her nipple. Her arm fell away, exposing the whole of her
breast. I grasped it more fully with splayed fingers and
squeezed and twisted. Moisture was caught in her throat and
it made a racking snoring sound. She began to succumb, legs
falling apart as the skirt allowed. The reek was so strong and
I could taste it on the back of my mouth. I leaned forward and
took the soft flesh between the taut lines on her throat
between my teeth. She brought her arm up around my neck
and pressed my mouth into her. I grasped her other breast and
squeezed it without warning.
Then I released all the pressure and kissed her neck,
moving my lips into the hollow, making my lips grasp and
draw her flesh. I caressed her breasts, bringing the nipples up,
exciting them with my fingers. At last she jerked and kicked
her legs, her body going completely rigid. I put my arm
46

around her as best I could and held her as she moaned down
through the peak.
It was some time before her arms came up and
embraced me. But she did squeeze me then, butting my head
until she could put her cheek against mine. There was
wetness, whether on her skin or mine I didnt know. She
rubbed her cheek against mine, crooning in a low absent
voice. Then we lay there, swooning through the bliss,
listening to Dance little sister again.
Afterwards, as I drove her home, she asked me:
How did you do that?
You mean arouse you without the torture chamber?
She nodded, smiling at the image. Youre not afraid of me,
Louise.
That was a revelation. And for me. Its not physical
pain that she wants. Its fear no terror. How long before
she realises theres something wrong?

15 June
Theres something wrong with this account of
Wednesday evening. I did manage to evade admitting what I
really felt, about causing Louise pain, without her becoming
aware of the evasion. Ive reread Chance Meeting and see
that I gave a kind of ethical basis to the experience. In truth I
got a particular kind of satisfaction, I wont call it pleasure (I
want peace of mind), from what happened. But I dont think
it was sadism. I was trying to get through to something and at
the same time bring her to an awareness of something yes
47

that I wasnt just a lump of nature in natural excitation.

Despite what people think Freud said, I dont believe
civilisation, or even simple societies, were created just so
men can pump quantities of a viscous fluid into women as
often as possible. (Why not, though; our civilisation seems to
be no more than a long struggle to watch television in the
evening.)
In any relationship, I want another person to be
present. I need recognition, not just the easing of pressure.
No, my account of Louise doesnt fit. She was one
person earlier in the evening, another later after Johns talk,
and yet another in the car. The bitch version Ive grown used
to. The decent girl I really wouldnt trust, though I will stand
by the avowal of friendship. The masochist? There is still the
bad taste. I hope I dont have to do that again. I will never be
able to look at her again without a shiver.
This reads like a novel. Is it true? I cant grasp her. But
it happened. The details Ive left out. The realisation that
there is something I am certain of that I must leave out of this
journal. Louise both acts true and competes with Rita. I can
doubt, be sceptical of, a lot of what Louise told me, but I
know she meant it when she said that Simon is dangerous.
And I know her body told me in some way the reason he is
dangerous, and yet told me something else altogether.
I need to step back and find another level for this. I
never intended writing about these things. It was only that
moment in the park that interested me.
I think this journal is that moment in the park.
48

16 June
These comments miss the point. I cant work it out yet,
but if there was any sadism in the car with Louise, it was in
me, though thankfully I didnt give way to it. Chance
Meeting is about extreme attenuation: it reveals my deep fear
of women, that they may not cannot know me and so
could damage me in some final way.
Women take too much for granted. I was right to ask
Louise what she would do for me in return. I dont know
what she can do for me that is up to her to discover. (But
she asked me to do something for her.)
Yes. This relationship is all wrong for some reason. Is
it dangerously wrong?

49

NOTEBOOK THREE
17 June
Ive been analysing Johns diagrams. The impediments
in the sections are: water in the first, fire in the second, and
earth (iron) in the third. This leaves air, and what symbol is
characteristic of the air but the bird. A bird can fly over
water. Too gnomic: Hansel is the air in some way. The first
obstacle is water, when Gretel subordinates him. Hansel, as a
bird, should be able to fly over the stream and so avoid the
whole process of Lion, Wolf and Fawn.
Why didnt he?
If he had flown, Gretel would have no one to lead. No
Treasure would ever be found, so Gretel would not have the
possibility of transformation.
Hansel permits it for Gretels sake.
The man permits it for the womans sake.
(And yes Edwards little story prompted this.)
And the Wolf?
To see where the Wolf fits in, I must use this diagram
(my own):
EAGLE air The way of the Son
(Female cannot go this way)
FAUN water The way of the Mother: leads to COTTAGE
(Female leads the man)
WOLF fire The way of the Daughter: leads to WOOD
(Female fears the Wood)
LION earth The way of the Father: leads to CASTLE
(Female does not know this way)

50

First of all, this diagram helps extend Johns

interpretation of the way chosen, the Way of the Mother. The
Witch can be seen as the False-mother; the False-mother eats,
or attempts to eat, the Son. Therefore the King is the Falsefather, and he marries his daughter, Gretel. Thus the cause of
the cycle of depletion, as John termed it, is the false
sublimation apparent, where the male is drawn to the female
as mother, and the female awaits the male as father. In other
words, the male takes up two roles: to himself he is the Son,
to the female he is the Father. Likewise, the female is
Daughter to herself and Mother to the male. Both attempt to
overcome this double falseness: the female by murdering the
False-mother and the male by wounding the Son. But this
merely clears the way for the final union: the female destroys
the projection to the male and the male disables the
projection to himself thus the Father unites with the
Daughter. The interesting thing here is that while the Father
is the male projection to the female, the Daughter is the
female projection to herself: it is this reinforcement of
projection to the female that permits her to consume the
Treasure in order to sustain the double falseness she assumes.
Question now is: do either the female or male appear in
the tale without false projection? All the beings in the tale
have active parts, allowing the equivalence of the Lion and
King, except the Wolf. Of the three habitations mentioned,
the Castle, the Wood, and the Cottage, the Wolfs natural
habitation is the Wood. Now, strictly, the stream Hansel must
cross is in the Wood, so in a sense the Wolf is already at
home: he need not cross the stream. And if he does not cross
the stream, it would seem that the female does not either, if
only because she is already on the other side, the Witch in the
51

Cottage, but lacking the means to entice the King. Consider

the Wolf loose in the Wood from the perspective of the
female: lurking in the dark, waiting to pounce and eat her.
The female is terrified. The Wolf comes to her: if the Wolf is
the equivalent of the Treasure in the Cottage, as John argued,
then the Treasure is the equivalent of the Wolf in the Wood.
In the Wood, the male, the Wolf, is the means to
transforming the female. He stalks her in order to transform
her, and it is this that terrifies her.
Two questions now. One: Why does the Wolf want to
transform the female, considering the resistance of the
female? Why does he not simply transform himself as John
asserts he can? Obviously, he needs to transform the female
as a means to transforming himself: the Wolf is not capable
of transforming himself. Two: Who does the Wolf wish to
transform? The female appears in the guise of the Daughter
(Gretel) at this stage. But this is a false projection; one,
moreover, the female can use to unite with the King, the
False-father. If the Wolf is the male himself, then where is
the female herself? She does not appear in the tale, if only
because the Way of the Mother is chosen. So all that can be
said is that the Wolf stalks the female in the Wood, without
being able to indicate the female, except in the guise of
Daughter. So the females initial fear is not of transformation,
but of being forced to give up her disguise, her projection.
One noteworthy implication of all this is: Father and
Mother have no role in the true transformation. This
transformation occurs in the dark of the Wood, and is worked
out by men and women alone.

52

It also appears that my speculation about Hansel as

bird misses the point that the bird, the Eagle, is already in the
castle. Actually, the Castle is as false as the Cottage.
I must admit that before writing these last paragraphs I
had thought of Simon as the Wolf. But the Wolf as selftransformative, and using the female to achieve this. I had
therefore regarded the Wolf as a false Way, selfishly using
the female, whereas the Faun or Lamb submits himself
selflessly to the female. However, the Way of the Lamb leads
to the cycle of depletion and the Way of the Wolf would lead
to the destruction of the female. How in this case would the
female achieve transformation? By means of the Lion? But
the female does not know where to lead the Lion; it would in
any case only bring her to the False-father. Besides, Gretel
rejects that way.
Now, if my thought that the Wolf is not capable of
self-transformation holds, and so needs the female, then in
what guise would the male exploit the female, and what guise
would the female have? These array:
FATHER
wounds
MOTHER
kills
DAUGHTER kills
FATHER
+

SON
SON
MOTHER
DAUGHTER

In the tale, the Mother plans to kill the Son and the
Father unites with the Daughter. Both fates are accepted by
the figures involved, so they should be excluded. We are left
then with the possibilities that the Father exploits the Mother
or the Son exploits the Daughter. It is obvious from my
53

analysis and Johns that the Father seeks the Daughter in

place of the Mother, but it is the Daughter who kills the
Mother, and resulting union is a false one, a cycle of
depletion. So we are left with the Son exploiting the
Daughter. And the reason? She has killed the Mother.
Of course, the Daughter murders to save the Son, but
to what end? He becomes the pet of the Father and Daughter.
The Son wishes to destroy the Daughter because she has
prevented the only fate in store for him, while the act allows
the Daughter to achieve her fate. This means that the Son
wishes death at the hand of the Mother: he is disposed to be a
sacrifice.
Consider that the Mother would eat the Son and that
the woman fears the Wolf would eat her. What does this
reciprocation signify? As well as this, remember that the
female as Queen consumes the Treasure. Arrayed as follows:
MOTHER
MOTHER
TREASURE
WOLF

eats SON (prevented)

consumes TREASURE
=
WOLF
consumes
WOMAN

Both of the Mothers acts of consumption would be

false, and it is the Daughter who fears consumption by the
Wolf, which is the fear of the false-female. This means that
the females fear is false, and it may be that the Wolf is a
guise of the male projected by the false-female, the Daughter.
Extend this: the Daughter fears the male as Wolf: who does
the Mother fear? She should fear the Daughter, but she does
not fear the male, the Son locked in the cage, the King in his
Castle. From another perspective, the Daughter fears the
54

assertive male as Wolf, the Mother depletes the submissive

male as Treasure.
Where are we, then? The Wolf is not a projection of
the male, but of the female: behind the guise the Wolf is the
male himself the real male attempting to find the real
female, but finding only the terrified Daughter.
What does he do in the Wood, in the dark?
I didnt know. But he needs to do it for both their
sakes.
18 June
After the evening with Simon in the club and my first
meeting with Rita, I stayed away from the readings, mainly
because I felt I had trespassed on their privacy. But I didnt
stay away for their sakes: I feared a reciprocal or reactive
trespass on my privacy. There were other places to visit. Bath
is only twenty five minutes away over Lansdown. Ive seen
Weston, the best of those resorts. Floating around. Trying to
work out what to do next. Now I know Ill get a hundred and
fifty from the flat helps things. A small place in the West
here, perhaps. It is a beautiful land. Like a country to itself,
all hills and little plunging valleys. And ancient, sometimes
even holy. Even so, the first time I really saw it like that was
when Rita got Simon to come up here and tell me they were
going for a short spin in the car and would I like to come. I
was thrilled from the instant I saw Simon standing at the door
because I understood immediately from the first glance. Not
only because of Rita, but also because I saw what Simon had
done. So dark. I can understand it as an image but I dont
understand its sense. Pushing into the dark. But why? I can
55

see the awfulness of it, the bearing down induces terror

because it is implacable and thinks it does the right thing. Its
like being born. This reminds me now of what the old lad
said to me in the pub before the reading. That is the mans
nightmare and the old lad may have told me the reason: men
fuck women, all the time. Simon cant see that side of it. He
is impotent. That means that the image of her dancing on his
penis was untrue. I was so wrong there. He loved that girl.
She was like him. But what did he do to her?
Rita sat in the back, behind me. She was quiet, her eyes
dark and luminous. Simon chatted about Bristol and the area
we were driving through, down through Pensford and
Clutton. It was a peculiar terrain, incomplete in some way,
you cant seem to see anything clearly; for long enough, I
mean. Then you climb up to the transmitter and see the levels
below. This is the way in. Wells at the bottom. I had seen the
cathedral before, in seventy four; now there was no
scaffolding and it was decently glorious. It had taken over
some of the quality of the old Abbey, thank goodness. A
writer often presents a thought first in an action in his work,
so he can have an image of it to work on, but what happens
when the world suddenly gives the image? As a child I had
often seen beaches in this way, as you go through a tunnel
and the seaside is revealed as though gigantic doors opened
slowly before you. That was the levels. All the hills, and
Glastonbury Tor just in front of me. We didnt spend long in
Wells and, I suppose I was speaking a lot now, Rita moved
over so we could see one another. She had revealed all. I felt
I had known her for so long, but in a tantalising way, known
her without experiencing this knowledge of her. She gazed at
me. She wont wear her glasses in public. She was dressed in
56

thin cotton trousers, a pallid green, that were too tight, and a
shirt that folded well on her when she moved. Showing off
what she thinks is her figure, her thighs.
Simon was quieter and after a walk around
Glastonbury said he would drive about while Rita and I
climbed the Tor. We tried to drink at the well, but it was full
of hippies washing their feet. I was disappointed. However,
we set out on the slope. Rita likes being out of doors and
walking, but her experience of walking is limited. She has
never immersed herself in hills for days on end, walking into
that world. But we talked with increasingly shorter breaths,
about walks wed had and about walks wed like to do. I
would like to walk down some more rivers. Rita cant get
anyone to go walking with her on Dartmoor. I looked at her
so much that I hardly noticed the world around me, and
before I had realised it we came out onto the summit, the
ruined tower in front of us. We sank on to the turf and Rita
gave me half a bar of chocolate. There were raisins in it,
which were refreshing. I was very thirsty and regretted we
could not drink at the well. I lay on my back and told myself
where I was. I was still surprised at finding myself on the
Tor. I had half-deliberately resisted the urge to drive over
here, though I did see the Tor from Chapel Hill in Weston. It
had rained almost continuously in seventy four. Just after the
autumn equinox. There had been a peal of thunder while I
stood beside St Michaels Tower. Just before I wrote my first
novel. It was years before I realised that.
I told Rita about this. She was very taken by it. She
asked me how long I would stay in the West Country this
time.
57

I dont know. Ive been thinking about that too. At

that time, I wasnt sure I could afford something like that.
Do you drift? And her eyes grew worried. I realised
that Rita rarely sees her own eyes clearly, so like a blind
person her eye-language was not censored. The remainder of
her face is fairly stiff, as London faces are.
No. I need somewhere new outside London.
Youre selling your place there?
Yes. As soon as we can. She was extremely aware of
the we, but, as I learned, Rita takes it all in and says
nothing. I sensed sadness in that. She wants to think better of
herself, so she listens to what people say to her, and focuses
on what she thinks is good for her to know. So I turned the
conversation: Did you come down here when you got
married?
Yes. She opened now, wanting to talk. Before I got
married. He was working here then.
What happened, Rita? The world around us was full
of little rolling hills fading into the ridges of higher land.
When, Richard? Oh you mean my last marriage.
Drink destroyed his job and then he put me out in the middle
of the night and called me an adulteress.
I said nothing, only nodded, seeing her burn.
It took months to get him to agree to a divorce, even
on his terms. I lost everything I owned. He kept my son.
She spoke matter-of-factly. Bitterness burned, but it
was shallow, appealing to an idea, not an emotion. Perhaps
she could do nothing else. I nodded.
How old is your son?

58

Twelve. Ive another son. Hes almost twenty now.

Hes in America with his father. He was shy, but now hes
coming out of it. The whole sense of this child was happier.
What are their names?
The eldest is Phillip. She paused then, looking at
something intractable that she accepted. The relationship with
her first husband was over but she still liked to see him now
and again.
And the second boy?
Michael. Thats my husbands name too. She looked
at me, raising a hard fact for me.
I smiled. Youre surrounded by Michaels then. I
pointed at the tower. Why so many husbands, Rita? Ive
never married.
She caught the implication and remained silent.
Getting married is what it is all about. I was charmed by the
limitation set her, it so sharply defined the arena for her
struggle, gave it a direction.
She asked nothing about my past. She wasnt
interested, always keyed for the future as expectation. The
future was her refuge. I say now: I can feel that future merge
with mine.
We walked around the top then, looking down and
pointing views out to each other. Then we walked around the
tower, talking about something, almost chatting, except that I
can remember the way she walked then. Short tripping
London steps, but something springing in her body all the
time. Even sedate husbands looked at her, little boys too. It
was a universal language. Women held her in contempt,
calling her a tart, no doubt. Then we wandered off the top to
one side and sat in deep grass looking south towards what I
59

know now is Exmoor. She smiled at me, lifting her shoulders

to hug herself and leaned against me. I put my arm, my left
arm, around her and she rested her temple against my cheek.
We talked for an hour. When I kissed her, her lips were
as stiff as any English womans, but when I moved mine she
relaxed at once and then it was fine. We were lost in our
conversation and we were lost in each others body, hardly
touching after we had felt one anothers face. Imagine desire
without the motivation to be satisfied. We had to talk,
bursting to talk, searching one another with words, too much
movement for bodies to handle. Eyes could cope, but nothing
else. The same eyes over and over again, reading and reading.
The image came slowly, surprising at times, vindicating at
other times. Expectation overcomes rejection. She does think
she is a good person; she thinks well of herself and is used to
the world thinking less well of her. Her main vice is a
covetousness that grabs what is given and hides it for herself.
Hunger, of course; never to be satisfied. This is the
complication, I think. She gives what she has in return. Never
replete, her giving will becoming overwhelming. The flame
to the moth. I remembered then what I had written after my
last visit to the Tor: You get what you need as you need it.
But even that left a strain in me. I wasnt sure I would be able
for her. I could feel the desire and that made me content, even
though I could not see an end to the desire. I would become
lost in that desire, exposed utterly.
Years ago, I attempted to write poetry, and came to see
that poetry ends in flames. Now I see that prose also ends in
flames theres no escaping it, this journal teaches me. All
will be burned to silence: the image finds its reality. Now I
want this, knowing I have no choice.
60

We were aware that Simon was probably waiting, it

put a pressure on us after a while. We walked back down the
hill with some regret. But there was also sufficient
satisfaction for me to dare to ask her what she wanted. She
snuggled her shoulders again and leaned towards me and
said, with the bright gravity of a child: I want to know. And
I took her hand. It fitted mine perfectly, each finger aware.
Ill teach you, I said equally as seriously, meaning it. She
turned to me and I embraced her, lifting her so our groins
pressed together. Her eyes flared, body jolting. Her body was
sturdier than it appeared, fitting my arms. I think now that
Rita was prepared to make love on the side of the Tor. She
had told Simon, in some indirect way, not to come up there
with us. She had not expected the question, nor such a
promise, and then that kind of conscious embrace, which
gave recognition to our bodies. To feel that kind of power in
an embrace without needing it to exhaust itself in passion.
That was our first lesson. I decided then to write to her
and teach her that way. She would hoard it to herself and it
would enter her surely. We were sad at the bottom of the hill.
There would be other experiences, but that one will never be
repeated. The well was still filled with hippies washing their
feet. It is near the solstice, I realise. But it frustrated me. I
was parched. I remembered then the outflow into the adjacent
lane. We drank with out hands, with relief and enjoyment.
Then I felt the day complete.
I forgot to mention that the cosmetics she used
enhanced her so much. Very skilfully done, just the right
touch. I remember now that she put on the lipstick just before
Simon dropped us off. It magnetised her whole body. I was
61

fully conscious of it at the time. No wonder I was thrilled

when Simon called.

19 June
Louise came out last evening, straight from her work. I
had never seen her dressed like this before; her office clothes.
A black corduroy skirt, very sheer, just indicating the tops of
her hips and flattening nicely across her buttocks, then down
to the base of her knees, then down shin and calf to the court
shoes. Deep violet polo vest, that strangely translucent pure
violet, very clinging, no bra seen. Over that a cream shirt,
cuffs, open to the waist almost, so it lay in a vee up her body.
I was stunned. Her hair zizzled. Of course, I thought of the
Medusa, and other visions of wild, ecstatic hierophants. Her
eyes were like marbles, her lips like inner tyres, her put-on
bright smile as though someone had kicked her in the arse. I
have seen many office types. Some really sharp ones, but
only one sexy. Its a total put-on. Louise is in with the best of
them. She keeps coming up out of her clothes at you. But the
violet, that was just magic. Down from red to violet to black.
Up from black to violet to red. Louise dressed her breasts.
I have these details because Louise gave me the time to
look. Is she imitating Rita or is Rita speaking to her too. Then
she swung down the short corridor to my room. I dont like
the room, but it has the virtue of keeping me alert: I wont be
in it long. Inside, she turned and looked like someone peering
through a window. Then she shrugged. There is a quality in
Louise that is very hard to catch. I feel I am always getting
images of Louise, never the real soul of her. Except for
62

Margaret, Ive never experienced this before in this

significant way I am actually involved with her. But I
quickly grasped the shape of Margaret: I feel Louise is
much more elusive than that. She said Richard, down on the
first syllable and rising slowly on the second. It mixed an
entreaty with a sense of exasperation this not fully focused.
Im sorry to barge in on you like this. I see youre
writing. I had just finished that comment on Rita when she
called. Peter asked me last night if I would remind you that
you promised youd read tomorrow night. I said yes of course
I would and only then remembered that you dont have a
phone in this place.
All her clothes came to rest just then. I smiled at the
quality of her introduction this evening. She smiled her
friend-smile and said Hello in a cheery way and then turned
and let herself fall face down on the bed.
I had been gearing myself up for tea as I wrote that
comment on Rita, so I went out to the kitchen and made tea.
She sat on the bed to drink tea with me. I think she is learning
to relax in my company, though I doubt she knows that yet.
Now I have seen her elusiveness, I can see her drinking that
tea and being so many Louises. She took the shirt off at one
stage, it began to get in her way, and I said after a while:
Louise, you have a truly superb presence. She reacted to
that, of course, fighting and snarling through so many roles.
But always the peevish young teenager, lips curled, knowing
she is on a wrong track but the energy wont stop coming.
And she wants the right track without any longer knowing
why. She started to put the shirt on again, then stopped, said,
I said I loved you on Wednesday night, and pulled it off
again. I realised then that she had all my attention. And what
63

did I say, Louise? She looked like a mermaid for some

reason. You said I wasnt afraid of you. I had taken that for
granted. I nodded, and as I wondered the same thought, she
said Are you afraid of me? And I said, a screen lifting, what
I had always wanted to say since reading it in Eliot: I am
afraid. The decent role came on and she looked at the
fingertips of her left hand, embraced by the fingers of her
right hand: You werent afraid last Wednesday, Richard.
Thank goodness for that.
Love is a search, the lover has not the time to be found.
The lover is always afraid of being discovered. I said, That
was out of friendship, Louise. Then I felt at ease with her,
perhaps part of her world. Loving you would terrify me. A
new persona appeared, grave, younger than she is. Why?
And I wondered how Simon experienced the incest with her.
Did he experience this ease and yet the terror approaching? I
said, I could never get to you, Louise. And she changed
again, more like she was the night I first saw her. Allure is
the word. The colours on her stood out against my red quilt
cover, picking up her lips, adding the colour needed. I must
tell her to wear more red, despite her hair. Her legs were bare.
It had puzzled me, I kept seeing white when I looked at her
skirt and couldnt understand why. I said, totally off the
point, I felt, though not relieved: You dont wear stockings
while working? She reached, opened her little bag and pulled
out the dark legs of her stockings. Took them off in the car.
Pushed the nylon back and threw the bag on the bed, and said
with finality, For you, Richard.
I stood up. I couldnt make more tea. A gate was open,
but I wasnt running in. Nor would you, Tony. It was good to
know that the gate, as it were, was open. There was far more
64

in there than a body. I said, more loudly, my back to her,

waving my hands. Music! And she jumped from the bed
and went to the discs, bending to read the titles. I nipped
around her, pulled out Emotional Rescue and loaded the
player, powering up rapidly, set the volume and retreated to
the apex of the cone to catch the very first sound, that drum. I
was dancing before she knew what was happening. She
grabbed the volume control and turned it deliberately until
the music began to reverb in the room. I darted in, dropped
the volume and put some power in for the beat, until it was
all over the room, furniture swaying. She ran her hands
through her hair, yelped and kicked her shoes off. We
concentrated on dancing, letting it loosen us up. The next
track and I wondered, with deja-vu, what was happening. I
was going through quantum leaps. Yet I was motoring to the
music, watching Louises skirt move she threw her arms
about too much. Then I switched on the two side lamps,
yellow light to drown the cheerlessness of the room. I danced
close to her for Send it to me, touching her sometimes, getting
her arms under control, until she put them on my shoulders,
so I could take her hips and get us in tandem. So we pumped
then, passing rhythm but no constriction otherwise. That was
pure bliss. Then apart for the next track, swinging now from
side to side, seeing one another oscillating. We were
generating. We broke the swing simultaneously and came
together, hip swinging with hip, the drum rolls creating an
assertive pulse that brought belly to belly, and then down into
that body swing with body.
We stood together, tremoring then, and I knew I was
holding Louise. I had caught up with myself. I said as warmly
as I could into her ear, feeling something flying away from
65

us, Hello, Louise. I wouldnt always know her. Thats what

hurt me about her. One of us would die first, most likely me.
I must try to live within that fact. Thats why love always
seems not to be enough and why we love divinity most of all.
I went and lowered the music. Louise, Im fifty one. What
age are you? We can never let go long enough to love
enough. I started dancing again to Where the boys all go and
motored up again as the pace picked up. The next track left
me hanging. Twenty two. I folded my arms, then unfolded
them, and put my hands instead on the crooks of her arms.
When you are forty, I will be seventy two. I easily fended
off bitterness; I had done what I wanted to do with my life.
Over, Louise. The face this time was the one I saw her and
Simon share. I shook her gently. Louise. She turned to me,
loss in her face. You want a father.
Emotional rescue came on, hit me by surprise as
always, and I danced away, trying to pick up all the rhythm.
With the Stones every note acts rhythmically as well as
tonally: thats how you dance to them every note is a pulse,
and dont worry about how the pulses connect. She came and
danced with me, stepping up to the beat, swinging to the
resonant bass, shoulders and breasts swinging in perfect time.
I rested, out of synch again until kicked into action again by
the last track. Sang the words, hitting the emphasis. I couldnt
dance as Louise danced. I really dance for myself, to hear the
music. Louise was dancing for me, raunchy, abandoned, cool,
enjoying it to her hearts content. I felt the reek rising again;
the contortion in her face, concentrating on getting maximum
push in her body. She was raising something in herself.
I switched off the disc and stood looking at the shelves
of discs. I knew I had lost contact with her. I know now what
66

happened, but then all I felt was that she had gone beyond my
comprehension. Not that I didnt know what was happening,
but that I didnt know why she would offer me all this. Other
women have danced for me, usually to distract from their
inability to really dance. Louise danced for me and could
dance. If that is all that happened, then I would have passed it
off as my own susceptibility, not her dancing. But just then I
felt I had lost control of the situation, and saw also that I had
lost control of the situation in London. I had left Angie; I was
no longer leaving her. I had no home, no place for myself.
For music I chose Pleasuredome, starting with Relax. I see
myself back in my early twenties, on the move. Transient,
invisible, going through worlds, learning to look. I was
behind myself again. Louise said Dance and she was there
in the nude, looking as though she was going to swim. I
stared and she said crossly, Dont you go to parties,
Richard? You cant really dance to this music. Move to it,
yes. I said, honestly: It doesnt suit you, Louise. Do you do
that at parties? Immediately: No. Ive seen others do it. I
think it is a nice thing to do. It lets the body free. Have you
ever danced naked, Richard?
It was the most coherent thing she had ever said to me.
No. I said. Ive never thought of it. Born to run started and
she said, Then come on, Richard. She danced and I
undressed as quickly as I could, switching off the lamp beside
the audio, and learned to dance naked. Its difficult. Your
body has nothing to push against: a tight waistband is most
important for dancing. Without this resistance the bodys
movements change. More movement points, greater
internality, and perfect balance. Of course, the music had
changed, and Louise was dancing all over, and her body
67

glowed, heat on her white skin. She taught me how to dance.

How to knit your own rhythm across the music and dance to
both. The music became obscure and we danced complicated
rhythms over this. I was cold; I was beginning to dance well,
knowing at the same time that I was missing much. My body
was extended below me, moving, and I felt cold. Its like
standing in a poor street on a miserable day with your dick
hanging out. Louise says that is because I have such a poor
opinion of my body. Then the music picked up and I danced
to warm myself. I felt the glow rising in me, pulsing. She was
raising it in me now. To match her: why she seemed to be
glowing.
With that I clicked into gear and saw that it was a
matter of handling. Wills are dark. I said to her, What do you
want me to do, Louise?
I want to talk to you.
Why are we dancing naked, then? Black night white
night then.
So I could answer that question, Richard.
Her presence is very powerful, but also becoming more
confiding. I saw what she had done, and laughed. You
havent answered the question yet, Louise. And of course
she said at once, I have, Richard.
You said you wanted to talk. I had lost myself again.
Louise said:
Thats right. She was moving very slightly to the
music, which had gone down again, and I started to dance
again, very close to her. There is no passion in this,
understand this is what I am saying now for what follows:
I take her by the waist. Her skin is smooth because
cool, the muscle flat no pushing my arm slips, finding no
68

hold, and then shaping itself around her, not touching but
hovering precisely. She swings in and draws her arm behind
my knees and up my body. It is the utter coolness of it. You
know there is something there. Our two bodies were there,
cool, taut, moving so fast. You see then that desire has a
name: having a name it has a past, which means that your
will is not your own. So many desires there already by the
time you start using it. The will must be purified before it can
become your will, so allowing you to discover what your will
is. Two bodies like this can learn. There seemed to be a violet
glow on her body and I clasped both her breasts; she brought
up palms between my legs. I seemed to rise, and a stinging
went down my penis. I buckled then and reeled to the bed. I
lay out flat and Louise lay on top of me, gyrating her body on
me. My hands followed the curves of her body, changing
always as she gyrated. Then I rolled her over, diving down to
suckle her and she brought her thigh up between my thighs
and pressed. That is how a woman makes a child suckle
quickly and get it over with. I came up to kiss her lips and she
twisted her head away, smiling. So I kissed down her body
and across the pubic hair to her vagina. Cool, slightly acrid
taste, like the sea. What a dog does because it has no hands.
Drawn to her anus, caressed all those curves, knowing that
the anus is the seat of character: nothing gets in. And only
shit goes out. But then I rolled her over, pressed her down
and lay along her, and though no music was playing we
started to dance. She came up on her hands and knees and I
entered her fully and we rode and rode, lost in the blue-white
trance of our bodies alive. We rode on watching the flare in
our bodies, until everything rode into light and we saw our
bodies united in bliss and travelled universes coming down.
69

You see, there was no need for passion. Just offer no

resistance: passion is always suffering. We lay side by side,
not touching, not particularly aware of the other, for a long
time. The great beauty of this coming down is that you dont
actually see any images and you know naming the subtle
weaving of black and white universes is a joke that should
be enjoyed then. And once you realise that, you also realise
that the black and white is the light-shade texture on our
bodies, now that the sun has come round to the window. I
shivered then I looked at her body and caressed it all the way
down to her toes. She stretched and stretched, moaning in a
low relaxed voice as I did. Then she rolled off the bed and ran
to the audio asking What will I play, Richard? What would
you like now, this minute?
I said, Then play on. I hadnt heard that for years.
Bought the tape in Dublin after hearing it at a party. The last
time I was there. Blues. And blue bodies. I was freezing.
Louise stood looking at me, happy, and asked: Was that real,
Richard? The music was reminding me even as we talked:
that Trinity friend of yours, Tony, crashing down.
Remember? I never saw a crash down quite like that before.
He just started moving at a new level. I didnt think you
were a virgin, Louise. This came out before I could stop it. I
remembered her frigidity. Im not, Richard. I went through
the stage of keeping up with the other girls. I sat down.
And? She sat beside me. We knew nothing. Absolutely
nothing except get it done. I smiled and smiled. It was your
idea, Louise. Look what youve done. At last she was
nonplussed. I realised I had jumped levels. How what you do
haunts you, looking for responsibility. People who get
happier as they get older, do so because remembering your
70

past gives it a future. She looked really hidden then. I smiled

again, languid now, the music moody. I didnt, Richard.
Coming up, I knew instantly she was taking her risk: I loved
it, Richard, and I loved that you were with me. I smiled
again. Louise, remember what I said, knowing at the same
time that it didnt concern her. Nor did it concern me. I
nodded. OK. I couldnt see the future. I could make a
choice: go back to the future or stay forever here with Louise.
I realise now it was stark. The choice had to be made. I
asked her about Rita. I like Rita. I know how you respond to
her. You are good to her. She bent to catch my eye. She put
me up to this. Coming here tonight, I mean. She touched my
arm and I tingled. She wants a family badly, Richard. I
wasnt troubled about Rita. There is a choice; until the choice
is made there is no wrong or right. Either will restrict me, that
is what choice is. I told her we had an argument last
Wednesday. Richard, she senses something about us. She
went decent suddenly, body all drooping, and said: Im to be
your daughter, Richard. And Simon my son. I laughed
because it was true. And poor Rita, what does she know
about this?
I put my gown on and made tea and sandwiches.
Eating, I asked her about Simon.
He has done something. I realise now how he used to
treat me. Thats not in him now, I think, Richard.
How did he treat you? Just so I have a concept, I
mean.
He used to frighten me so much that it hurt. Once he
tied me by my hands to a tree and I couldnt do anything to
stop him.
Stop him doing what?
71

Touching me. He always revolted me.

I thought then it couldnt be so easy. Come on, I said.
What about just now?
Thats what they do, Richard. Loads of people I know.
I mean, when it happens. Loads of my friends hate being
touched.
I began to feel muggy. Drooping down in myself. It
was only then I believed what had happened. It was real. I
told Louise that it had been real.
That made her happy again and she glowed. We
dressed and Louise asked me to go for a walk. We went along
the Chippenham Road down towards Warmley, arms linked.
At the last brow I took her across the road to show her the
Golden Valley, the Wick church centre of a low ridge, the
end of the Cotswolds forming the horizon to the east, the road
to Lansdown going up and down until finally up on to the
ridge to lord it over Bath and look back and not find
Kingswood.
It was that sort of view, especially on a sunny June
evening, lit by gold light, that tells me who the English are.
Its actually an industrialised suburb of Bristol, but from the
distance you get perspectives and curves. We walked part of
the way down the hill, stopped at a pub, and decided to walk
back again. I was at peace, not even the traffic grinding up
the hill could break that. We didnt speak till we got to her
car. I looked at her clothes again.
You were beautiful tonight, Louise.
I know. She touched her car. Have you left that
woman in London? Angie? She didnt wait for an answer.
Richard, Im frightened. We must settle this quickly.
72

The choice didnt seem so important now. What I

wrote above about the view confirms that Louise makes love
like this without touching because she hates touching. And all
those who hate touching do the same. I fucked protestant
tonight.
Its quite a good programme, despite the attenuation.
Settle what? How often do we address one another by
name. We dont know one another at all.
You cant say no now. Not now.
I opened the door and she got in, rolling down the
window: And I dont have to say yes yet. That was the
proper answer. I have only seen this world from the outside
up to now.
Louise was going back to running all her characters. I
said, Ill see you tomorrow evening. Be careful.
Last thing I noticed were her bare legs pumping the
pedals as she drove away.
I walked back and viewed the Golden Valley again.
Smiling at myself, safe now: the view was pure Noddy Land.
I was very happy.
I came back in and put on Bachs Prelude and Fugue
in E flat Major and wrote all this down.

73

NOTEBOOK FOUR
20 June
I have to prepare for the Graves reading.
I am numb, sober. I am happy.
Louise can never let anyone but me touch her. That
power exists now, whether she or I likes it or not. But it is a
belief only: I told her before that I cant own her, not even to
save her from herself. She can only reveal herself to me: does
she know that yet? She tried very hard last night.
Im happy because I revealed my fear to her and then
trusted her. (I trusted her because, despite what she might
think, she doesnt control her will; last night my declaration
of fear controlled it: it replaced her own terror. Thus she
acted for both of us.)

21 June
There was little preparing to do. Five short poems, the
last of which I had almost forgotten about, and a half-page of
comment in the little notebook. With a sinking feeling, I
realised my talk would take about fifteen minutes: John had
spoken for an hour last week. I felt the vacuation in me
because I would be at their mercy for the rest of the evening:
I could not prepare for that.
To top this, I could not find my car keys. I didnt have
time to search thoroughly, so I took a bus in. Luckily the
forty two goes across the city and up through Clifton. I
planned to use the journey to reflect on the poems in an
74

attempt to flesh out my comments, but the people on the bus

interested me more. Its only as a newcomer that you can see
people in the round. Im still amazed by our innocence. We
trust our individual universes so much, and, moreover, our
universes, except in extreme circumstances for a few, return
that trust. Naturally, I thought about my own universe and
saw its boundaries at the abysses of ignorance, the future and
the buried past. Despite what the sciences imply, anything
could happen at any instant. The power of our universes is
very great, to prevent that happening most of the time. Our
capacity to establish relations, connections, a power we are
profoundly habituated to, must be the greatest of our powers.
It expresses our deepest fear, that things might fall apart,
utterly. What might be revealed then? What if we recognised
it?
Peter was waiting for me in the bar and ordered a drink
as I crossed the threshold. The old lad was leaning on the bar.
He looked at me, eyes narrowing, and I knew he had been
programmed with another appalling utterance. He is, of
course, the Guardian of the Threshold. Im in that sort of
universe now, working towards it over the last thirty years.
Peter was affable, doing it very well. Then, as some of the
others arrived, Old Bill moved deftly to my side and said
deliberately, his eyes bright: Mad is man with his legs
closed. Jonas came up then. Old Bill glanced at him then
went back to his post at the end of the bar. I said candidly to
Jonas:
Who tells Old Bill those things?
Jason gave me a lovely smile, buoyant: He was with
Aleister Crowley in his last years. He doesnt speak to
everyone, Richard. He touched my right elbow, a particular
75

gesture I accepted as a lesson. Seeing Jason glance at Peters

back nearby, I understood that I was never to touch him like
that. Then Jason touched the inside of my wrist with the tip of
his forefinger: how I was to mark Peter. I nodded and Jason
said conversationally: Nervous about the reading?
I was candid again: Its a lot shorter that Johns last
week. What about the rest of the evening?
Jason smiled again: Oh, it wont be wasted, Richard.
Look, dont be nervous of Christine. He indicated the elderly
woman who had wanted to sit beside me last Wednesday.
She is good.
Edward sailed in, had his drink at once, and breezed
towards the stairs with Alvin in tow, saying loudly: You
know, shop girls wont let you get too close. Thats their
charm, really. Like art, Alvin, dont you think?
In his wake came first Louise, looking lost for once,
then Simon, still in his dark office suit, looking drunk, and
finally, to my surprise, though I should not have been, Rita
came in looking at me, smiling for me, dressed in what I
realised later was her little black number. It had a kind of
flounce at the waist, over the hips, that made her look like a
black fly learning to fly. But the others loved it. I thought at
first it was all very English until I saw that her knees and
shins shone with the most radiant sexuality. She had those
plain thinnish legs that are so extraordinarily sexy when
seated or otherwise focused. Alvin and Peter took her
downstairs. Simon said to Jonas: Say its in the future, and
you go into this very high-security record store and you go
along looking at all the electronic gimmickry and fads youve
been hearing for years and years, and you suddenly see a
copy of Emotional Rescue on its own in a stand. You reach to
76

buy it and all the lights, sirens, flashing message screens, and
security bubs pointing rifles at you come on. Simon gave his
long jeering grin and said to me, See, no heart. What do you
think, Richard? I said Boom at the right pitch and he threw
up his arms and shouted, Thats it! I started the drift to the
stairs. At least I wouldnt have him beside me this evening.
He caught up and said, Fuck you. I heard about it, Richard.
His tone surprised me, a mixture of betrayal and capitulation.
Shit, man, she just doesnt like that album. Why did you do
that to her? I understood immediately. The album Louise
associates with her torment. I said, candid again, Actually,
Simon, she likes it very much. Didnt you know that? The
taunt was deliberate: she likes it, Simon. I said it
spontaneously.
Louise was sitting with Rita facing where I would sit
with Peter. Both were dancing in their seats. A thumb up to
them and I crossed to Peter, who was talking to Edward and
Christine. Edward introduced us and I shook her hand very
fully. She is in her mid sixties, likes textured fabrics, wool,
brocade, lace, and there is always a silvered quality to the
colours. I realised that I know only two women of authority.
This woman I met last night and my agent, Kathy. I started
by addressing her as Miss Ruthven but she said in genuine
surprise, Oh no, Richard, Christine. Please. And that was
our conversation. She is a remarkable mixture of
determination and what is properly modesty. Peter towed me
to our seats, everyone sat down, and Peter put his hand to his
mouth and said:
Richard, whom most of you know by now, has agreed
to give a little talk about graves and their significance. He
gestured towards me and I felt every head turn. I think we
77

are honoured to have Richard present among us for a short

while. I hope he learns as much from us as we hope to learn
from him this evening.
That chilled me. Nevertheless I spotted the little lectern
and took out the note book. This account of my talk and the
dialogues afterwards is accurate in sense and sequence, but
not word for word. I must note here that I did not say what I
had planned to say:
Most people read literature as they would a
newspaper. But literature should be read by trying to
understand it, rather than as though it were understood
already. What I am going to read to you and the comments I
propose making are merely the thinnest of slivers of
understanding shone on the universe of our ignorance of what
literature is telling us. I will connect the poems with
comments and then I will attempt to show you what connects
the poems.
I want to draw your attention to the struggle in Robert
Graves work between words and what can be called vision,
and then show you what stands between the words and the
visions, that is, who the writer struggles with.
The first poem I will read is Graves first poem,
written when he was about thirteen:
I sat in my chamber yesternight,
I lit the lamp, I drew the blind
And I took my pen in hand to write;
But boisterous winds had rent the blind
And you were peeping from behind Peeping Tom in the skies afar,
Bold, inquisitive, impudent star!
78

What I want you to notice here is that the words serve

simply to convey the vision, that starlight is offered in place
of human light, and that the earth serves the star. The true
innocence and spontaneity of the poem is seen where Graves
calls the star a Peeping Tom, a male, but indifferently so,
generalised type: he merely wants the sense, not the image.
The next poem is an excerpt from The Cool Web, written by
Graves in his early thirties. I think you will grasp the
significance of the theme:
But if we let our tongues lose self-possession,
Throwing off language and its watery clasp
Before our death, instead of when death comes,
Facing the wide glare of the childrens day,
Facing the rose, the dark sky and the drums,
We shall go mad no doubt and die that way.
Its about abandoning language. Graves by then had
built his word-world and was discovering its limitations.
Words are like water, inconstant. And yet consider what the
child sees. The sky is dark and yet he can see a rose. This is
the vision, and Graves is terrified of it.
At the end of his life he wrote two poems that show us
how Graves apparently resolved this dilemma. The first poem
is entitled The Black Goddess:
Silence, words into foolishness fading,
Silence prolonged, of thought so secret
We hush the sheep bells and loud cicada.
79

And your black agate eyes, wide open, mirror

The released firebird beating his way
Down a whirled avenue of blues and yellows.
Should I not weep? Profuse the berries of love,
The speckled fish, the filberts and white ivy
Which you, with half-smile, bestow
On your delectable land of promise
For me, who never went gay in plumes.
The black eyes, agate, are, of course, the dark sky of
the earlier poems, and shining out is the, as it were, opened
rose. The firebird and whirling avenue are a sufficient image
of it for Graves. The abundance overwhelms him and makes
him humble.
The title of the second poem is, I think, ambiguous.
On the one hand the title, which is I will write, condenses the
theme of the poem very well, but as a promise by Graves is
fulfilled by the poem itself. In writing this late poem, what is
Graves promising to tell us?
He had done for her all that a man could,
And, some might say, more than a man should.
Was there a flame so recklessly blown out
On a last goodbye so negligent as this?
I will write to you, she muttered briefly,
Then walked away, nor ever turned about...
Long letter written and mailed in her head There are no mails in a city of the dead.
80

First notice the reference to flame. The firebird, the

rose and the star are removed from Graves by the woman.
And her promise to write to him? Graves knows it cannot be
fulfilled, there is no postal service. And yet, she writes letters.
But she doesnt communicate them. She writes the secret
poetry of silence, that is, vision. Graves tells us here that the
vision can be withdrawn, but does not tell us why.
To get a glimpse of some of the reasons, I will read
you this last poem, written by Graves during the war, called
Through Nightmare:
Never be disenchanted of
That place you sometimes dream yourself into
Lying at large remove beyond all dream,
Or those you find there, though but seldom
In their company seated.
The untameable, the live, the gentle.
Have you not known them? Whom? They carry
Time cooped so river-wise about their house
Theres no way in by historys road
To name or number them.
In your sleepy eyes I read the journey
Of which disjointedly you tell; which stirs
My loving admiration, that you should travel
Through nightmare to a lost and moated land,
Who are timorous by nature.
In an obvious way, Graves tells us that the woman is
capable of direct vision. (At this point I realised that my
81

argument was completely wrong. I immediately lost interest

in what I was saying and looked at the circle of upturned
faces. What I then said was delivered in a more hesitant way
than the text here indicates.) If you compare Graves own
vision in the Black Goddess with the womans here, you see
that whereas Graves is humiliated by the lower levels of
creation, the fish-word lost in the sea and the rose is the
wintry ivy, the woman enters the company of her kindred.
Furthermore, it can be inferred what while the woman sees
paradise, the man merely see the woman. This is indicated,
for instance, in the means used respectively to communicate
their visions, carefully worked poems and indifferent verbal
narrative.
That is what Graves tells us in those few poems. And
the only question remaining in need of an answer, Why did
the woman promise to write to him? Im afraid that I, at least,
cannot tell you, except to point out that she does write what
for him are long letters, but in her head, a poetry of silence.
I measured it to the chair and sat down. I could hear the
clink of glasses upstairs in the bar. Do they know what goes
on down here? Then Christine said clearly: Congratulations,
Richard. And then Rita and Louise began to clap loudly, and
then everyone was clapping. I was stunned and dropped right
out again, wondering what would happen to me. Peter waited,
then raised his hand and said: I would like to compliment
Richard on his presentation of this very enjoyable talk. I must
be the first here to confess that I have never listened to poetry
in that way. He smiled down and patted my shoulders with
stiff fingers. Now, would any of you like to put a question to
Richard? Im sure he would be delighted to give an answer.
82

Simon said immediately, leaning forward to stare at

me, Wisdom. Yes, Richard, but so what? Does this matter, if
they are both happy?
I absolutely did not understand the question and yet
answered, as I clearly remember, It does, Simon, because
there is more than that. Consider, if you all will, the first
vision, the first poem Graves composed. The star is given to
the child. The vision is given to the man. But the Woman is
present to her vision, having no choice of movement there.
Bear in mind now that this is a mans vision; man looks back
to his childhood before language to where the woman is
present, the rose. Some hold to that vision and attempt in life
to create it, and seek from the woman the images. All artists
do this. Even so, the question remains, Why did the woman
promise to write? The answer is quite simple. The letters the
man expects could not express a fraction of what a woman
writes in her actually being alive. The woman does write if
man could see.
That stunned me, and it stunned everyone. I was
staring at Rita staring at me. I wished I had a drink. The
silence lasted. Peter was struggling to decide whether to end
the meeting or not. Only about an hour had passed. Then
Rita, always trying to keep it up, asked me in a London
accent that was very noticeable: Richard, the woman goes
through nightmare. Why is that?
It was the bit I had overlooked: I spoke with more
preparation this time, Yes. I had intended drawing another
contrast between the poet and the woman by pointing out that
while Graves vision is simply a childhood gift, the woman
must traverse her terrors in order to achieve vision. The gift is
great and the price is great. For a man to frighten a woman is
83

to drag her away from her vision, to get her to look at him, as
he sees himself, instead. The last sentence came of itself and
I felt the terrible truth of that. I looked into Louises eyes.
Peter raised his hand immediately, perhaps interrupting
Rita again, and asked me, intending to end the reading once I
had answered him: Do you believe that theory, Richard?
I gazed at him, the sweetest smile to lull him, and told
him, Its a vision, Peter. You dont have to believe a vision,
only look at it.
Alvin coughed to forestall Peter and asked in a jovial
academic way: Isnt that sliver pretty thin, Richard, to
produce such a vision?
I complemented his tone by leaning back and saying, I
agree wholeheartedly, Alvin. It wasnt until I came to prepare
for this evening that I realised how thin the material is. But,
you know Alvin, then I remembered what had prompted me
to write down all that poetry. It was a vision. A vision of a
woman all in white. The vision tonight, you see, is a vision of
my words only.
Alvin beamed at me and gave me a silent applaud. I
was beginning to come down again and I didnt want to know
at that moment all that I had said. And then Christine raised
her hand to Peter and smiled at me:
Richard, do you know what the vision of the man is
for the woman?
I saw it just as she spoke but I shook my head and
allowed her to say it.
Paradise. She nodded to acknowledge the privilege.
She paused, looking in a gentle way at me: That is how the
woman should appear to man, Richard, a living inscription of
presence, not a mirror of it. The woman is real, Richard.
84

I felt I was resting in her. Not simply the mother figure.

I said, nodding unnecessarily, I know, Christine.
How do you know, Richard?
She flees me, Christine.
Where to, Richard?
Poetically, into the night, Christine.
Why, Richard?
I stopped there. I held the answer, not believing it. This
is one vision I will never see. A vision of myself.
Christine waited. With the beginning of fear, I realised
that this wasnt it there was more to come. So I said, She
runs from the light, Christine.
Your light, Richard. And what do men do when they
look at the vision of woman?
This wasnt nearly as bad as I had expected. I said
immediately, Write it down and forget it until the next time.
Christine smiled and dropped her palms to her knees.
Well, that is one way of seeing it, I daresay. Another way is
to picture the man leaving signposts so he can take another
look in the future, Richard. She made a movement that
would end the reading after her next sentence. When man
can behold woman then she will learn to behold him. And the
bed is the greatest of the signposts.
People began talking at once and Rita said, coming
over to me: Was Simon rude to you, Richard? From where I
was seated, the flare at her waist appeared to me as a tiny tiny
skirt, the black underneath something so filled with promise.
I wonder now if men can dress that well. I dont think I do.
She sat in the chair Peter had used. I leaned to her, looking at
her eyes, and said, No, Rita, just a misunderstanding. I
thought at that moment she was referring to what Simon had
85

said coming down from the bar. Now I realised she was
referring to the question he had asked during the meeting.
Ive just re-read the passage above. Strange he called the
vision Wisdom. Knowledge, I see now. And Rita asked me
about nightmares, but Louise asked nothing, except to stare at
me when I cautioned about frightening women. Yet Simon
could talk of a man and woman being happy together. I can
only glimpse the meaning of that. I suspect it is not the kind
of happiness I would want.
I said, You look stunning tonight, Rita. How do you
manage to be so sexy? Only then did I remember her knees.
And she replied candidly, her head coming up:
Richard, you are so sexual. Then she quailed a little, almost
defenceless. I didnt fully believe that at the time, having
shifted out again and hearing Peter say a little snottily,
Subsistence would be an absolute claim on capital for the
foreseeable future until, when Jonas bent forward and said in
a curious flat voice: The world appears to us now as
depleted, the profit already taken by man. Is that your
subsistence, Peter? Do you know what you are doing? And
turned to see Christine coming towards me, fingers raised in
greeting. Rita was talking to Edward, Simon was talking to
John. Louise sat where she sat during the reading and turned
a glass between her cupped palms.
She was wearing a red belt on her jeans, the tee-shirt
off-white and loose towards the waist. I stood up and turned
towards her as Christine came up

22 June
86

(Resuming this account, my memory of the distraction

I noticed in Christine, then in Louise and the others, reminds
me of my state of mind last night after I had suspended
writing. Do you know panic? There are no words for the
experience itself, only for our response to it. Last night panic
mounted in me as I wrote, like a vessel filling with a dark
liquid. I noticed this and made a mental note to do the deep
breathing exercises I learned years ago from an old Polish
woman and let the experience go through me. However, I
didnt panic; instead I crawled into bed with the minimum of
disturbance I think to keep my awareness steady and my
consciousness lulled and lay stretched out unmoving for
about two hours. This morning I feel fine, though tired.
It strikes me that I may have experienced panic, after
all, but that I did not resist it, as is our usual response. If this
is true, then it seems to me that vision, when allowed to affect
us fully, brings relief. As a grace, relief diakonia is the
most valuable spiritual gift. It is of tangible benefit to us, but
a grace insofar as we must await its approach. The ancients
figured relief as the narthex of the church, the first step in the
ascent to the love of Christ. However, I experienced relief as
the last step and that I am therefore persuaded that another
spiritual progression is possible: from love through hope and
truth to relief. I say this because my experience of this world
has taught me that love is always present how we respond
to it is our choice but it is the case that our spiritual life has
its origins in this love. Our response then should be one of
hope. But hope for what? To say hope for truth, as such, can
lead us into the sea of human knowledge and set us adrift for
ever. No. We hope for the love that is present to us, that
87

approaches us; we hope which is a desire, after all for

love and the revelation of love. This is the true knowledge:
we have visions, but love writes in our hearts, in our very
being. And it is this true knowledge which beings relief that
is, the end of our search, the relief of hope. The Greeks had a
succinct image of this relief. For them the narthex, the
Christian symbol of relief, meant the fennel rod with which
Prometheus brought fire to man. The Hebrews called it OZ
ChIIM, the Tree of Life. For Graves and many others, it is the
rose, where we must respond to the opening of the rose with a
similar opening in ourselves. The rose expresses the victory
of love over death, the very opening of the rose is made
possible by the slow death of its petals, dying away to reveal
its heart to us. This is what we must also do.)
As I said, Christine was distracted, but she seemed to
like it. I think it made her gentle, the relief she wanted. She
embraced my left wrist with the her fingers of her right hand
and shook it gently in such a way that my arm went limp and
waved up and down. My hand and arm tingled afterwards and
I flexed my hand, which only caused the tingling to spread
into my chest.
She glanced across at Louise and I said; I want to go
over to Louise, Christine.
She nodded in acknowledgement and said as we
walked across, I just wanted to tell you a little story,
Richard. Do you mind? Alvin sat beside Louise and joined
her in staring at the whirling glass between her fingers.
No, Christine. Please do.
She smiled, pleased: I knew a man once, Richard, who
spent much of his lifetime writing his novels. He was
reluctant to offer them for publication, perhaps he would have
88

had difficulty there, I think. Then, after years of labour, just

as he had finished his last, and for him his greatest work, they
were all destroyed in a fire, an accidental fire, I assure you,
Richard. He went out afterwards, utterly ruined and empty,
and mixed with people until one day a girl made him laugh.
He asked her, as he had asked everybody he met, Do you
have a talent? to tell her to protect it and she replied,
Only to make you happy.
We were by now standing before Louise and Alvin,
and we gazed at the turning glass, seeing how it caught the
light and flashed and sparked. I said:
I like that story, Christine. Was she the girl? What
happened?
Christine smiled with infinite patience and
determination: He died about twenty six years ago, Richard.
But he was happy?
I could have made him happier, Richard. She touched
the centre of my chest with the forefinger of her right hand,
an intimate gesture that moved me. Thats why I told you
this. Now she looked at me with broad compassion:
Remember, Richard, when the time comes. Please.
I thought then, wrongly, that she was trying to draw me
to her. I said: I still have my writings, Christine. And some
of them are in publication.
I know, Richard. She glanced at Louise. No. It is
different for you. Malcolm had means. But Richard, please
learn from my experience. Know when to stop.
I nodded and told her what I had not told anybody: I
have stopped. I wont write anymore novels.

89

She tipped her tongue to her lower lip: Are you sure,
Richard? This is the problem, you know. I believe you are
working on a novel now.
I glanced again at Louise. Its only a journal,
Christine. The habit of writing is strong. I must wean myself
from the habit.
Christine turned to go. Good. Then remember,
Richard, give up the visions. If a woman wants to make you
happy, I mean.
I put my hand on her forearm and pressed the withered
flesh: Yes. I will, Christine.
That made her content. I sat beside Louise and touched
her arm. She said, looking at me with a quizzical confiding
air: We danced for each other, Richard. Didnt we?
I know you danced for me, Louise. The decency had
come up in her. Did I dance for you? I didnt feel good
enough for that, to be honest.
She stopped the glass, placed it on the floor, and laid
her hand on mine: Oh you did, Richard. You were splendid.
You are such a good dancer, you know. I hope you dance for
me again.
Always, Louise. I said this spontaneously, knowing
as I spoke that I was not sure if this could be true. A mans
capacity is very great: men have so much energy. Woman, in
my experience, cannot or are unwilling to absorb so much.
Sooner or later there is deflection.
But Louise brightened when I said this and asked:
Does that mean yes, Richard?
It did. I saw that it did. I nodded and Louise looked
down at her denim-encased legs. I realised then that I had
noticed very little of Louise that evening, compared with
90

Rita, I mean. She looked at ease in the springy way her

generation does in the drab clothes.
Ill speak to Simon, Richard.
I touched her thigh with my knuckles. No. Its not
necessary, Louise.
I saw you talking to him. What did you say?
About Emotional Rescue. I said you liked it.
She seemed to fill and broaden, her eyes crinkling with
amusement. Oh, what did you say exactly, Richard?
I said, as best I can remember now: Louise likes it,
didnt you know that.
She threw her head back, laughing in a jolly way I had
never seen before. Youre a bit of a sly boots, Richard.
Then she lowered her voice, speaking into my ear. Do you
know he is impotent? I nodded. Her hair grazed my face.
And he hates dancing. He bangs things when the music
affects him.
He wants stillness, I said suddenly, and I saw that
Louise knew what I knew. Death. And I said, again
spontaneously: Like a photograph, Louise. A picture of
paradise receding in time.
We both went quiet then. I saw the effect of the
Christian Fall: the Garden of Eden framed in flames.
Alvin coughed to attract our attention and said to me:
I dont mean to carp, Richard, but you realise that the poems
you read, well, theres something arbitrary about the choice.
How can you be so confident about your conclusion? I mean,
are those few poems out of a lifetime of work sufficient
grounds, in the sense of authority, that is, for the vision you
produced?
91

I put my arm within Louises and pressed it to my side,

feeling the warmth spread in me: I agree, Alvin. But the
vision is coherent, isnt it?
Alvin bent and picked up the glass Louise had spun:
You are saying, Richard, if I understand you rightly, that
even with this arbitrariness of choice? I mean, you are
suggesting that coherence can come from something so
arbitrary?
Isnt language like that anyway, Alvin? Isnt nature
like that for science?
Yes, but so few elements, Richard? We have
thousands of words and infinite ways of arranging them.
Some truth could come from that.
Yes. I did interrupt him, but I wanted to forestall
digressions. But the truth will be in the statement only, not in
the possibility of arrangement, even on an infinite scale.
Alvin stopped, pressed his lips, checked more by what
I had said than by the interruption. But the arbitrariness,
Richard? That worried me. I mean, where is the control?
In the vision, Alvin. The vision carries its truth in its
being vision.
Alvin turned the glass, concentrating. The poems were
not really necessary, is that it? What Christine said about
signposts.
I leaned across Louise to catch Alvins eye, because he
did look lost then. The signposts? Perhaps. But the signposts
dont really indicate, as though vision was down that way.
They are more like occasions. Not causes, there is no
determination. A poem is not a cause of vision, but an
occasion in the sense that the poem permits the possibility of
vision. As for the necessity of signs, Alvin, Im not sure. I
92

think a poem, for instance, I mean this poem rather than that
poem, is a kind of focal point that gives coherence to vision.
Im sure you know that vision can alter rapidly in scale
without a focus of some sort, and expand to the point where
we are engulfed in it.
Alvin was nodding now, articulated theory giving him
something to hold on to. To what end, Richard? He glanced
at Louise as though there was something improper about our
conversation.
I realised that I was back with myself now and spoke
with my own voice: Ends? You mean the vision? The end is
to look, Alvin. I looked at Louise now. She was listening,
but I could see that she was straining slightly, as though
waiting: But in the matter of signs, well I think that ideally
the vision should be its own sign, Alvin. I mean, the vision
should be in some way real. In that way, signs would not be
necessary.
Alvin snorted lightly, throwing his head up: Oh,
Christine again. He looked at us: She is good, you know.
He smiled, looking for Christine in the room. She was talking
to Rita and Peter, holding Ritas left hand. But, Richard, it
seems to me that for a vision to be real, it would in some way
have to be always present. You see? You could never, oh
escape, I suppose, such a vision.
That shouldnt matter, Louise suddenly said to him,
and looked at me balancing hopefulness and conviction.
No, I said to her, agreeing.
Alvin wagged the glass from side to side: But what if
it is not the true vision, Richard. I mean, when you think of it,
this world is a vision we cannot escape.
93

I acknowledged the niceness of that and said: If we

seek the vision, then we will see its truth.
Alvin glances at Jonas, who was talking to Edward
and, I saw with surprise, Old Bill. Ill have to think about all
this, Richard. Some of the implications escape me yet. He
looked at me, serious: There is a subjective element, it seems
from what you say. I mean, to be frank, Ive been thinking all
along about the, what philosophers nowadays call the truthcondition of the experience. Yes, I know you claim that lies
in the vision itself. But how is it, well, communicated or
perhaps more to the point, how is it recognised? Its
beginning to seem to me now to be a matter of what I would
call an identity-condition. I mean, its almost as though the
vision were within one, its truth being a matter of some kind
of identity between the vision and the act of witnessing the
vision.
I caught the implication rising here and I did interrupt
Alvin a second time, again to forestall digression: Not quite,
Alvin. Let me put it this way. The vision is real. I mean in
some way objective, and so a communication. But identity, as
you call it, is just another kind of determination. Another
guarantee, if you like. No. You can misread, no, mis-see is
better, the vision. And the word came then: You can
misinterpret it.
Alvin nodded and intoned, Interpretation. He stared
hard at the floor and murmured: Everything is vision. And
then said smiling with relief: Blake and the door of
perception? Oh yes, I can grasp it now, Richard. Thank you, I
mean, for your patience with me.
I squeezed Louises arm again and she leaned towards
me. You must clean the lens completely, Alvin. Think of it
94

as purification. Blake was too naive, though somebody had to

resurrect the knowledge.
I know what I said was a little too pat: I felt the gap in
myself. But Alvin seemed content with it. He said Thank
you again, smiled at Louise in a doting way and went off
with Jason who was now alone.
Blake asked his wife-to-be, Catherine, to pity him. He
always believed he was a fallen man in a fallen world. He
looked up for his visions, expecting them to be given to him.
I asked Louise if she wanted a drink. I was parched.
Upstairs, of course, it was Edward Old Bill
entertaining Louise, who laughed a lot.
Edward said, half-pint in hand (yes, a check sports
jacket), bending to me a little: You could make a fortune out
of that act, Richard old son. I dont know how you do it. Me?
Ill tell you how I felt. Like youre told as a child to bathe
your younger brother and as you dry him off you notice his
little erection and you get a shock and pull back. Like that.
The pulling back, I mean. How do you think the little lad
feels, aroused, but like a total shit that no one will ever want.
Thats it, Richard. Thats how I felt.
Louise handed me a pint of something bright gold. I
know I have managed to write it down, but on Wednesday I
just could not put it together. Coming upstairs may have done
that. It sounded like Bedlam at first, before I got used to it.
Old Bill looked at me and said to Louise, See,
comprehension without situation. (This is correct: I thought
at first he had said compression without situation which
gave me a fright.) But in any case I said to Edward: Then
you must want that for some reason, Edward.
95

Edward swirled his glass, got up a little foam and then

took a good mouthful, wiping the foam away with his free
hand.
Too right, old son. Hes a lovely brother. Lovely
family. Sons.
He said it then, though I thought he said, Too light,
cold sun. Heels a lowly bother: love as famine liaisons.
which of course I could not make head or tail of, but said
anyway:
The vision is love, Edward. Dont be afraid.
Art which Edward snorted and went across to Louise, I
watching Old Bill come over towards me.
Poor old Crowley, I said to clear all that ground
away, he couldnt do it often enough to believe it was real.
Old Bill asked: Mahler or Bruckner?
I had no problem understanding him. Hesse or Mann?
Spenser or Shakespeare?
Shelley or Keats?
Parmenides or Plato?
Beatles or the Stones?
No one is listening.
No, theyre dancing.
Youre a rum ballocks, Butler. You dont believe any
of it.
But its fun, Old Bill.
He spat drily to one side, smiled a cracked smile, and
said, You should like trees releasing resin to water.
Im claiming that is what he said. It might have been,
Who should like breezy lays in heaven, you ought to.
Both make sense in the context, if you stretch them far
enough.
96

I reclaimed Louise, whose face was wanton with

merriment, and bought some more drink. Jason and John
were left. I checked the time. Almost ten. Another hour.
Bus. I remembered I had not brought the car. Simon
brushed past, on his way out, wide tie flapping. The suit was
dark blue with flashes of lurid pale blue and bright red. It
looked thoroughly cheap. He clapped me on the shoulder and
said:
Be happy with your visions, old man. Meaning, of
course, that soon enough I would have to be.
Simon, I replied, standing beside Louise. We must
go to your club again. Meet your girl friend.
To me he said, compressed rage: Shes gone! For
fucks sake, shes gone! To Louise he said, going wild: I
didnt think it would happen.
Then out into the dusk. Louise and I skittered in the
ambiguities. I know there are plenty of ambiguities in this
journal, Tony, but this is the one that bothers me.
Jason and John beckoned us from a table at the back of
the bar, beyond the stairs down. I followed Louise over.
Simon says she has gone; she acted, left him. Then he
says For fucks sake; Simon is impotent. But to Louise he
said that he didnt think it would happen. It and think.
When would you say think, Tony? When you had planned
it. Simon did something that went wrong and she left him.
What did he do? He has told us the result of what he did, why
wont he tell us what he did? Perhaps he has. I must
remember that.
Jason said, Pentagon and sexagon, Richard? I thought
then that he had said, Penis gone and sex is gone, but what
he said after a pause awaiting recognition showed that I was
97

wrong. The rose? And I said, with deliberate sharpness,

One of them is the lily. And Jason stared at me and John
said, Oh but, Richard, in emblems the rose can be either.
That is quite common. And Louise said, The hexagon is
always the lily. It signifies resurrection. And Jason bent his
head and said emphatically, Yes!
John smiled and said in his professional voice: Good
paper, Richard. Its a pity that Graves was so shy. Bit of a
lamb, really. Anti-war. Still, you carried it off well. Louise
was calling me, which I didnt hear until she said Dicky,
and I said, Dicky bird yourself and she pretended shockhorror and said Dick?. I nodded. Jonas said, Im sorry to
interrupt you, Richard, but why the rose? Thats a symbol,
not a vision. I heard him clearly and Louise said, Can we
go? And I said to John: Not a lamb, John. He was the Hind
in the Thicket. The one that led the way. And I smiled then
at the sweetness of what I had said. Louises hand crept into
mine; my arm went numb quite suddenly, and I said to Jonas:
The symbol is the mirror, Jonas. Louises hand ran up my
numb arm and set fire to it. I still wonder at how strong it is.
Jonas said half in exasperation and half in desperation: But it
must be somewhere, so we can see it. Edward and Peter
passed, both looking at Louise with longing, and I shook my
head and glanced a message. To Jonas I said: But with
which eyes? John watched us closely. Jonas relaxed, having
got me into conversation again, and said, The eyes you see
in the mirror, of course. Immediately I saw a moon-like
body reflected and reflected through dark mirrors. No, I
said, shaking my head for emphasis: With the eyes that see,
Jonas. Cant you see that? And Jonas lowered his head
doggedly and said: You cant see in the dark, Richard. For
98

there to be light, there must be an object. Christine had

joined Edward and Peter with Louise. They were chatting so
peacefully. You confuse lux and lumin, Jonas. The light we
see is not the light we receive. I spoke forcefully now
because I was concentrating. Jonas is tenacious. His eyes
were very luminous and I realised he might be short-sighted,
and I understood. He seemed a bit stunned: You mean this
world is a vision? That this room and all the people in it are a
vision only?
Rita came over then, looking a little down and perhaps
tired. I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed her.
She dips this time of the evening. Why? I see sadness in her.
She pressed her temple to my cheek. She rested. I said to
Jonas: No. But they are all vision too. And Rita said, Like
to come back for a nightcap? And Jonas said, Incredible.
Looking at me: To see like that? Ritas arm came up under
my jacket and pulled in some way on the belt of my trousers,
causing a flexing crease to caress my penis. And I wanted to
say to Jonas: To feel like that. And then Louise raised her
hand to emphasise what she was saying, blue, and I realised
I was trapped.

99

NOTEBOOK FIVE
Christine raised her hand and matched Louises
gesture, exactly. John said, Can I run anybody home? And
Louise said, turning: Oh John, be a dear. Simon brought us.
Hes gone ages ago. Rita turned, and her thigh pressed mine,
I think deliberately. I expected a monumental row, and Rita
said in a mock stilted tone: How about you? Want to run us
up? I caught the ambiguity. Louise joined us. What a good
idea, Richard. But run Rita up, John, will you. I want to show
Richard something. And Jonas said: See the sun and it will
blind you, but you can feel its heat. But he wasnt talking to
me, but to Christine, who had come over, and who replied:
You dont need to see the sun, Jonas, its light is evidence
enough. I said to Louise, and it seemed to everyone else, No
car, Im afraid. Couldnt find the keys this evening. Rita had
the solution immediately: Then come up with us and Louise
will drop you over, wont you, Louise. And Louise said,
Sure.
Everyone went home then. They have very good social
sense. Peter came over, extending his hand: Thank you for
the fine evening you have given us, Richard. I speak on
everyones behalf here. I shook his hand, raising my finger
to touch the inside of his wrist. A short applause, which I
acknowledged with some reserve. Where was the row going
to take place? Peter said conversationally afterwards, I see
what you mean, Richard. But dont you think it is dangerous?
Mental disturbance. Peter as a child had been ashamed of his
father, now the burden of being a man was becoming too
100

great for him. I said, charitably, which the English hate: Not
if you practice it regularly, Peter. Dont think about it. Do it.
Anyway, we got into Johns car, which was very plush
in that foam rubbery way, a businessmans car really, and
Rita chatted to John and I felt the pressure on either side from
her and Louise. I had the feeling, familiar from Tuesday
night, with Louise, that I had lost control of the situation. But
I had an image of the coming evening, which turned out to be
ambiguously true: I saw a white cat licking its haunches. We
thanked John and inside Rita ditched everyones jacket and
got Louise to open a bottle of ros. From the fridge she took a
large plate of sandwiches and it explained that it saved time
when they were all out. Supper! The wine had a welcome
sweetness. Rita asked me once we were seated in the small
room opposite the party room, You remember the Rolling
Stones, Richard? I nodded; I was hungry. Mind if I put it on
tonight, Lou? She doesnt like them, Richard. I stopped
eating, but my mouth was full. I wanted to tell her not to
bother in that case. She put on an early singles disc and I
relaxed again and resumed eating. Rita sat in a low easy chair
facing me and sighed. Do you remember the first time you
heard the Rolling Stones, Richard? I swallowed and
answered: At a record hop. Satisfaction. It was so true, you
cant dance to it. It was like an interference pattern: so much
was different after that. Who did you dance to? I said,
remembering vividly, Jive. Fats Domino. Chuck Berry.
Rhythm and blues. Her knees were shining reflected light. I
was afraid then that I would have to choose after all. What
about you? Rita lay back in the chair, now that she had my
attention. Mothers little helper came on then and I heard the
Stones. I still wonder at that: suddenly it was there. Rita said,
101

giving a giggly laugh: I had the radio on one night and Have
you seen your mother came on and I got a shock and ran to
see if mother was there. I signalled to Louise and asked Rita:
Was she? Rita tossed her head, her breasts coming up. She
thought she was her mothers guardian. No. She used to do
that. Slip out for an hour or so. Paint it black was cut off.
Rita continued after a slight jolt, I wished she would tell me,
just so Id know. Her mother kept her sexuality from her:
this is what Rita wants to know the secret of sexuality. I
smiled at her and we stared at one another, she with her hands
flat on her thighs.
Goats Head Soup came on. I felt very tired then. The
evening kept peeking over the horizon. I lay on the floor.
Rita, and then Louise, who was reducing the light, lay on
either side of me and we held hands. I was asleep in minutes
and awoke at some stage to see Louise and Rita dancing
slowly. I got up and joined them, dancing patterns with them,
and in the patterns I saw that Louise and Rita were so
different, in a typical way, that neither knew the other. It
meant that neither saw in the other what I saw. We danced
close, arms around waist, each unaware of the others arm or
of the sexual radiance of each, one bright the other
smouldering fire, but each felt the same sexuality from me: I
became reach without object, expansion without boundary,
straining with a cold attenuation. And Rita became heavy on
my arm, my fingers pressing up the base of her breast, and
Louise became light, her arm supporting me.
I tightened my embrace of both and brought them in to
me. In reflex, each tightened her hold on the other and for a
moment we stood like that, no longer able to dance. I closed
102

my eyes and felt one woman, shifting in response and effect,

utterly blissful.
Then both realised what was going on and Rita smiled.
The spell broke and I sat down, the reminder of their bodies
impressed on my body.
Star star came on. I was completely overloaded and I
lay back, tracing my recent past back to some fixed point to
which I could return. This happened quickly, as happens to
many. I went back and back, knowing at the same time that
there was no such point. All I knew was that I was here and
had acted deliberately. It was silent in the room then.

23 June
Rita said, I didnt know, Lou. Honest. I remembered
the reading. I felt burdened, fractured by the strain of a
knowledge I couldnt quite grasp. I feel it now this morning,
looking out at the sun shining on the factory wall at the
bottom of the garden (inverted commas because the garden
was invented two weeks after I moved in here by the
expedient of laying down yards of turf). But I was coming
down gradually, with some regret and some relief, for reasons
I will explain shortly.
Louise stood with her hands by her sides, looking at
the carpet. Then I understood Rita, and at the same time knew
I didnt understand Louise at all, which brought back my
earlier fear of her. I want to explain this. Rita first. What Rita
wants to know is her own secret, that part of her which
constantly evades her, and which she seeks in her own
103

sexuality, that is, what her mother kept hidden from her, and
which she knows generated her. If this is so, then I have
completely misunderstood the nature of her desire for
knowledge. This is the letter I wrote to her:
24 May
Dear Rita
I have decided to give you what you asked for last
Sunday in this form, so you would have it to study, should you
want to do that.
There is a general belief that a word represents an
object in a real world. Thus words, and language generally,
exist because there are things and events which words can
represent. Words are therefore SIGNS of things; they stand in
for things. But how else can we know objects except
through language? There is a tree in a field and to draw my
attention to it, you say Look at that tree. I look and see the
tree. But what do I see? I see something that corresponds to
what I know of the meaning of the word you have used, tree.
I see something that represents the word tree, that is, the
object out there is a sign of the word. This means that both
the word and the object are signs. But signs of what? It must
be something in the real world or in the word itself. Nobody
believes that somewhere in this world there is a real tree of
which all other trees are merely representations, or that such
a real tree exists somewhere else, either in the Mind of God
or as a Platonic Form. In the word, then? Imagine a
dictionary definition of the word tree. It will contain an
exhaustive definition of the word. It will list every species,
every bark, leaf shape, fruit, flower and colour, and it must
list every tree in existence, and describe exhaustively every
104

detail of every tree, even to recording every leaf that falls.

This is impossible yet this is what the word tree means.
Thus there can be no Ideal tree, for it would be
physically impossible for a tree to be both a pine and an oak,
to have leaves, as in summer, and also be without leaves, as
in winter. Yet there is some way in which the word tree can
be ideal; it can refer to every tree without contradiction, and
it can carry all possible qualifications; there can be oak
tree, pine tree, foliaged tree. bare tree, and so on.
However, while the definitional sense of the word can do this,
any instance of the use of the word is restricted in much the
same way as any instance of an actual tree is. You cannot
point to an actual tree and call it a pine-and-oak tree.
So there are two levels here. As seen above, the word
tree and any actual tree have the same characteristics and
thus similar status. Both are signs of something, instances of
something but they are not examples. This is important. A
child asks What is that?, pointing to what I know to be a
tree, and I answer That is a tree. At some point the child
will ask, either of himself or another, What is a tree? Now,
however this question is answered, we will not tell him what
a tree is, which is restricted as instance both as word and
object, but what The Tree is; we will give the child a
definition entailing features or attributes which will not be
found in any actual instance of tree.
The distinction between the two levels is between use
and knowledge. The use I make of the word Tree will be
dependent upon my knowledge of The Tree and this
knowledge can exist only in abstraction from the word tree
and all actual trees, either in my head or on some way
accessible to me, say in a book. The point here is that
105

knowledge exists independently of what knowledge is about.

Consequently, (1) we can have knowledge of something that
is not actual, in the world, like our knowledge of God or of
number we can have knowledge and use it without being
able to prove the truth of this knowledge in the usual way, by
pointing to what is represented, because all representation
here is derived from knowledge, not from the actual world.
(2) and far more important, there may be things that are not,
and cannot be, actual of which we might have knowledge,
and which cannot be represented directly. In other words,
knowledge is not necessarily restricted by what is commonly
regarded as reality.
This shows, Rita, that THE MIND IS MORE FREE
THAN THE BODY. Many fear this knowledge. Hence, we are
encouraged to be free in the flesh (do what you want), while
the spectre of insanity and wrong knowledge (losing the
quiz) are arrayed against the free operation of the mind.
Bear in mind that this is my own view of knowledge,
and that there are others, but I hope my account will at least
be a starting point for you to work out your own view.
See you soon
Richard X
The last thing Rita wants to know is that her body is
only an instance, that she is just a sign. (Writing this, Tony, I
see that the impulse of our desire to know is to make
closures; to turn signs into ideas to find uniqueness among
instances. We should learn to direct this impulse correctly: to
seek uniqueness where it is to be found in the act of
knowledge itself, not in the objects of knowledge.)
106

Louise? The first thing I do not understand about her is

why me? I have thought that before in similar
circumstances, but never has the answer been so important as
it is now with Louise. I can accept that given my age I
convey a sense of security that would permit her to risk
torment at my hands. Yes: she did expect me to do what
Simon had done, did she believe that was the sexuality of
men? Now I see that the mystery of Louise is tied up with the
mystery of Simon: what are they doing? Obviously, Simon
acts and Louise submits: but what is the action Louise
submits to? With me, she submitted to dance, or rather, she
submitted to something by means of dance. The something is
touch: why is dance necessary? Not dance. The music. The
music is the arbitrary narrative of Simons torment of her:
the music touches her got it Simon could not or would not
let her or move her to dance. Touch is too overwhelming for
Louise, unless she can express the excitation in dance. But
only naked can she fully express this and as expression
abandon herself to what? Sexual ecstasy? Or the bliss I
experienced the experience of light as pure effulgence
what Christine referred to as the womans vision of man? Or
as Graves put it, in the company of her kindred in the vision.
Does sexuality teach so much?
In the letter to Rita, the sentence I was most grateful to
achieve was the one declaring that the mind is more free than
the body. This is what I wanted to tell Rita: open your mind
let your body serve your mind. So far so good, but what I
inferred was that the mind does not need the body in order to
know. Remembering Louise and Rita that night, one standing
outlined in the light of a side lamp, the other seated, dressed
in black with shining knees, I realise that the body is the
107

agent of knowledge once it, too, is correctly directed to the

end. Restriction and torment have taught Louise; what has
Rita learned?
Making tea just now, I realised that I had never asked
myself of Rita the question I asked of Louise: why me? I
suspect she asks the question of herself. Also, I asked Louise
what she wanted me to do for her, but Rita told me what she
wanted me to do. I exposed myself to Louise, and it is Rita
who exposes herself to me. Louise and I submit to one
another, I giving Louise the initiative (follow the woman).
But with Rita there is no submission, I may even lead her. Is
that true? Yes. When I asked why me? about Louise, I
expressed my involvement with her: Louise can only achieve
her bliss with me. It takes two. (Cant do it for myself, she
said.) For Rita, I am the knowledge of her sexuality: a
knowledge she has not yet experienced.
Put on some more music, Louise, I said, and went
and sat on the arm of Ritas chair. I said to her, Why did you
smile? Her breasts are padded. She crossed her legs, gazing
at me. I was happy for Lou. She glanced over, and Louise
came and stood at her feet. Legs crossed, her lap was so deep
in the black dress. Simon told me, Lou. I asked her, Did he
say why? Her eyes tightened. How does she see us? I mean,
what did the haziness mean to her? All he said was cats.
And I heard a she-cat cry out in the night, the tom keeping
her so still. I looked at Louise, who nodded, expression
shifting, and said, Will I make some tea?
I asked Rita, when Louise had gone to the kitchen:
Have I disappointed you? I thought then that was her
eternal feeling: to have failed to learn. She took my hand and
shook her head emphatically, No, Richard. You dont
108

understand. Spontaneously, I feeling the grip in my genitals,

we got up and danced tight in one anothers arms, swooning
into the moody music. I was master of my strength, knowing
I was knowledge to her, and I played upon her body with my
body as subtly as I could. She came to cling to me, her whole
body expanded towards me, shivering and jerking. I was like
a torch to her, burning her and also showing her the way. She
rose and rose, at the same time falling back into herself, into
the darkness of herself, clinging to me, bringing me with her.
In me there was strength and fire, my body striving to enter
her pore by pore, cell by cell.
Dance nude, Richard. Louise stood in the door, eyes
glittering, a tray of tea things in her hands. I looked at Rita,
and her eyes widened with fright and she said, No, no. She
hugged me tightly, excitation being damped down to a rigid
straining. I cant, Richard.
The disc ended and it was I who felt the
disappointment that Rita would fail me at this point. It was
the last thing I expected. She put her temple against my cheek
and stroked my flesh, whispering, Its not you, Richard. Oh
Richard its not you. I held her while she cried her desolate
tears. Louise laid the coffee table with some noise, her back
bent, because she felt she was intruding.
We had tea and some more of the sandwiches, except
Rita, who drank the last of the wine. I asked her, the strength
still in me, Why, Rita? Are you afraid or shy? I looked at
Louise. She was veiled and absent, but I felt her presence
beside me. Rita was seated in her chair, legs crossed, dress
ridden up her thighs, wiping her eyes. Oh nothing like that,
Richard. Honest. I asked, too sharply, What then, Rita? I
mean, if you knew this would happen? Rita started to cry
109

again and her bitterness moved like an arctic front across the
room. Louise said, Dont press her, Dick. Please. And I
slumped and nodded, feeling that mixture of annoyance and
foolishness that come when we realise that we have been
mistaken in our judgement. Rita began to sob and Louise
went and sat beside her to comfort her. I said, Rita, please
dont cry on my account which made her sob violently. She
said in a voice catching in her uncontrollable sobs: Oh I
cant tell you, Richard. I just cant tell you. My body was
beginning to shake in sympathy with hers. Louise seemed
unmoved, stroking Ritas brow and hair. I felt the
appallingness of Ritas desolation and saw some kind of
finality in her impediment. Helplessness pushed me to tears.
They trickled down my face, blurring my eyes, as I looked
into Ritas eyes, equally wet.
We gradually relaxed from the distress. I helped Rita
dry her eyes and she dried mine: it reminded me of the
aftermath of sex, when everything is cleaned up. (Louise
cleared the tea things away, leaving us alone again.) I held
her to me, drained body to drained body, and I said suddenly:
You never lose in love, Rita, whatever you might think at the
time. We became peaceful then, embracing, and for a while
her skin was creamy and translucent, and we kissed with
relaxed lips, breathing still-hot breath onto one anothers
flesh.
Rita pulled away when we had quietened down
thoroughly and said, Let Lou drive you out now, Rich.
(Extending to me her habit of abbreviating the names of those
she is close to.) She pressed her brow against my lips and
said, Thank you. Thank you for saying that, Richard. I
smiled, catching her eyes: I only realised that now, Rita.
110

With you, I mean. She smiled, lips bruised, eye shadow

smeared, skin radiant like white cloud: Love finds a way,
she said, and frowned and sniffed wetly. But I will try to tell
you, Richard. But not tonight, sweetheart. I chilled: it must
be pretty bad. I kept that thought to myself, gave her a last
hug and kiss, and went to find Louise in the kitchen. Do you
mind driving me over, Louise? I can get a taxi. She had
changed into a long woven dress, perhaps for warmth. No. It
wont take long at this hour of the night.
Rita had left the small room, so we went out into the
square, Bristol in lights below, and got into the car.
Identification? I asked her. I always carry my ID pass, less
bulky than my passport. She nodded and we set off. I felt
very secure in her company, I think because I could take her
presence for granted, but even so I said to her so as to have it
said: I hope I havent disappointed you, Louise. And she
was decent, head going up, eyes on the road, smiling happily:
You could never harm me, Dick. She glanced over and
added: Darling. I was thoroughly relieved by that: it made
me feel free towards her, and I knew that whatever else, I
would never lose her if I didnt want to. I touched her arm
and said, That makes me very happy. The endearment hung
on my tongue: I realised I loved her name very much. So I
said, just so as to utter it: It does, Louise. Down Park Street
again. I thought at first about how we had changed for one
another since the last time we drove down here. Then I saw
we hadnt: simply, we had learned. Louise said, crossing by
the floating harbour, waved through the checkpoint, You
really do like women, Dick. I like you so much for that. It lets
me be friendly with you. As well as everything else, I mean.
I nodded for her and rested my head back, closing my eyes
111

against the street lights. I can abandon the future in Louises

company. The tight swing into Old Market brought me up
again and I glanced at the mixture of bijou offices and
decayed shops. Cities can no longer be defended: citizens
must defend themselves now or be trapped.
About Rita, I asked tentatively, thinking of
entrapment. Louise, do you know anything? On Clarence
Road, a special constable flagged us over. The meshes were
down on the truck. I foraged for my identity pass. Good
night, miss, sir. Louise lowered the window and sat back,
head up towards the constable; a good thing to do, to show
nothing is hidden. Good morning, constable, she bantered,
to charm him. Trouble tonight? He examined our faces and
dress intently, then relaxed. Earlier. He glanced at Louises
pass, nodding. He examined me again, frowning slightly. I
handed him my pass. My clothes never fit for these volunteer
policemen, who are very conventional themselves. Seeing I
was a writer, he smiled, thank goodness not resenting artistic
licence. Fire bomb. Where are you going? He was looking
at me, the passenger, the Epsom address on my pass, so I
answered: Chippenham. A London writer might possibly
live in Chippenham for a while, but never in Kingswood. He
returned my pass and wished us good night. Louise booted
away, asking Chippenham? The Easton roundabout was
stark, littered with rubbish and burned out cars dumped into
the old walkways. They ask too many questions if I tell them
Kingswood. The checkpoint over to the left on the dual
carriageway was brightly lit, at least one armoured PC that I
could see. Many lights still on in the tower blocks. Louise
breathed relief on Lawrence Hill and said reflectively: Its
another world down here. We had the lights all the way up, a
112

patrol van sitting at the entrance to the park. You want to see
inner London, Louise. She nodded. I know. She may have
forgotten my question about Rita, and I didnt want to make
the effort of repeating it, so I lay back again, looking more
closely at the route I usually drive. At St George, at the
junction, there is the remains of a fountain erected by a
William Butler. It was the fountain that keyed me in to the
significance of the route. The church of St George the Martyr
stands on the last ridge from which the city can be seen, an
array of amber and white light below. Why martyr? The road
here is called Clouds Hill Road, derived from the Brythonic
CLWD, meaning a cliff. A pub called the Worlds End stands
on the corner of this road and Whiteway Road, and the land
drops away there and in the park to the left. Who was
martyred, that is, sacrificed here, and why? Further up, the
road becomes Bell Hill, common name, Bell a corruption of
BEL or BELI, the Celtic God of Light, to whom sacrifices
might be made. Its not surprising that on the edge of the flattopped Kingswood Hill facing the city there is a church
dedicated to Saint Michael, the Christian surrogate for the
god of silence, as a god of light would be. A sacred route into
the Kings Wood, you see, Tony, the site of the Quest for the
silent light, that is, vision. Of course, I imagine these things,
but when the signs propose coherence beyond ordinary
expediency, then you should be open to that coherence it is
speaking to you from beyond mans short-sighted activities.
But I suspect Saint Michael is the Guardian here, for in
Kingswood itself the parish church is dedicated to the Holy
Trinity, a hard Christian stamp anywhere, but in this place,
wild until John Wesley preached there, you could ask: what
Trinity? Why for instance is the illuminated high cross
113

commemorating Wesleys first public sermon, which he

preached in Kingswood, coloured green, a feminine colour,
rather than the more correct blue or red? What spirit lingered
here until the eighteenth century?
Louise cut across my meditations as we passed the
shopping centre and said, Rita? She was sitting erect and
drove as though the car was much larger and heavier than it
is. Oh yes, I prompted, bringing myself up again. She was
very distraught, Dick, wasnt she?
Is there some kind of hang-up?
No. I really dont think so. I mean, she was
unrelenting, yes, with Daddy. I remember that because it was
so different than, you know, for me. I pointed across to the
lane beside the garage. She powered down and swung in,
stones crunching under the tyres. She parked and switched
off, and said, stretching her legs: I think thats why Daddy
cleared off again. She smiled at me, then reached and
touched my brow. Can I come up for a minute, Dick. She
studied me, and I felt both benign and drained away tired.
Yes, do. We climbed the iron stairway and I found the front
door ajar again. The only saving grace of the place is that it is
newly converted. It has about three months before it, too, is
beaten into the general seediness. I waited till we were in the
room, lights on, before continuing: What is it then, do you
think, Louise? It worries me a bit. Louise selected the
Chopin disc, Ogden, and put it on low, reducing the analyser
and separator to neutral. The opening bars of the Fantasy in F
minor mellowed me immediately and I sat on the edge of the
bed and removed my shoes. A drink, Louise prompted. The
music had brought her shoulders up so that her breasts were
elongated and high under the gown. Theres some gin there.
114

I nodded to the huge wardrobe. She found it and the tonic. I

let myself fall back in the bed as the music became searching,
tragic-hopeful Chopin. The evening behind me was
something I was glad to have survived. Louise brought in ice.
She has the tact never to comment on the state of the kitchen,
worse now since the second couple moved into the front of
the house. She laid the drink on my chest, waited till I
grasped it, and then sat lotus on the bed facing me, her own
drink nursed in her lap.
The moment expanded, the music picking up slowly,
and I gazed at Louise seeing how much I trusted her, not
caring about the future. She is a gift. I said, I love you now,
Louise, and the expansion began to tear at limits in me. Her
eyes broadened, lighting, and for the first time I felt the real
strength in her and knew that she had made this possible. All
she said was Good and then sighed. Do you love Rita too,
Dick? My answer was spontaneous, teaching me: You
cant. You like her for what she can do. She studied my face
and I wondered if that was true. Louise, you can allure, but
Rita entrances. Her body, I mean. Now she nodded and
looked at the glass in her lap. Then she said, decently
tentative, There is something I dont understand, Dick. Isnt
there? I raised my head, took a gulp of gin, and let myself
fall away into the Berceuse, knowing now what Louise meant
by hurt. This was the future I was trying to abandon: Louise
made a woman. The closure and the deflection. Dick, please
darling. I sat up and faced her, melodic lines dancing in my
breast. We are always heading into finality, trying to forestall
the real thing with our pathetic closures, our judgements.
Louise, when I say I love you, I mean that I trust you. What
do you mean by love?
115

That you can hurt me, dearest Dicky.

I saw it in her: That you are totally open to me?
Vulnerable?
She nodded, squaring her shoulders.
Then I had better hurt you now, Louise, and not leave
it to the future. To an accident, I mean. Lets undress.
Her eyes concentrated, the rest of her helpless. She
moved stiffly and pulled the gown over her head and pushed
down her panties. As I undressed, she asked, Will I change
the music?
No. Its fine. I was trembling, hardly able to get my
trousers off. I wished then I knew someone who knew what I
knew, to share it, and then, as always before, I reminded
myself that everyone knows; most avoid their knowledge,
some finds expedients to cover for it, like illustrated dustjackets. I laid her out on the bed and sat lotus at her shoulder,
looking down into her eyes. She was waiting, trying not to
project the hurt that was coming. I caressed her face with my
fingers, slowly but regularly. Her hand came up once to touch
mine, but she let it fall back by her side. The muscles in her
stomach tightened and her lower back arched. How does
your body feel, Louise? She sighed, closing her eyes,
pressing her face against one hand then against the other. The
quilt sighed air as her body clenched, relaxed, twisted one
way then the other. Dick, what are you doing to me? Her
eyes were completely abstracted, and I marvelled again at the
honesty of her feelings as she was rendered totally receptive.
Again, this is not passion: there is no resistance; I mean
against the other. Its only when a woman completely trusts
you that you can begin to treasure her, and see who you love.
Louise is a good person, and gives because she wants to give
116

something. I lay on her cool body and entered her slowly and
gently. Her hands came to lie on my shoulders, registering
my thrusts that way, her head going back until her nose was
in the air and her breathing became sluggish and moist. I
drove her gently all the way, letting her responses set the
pace, easing her up into the reality of sexual agony: into the
knowledge of her incompleteness, and the realisation that it
can never be overcome. You can have visions, perfect
projects, but until you experience love you cannot know that
love is not enough, that it just cannot be enough even though
you will always hunger and hunger for loving.
That is love: the relation between all things, seeking to
overcome difference. And light is the greatest love:
everywhere recognising things, lighting them up into vision.
What is vision but articulated light: it is love.

And now to London, fatuous City.

117

NOTEBOOK SIX
LONDON 23 June
I jotted that last line to remind me what I was thinking
of when Louise left. Managed to get some large notebooks.
Cramped writing in the little ones. The shopkeeper was
amazed to see me come back so often to buy one.
My account of the reading took far longer to write than
I expected. Flat sold, 350,000, better than she thought, so Ive
got 190,000. Good. I must plan what to do. Rang Angie on
Friday after reading her letter and said Id come up today to
put my things into storage. Then I spent the whole weekend
writing the account, knowing I would be going to London
when I had finished, or rather, when the notebook finished
which it did. Im still in shock. I didnt know a woman could
suffer like that. I must write it down as soon as I can. And the
phone call. I was worried about her.
London: Off the M25S at Staines, another firebomb:
exploded in fast dense traffic, 20 dead so far. No one here
seems to realise that Capital is a faith, exactly like the other
faith in Rome. Both are Catholic, aspiring to universality; one
through grace, the other through money. The English are
capitalist-catholics, doing with money what the Romans do
with grace, converting the whole world to their beliefs
impossible.
Flat has a different atmosphere. Thinner, brittley
cheery, too much cheap light from the windows. But I knew
she would move those things out of the light as soon as I
118

left. She doesnt know how to guide light into a room. You
dont want it just glaring in the windows and flattening all the
colour in the room. Some colours are better in diffused light,
tans, the lighter violets, deep greens. The only colour that can
really stand up to sunlight is scarlet. Imagine some scarlet
taking up all the light into a room: then it diffuses light on to
all the other colours. Must try that. I started packing the
paintings first. They didnt print the best Claude. I looked at
Claude for years before I saw him. He painted with light. In
his paintings, the figures radiate light; in others, the figures
only reflect colour. Then Angie came in.
The change in her has shocked me. How could she put
on so much weight so fast? See in the way she moves that she
is not used to it. Her temper goes through a flat phase; busy
in her attack-it mood then suddenly she is looking at
something, sagging. The main point has to be her boyfriend:
thats the rationale of it all. I cooked dinner to let her rest. At
least the kitchen hasnt changed much. Familiar view of the
angle of the garden, the pink roses blooming in the corner. I
spent years building that garden up again. The high trees
break up the sunlight so I had to study the shape of the light
in the garden. Luckily I could lay much of the garden I had
planned. The yellow roses with that ugly conifer behind
outside my window; how the roses dance in the wind.
Afterwards, I decided to take the rest of the music back with
me. Im listening to a lot of music. Angie used to listen to
music with the same expression on her face each time. We
went down to her local afterwards, a poky place I never liked.
She wanted me to take the bed, but I slept on the ottoman
over by the bay window. (I had often wanted to sleep there, it
119

has a gentle atmosphere from the beech.) I know she wants to

have a talk.
Im writing this at my old desk, lamp on, looking out
the side window at the roses nodding in the light from the
lamp. I know Angie is going to swamp me with her pain, so I
want to get down this about Louise.
First, I feel I have come today from a very strange
world. Louise recedes rapidly into it. My abiding image of
her is of her dancing for me. When I see that, I see her that
last night, the same concentration. She said on the phone that
she feels dead. I told her it takes a lot of energy, so dont
worry, youll recover quickly. It took over an hour, almost an
hour and a half. The strength, pushing against the inevitable. I
didnt want her to drive home in that condition, but she
insisted, perhaps wisely she would never have left. At the
door she asked me if I had ever done that before and I said
no, and she smiled with elation and said: Because you were
afraid? She hugged me when I nodded. She was still
trembling all over.
So was I. Sometimes, I wondered who led who. There
were times when I lay helpless on her, feeling her thrusts as
surges through my body. At other times I was convinced that
the penis was hers and I was afraid it wouldnt go deeply
enough into me. Fucking is a caring task that provides what is
most wanted: deepest penetration. Once she was very
frightened, some phantom below her: the abyss. In me it was
a violence: a profound dissatisfaction that was immediately
familiar. (The event in Chance Meeting: did I hurt her as I
hurt Louise? No. I think she hurt me. Women quail before
fear, men become violent: both are wrong.) Yet given time,
you feel things are closer, not that they cant meet, which
120

brings a curious naive joy in place of the violence. Naive joy

because it is happiness released from death. And you see the
utter futility of everything. You look at that, and you tell
yourself that it is true: things can never meet, all is futility.
You absorb that fully. And then and only then can you
understand that they dont meet because it hasnt happened
yet. There is no future already inscribed: we see nothing
because that is the emptiness we are always entering as we
move towards one another. We travel in the night, inventing
our world to fill it as we go, our world already history by the
time we can acknowledge the fruits of our efforts. We
humans are always ahead of our world. We should not look
back at the results of our efforts, but forward into the dark to
see the first spark of the approaching light of others coming
to meet us. That is joy: certain expectation.
Now I remember Louises elation.
How long it can take to see the obvious. She felt like
death because we were not together. I thought I felt dead
because I was coming to London. How blind I am at times;
but perhaps I fooled myself so as to do this: say goodbye to
Angie, after over twenty years. I must tell Louise in case she
thinks otherwise.
I wont have much time to write up the journal. I had
hoped to give an account of more events: the introduction to
Louise and other things that happened before that day in the
park.
I must note my state of mind at night: I lie awake for
hours, with varying degrees of physical discomfort owing to
the heat, as though on the brink of some sight or sound. I
have mentioned this state earlier in the context of panic. If my
121

perception is true, then I await this revelation with as much

calm as I can maintain, not knowing what it will do to me.
Otherwise, this isolation would be too terrible.
24 June
Ive found a store for my belongings. Theyve agreed
to take the furniture as well as books papers etc, though they
apparently mainly store company records. Drove into
Stockwell to make arrangements and pick up boxes. Ten
years since Ive been in Streatham, still struggling to remain
suburban. Barriers, acres of mesh on Brixton Hill, Brixton
itself disputed territory: the A23 still English but the side
streets pumping out aimless exhilaration. CCTV above the
road all the way through. The store is a converted brewery,
literally a fortress, company flag flying, heavy security. You
cant take your car in, of course, but they agreed to bring the
boxes out to the car and also keep an eye on it. The black
who attended me checked my clothes first (feeling hippy-ish
today flower power) as a woman would. Sharp white
shirt, muted schoolish tie, full of English asides. He called the
boxes flats and arranged to have them trollied out to the car.
After all the fuss of loading the car, three young blacks
appeared from nowhere and one said, Hey yo man. I knew I
was still on camera, so I said, Hey yo yourself. The kid that
bothered me hung back; he looked especially high, bobbing
his head to a complex rhythm, but he intoned, tilting his
mouth up in a particularly mean way, Right on. So I asked
him, in a White Mister tone, You a Tory? which cracked up
the other two. The kid came through then, his clothes draped
122

with power signals, hair cropped to the roots to emphasise his

negroid features. He put a hand forward, as though to touch
me, and asked, What yo say then, Englishman? His hand
hovered, inches from my throat, long nails like talons, yellow
as horn: if he grabbed me, I wouldnt be able to see what they
did until I felt it. I eased of the Mister tone and sounded
pleased with myself instead, a little supercilious: Hows it
cuttin? The three of them looked puzzled in the exaggerated
way and one of the others asked, genuinely curious: Hey,
whats that, man? Deliberately, so they would watch closely,
believing perhaps they were going to witness some white
power gestures, I extended my right forefinger towards them,
formed the thumb and forefinger of my left hand into an open
circle, showed them that from different perspectives, then
pushed my forefinger into the circle and drew it back and
forward slowly.
They liked that thank goodness for Dublin raw
humour and I wrote it down for them, then slipped into the
car. The wild kid tapped the window. I lowered, the worst he
could do is spit, and he stuck his head right in, eyeball to
eyeball, and said, Hey you write this down from me, man.
You whites are men, but we blacks are brothers. And danced
away, his chums cheering him, stroking his shoulders. I wrote
it down, and Ive written this account so I could write it into
the journal. Its worth thinking about, Tony, and consider that
hierarchies always defeat fraternities (the vertical against the
horizontal), mainly I suppose because hierarchies are
articulated and dynamic (expendable elements), whereas
fraternities are cohesive and inertial (one for all, all for one).

123

Should be packing books, but I have been reading

through this journal, Tony. Im more discomforted by things
Im not aware of than by what I dont know. Writing novels,
I structure scenes before writing them, allowing characters as
much freedom as they want, so that when I am about halfway
through and the novel has a life of its own, I can trust my
characters to take over. In this journal I am doubly hampered
as a writer. One: I cannot plan the scenes; I learn from them:
starting my account from one perspective and completing it
with another. This is not good writing, for the reader may not
receive the cues and so may fail to see the depth of the new
perspective. Unfortunately, rewriting an account in order to
correct for this simply leads to another perspective. Two:
because I write about real events and people, the overall
structure of narrative suffers. As characters, real people
cannot be let free, I must constantly refer back to my
memories of these people (often vivid), not inspiration, for
knowledge of their actions and words. So they are not free in
this narrative, which makes it more like historiography than
fiction. But it differs from historiography in that the subjects
are still alive and making history. Once again, the narrative
structure cannot be planned. The result here is that climaxes
are bunched together, mood shifts are incongruous, dialogue
mysterious because of incomplete context, and a dream-like
quality to the characters because they dont assume the kind
of narrative shape called development.
I realise I have complicated matters by juxtaposing
accounts past and present. I did this because on one hand I
need to revue the past as quickly as possible and on the other
I wasnt to know so much would happen in the present.
124

Angie moving out tomorrow at three. My things wont

be collected till Thursday morning earliest, which means Ill
have to stay here till then. Tried to ring Louise but no answer.
Where do they all go on Tuesday? I dont know much about
their lives.
Angie insisted on cooking tonight, which I liked. Told
her about the blacks this morning and she scowled at the
mention of them (never saw her scowl before). She moved
from Balham to Sutton after that second promotion, and hates
to be reminded that she comes from Streatham. She changed
after that. As a clerical officer she dressed as she liked, the
loose and tight clothes all mixed up but she had the figure
for them. Rita still dresses like that, though it doesnt suit her.
After that she wore skirts, always too tight across the hips,
and jumpery jackets that made her booby. It gave her away so
clearly: women accentuate their breasts to divert attention
from their cunts, because otherwise their lovers wouldnt let
them out of sight. Now she wears costumes in cream and
navy, red blouses and black patent shoes; the pleats to hide
her fat, red to deflect touch and patent shoes because the
world is not clean. I dont pity her for some reason, but I do
feel sorry for her. She runs such a narrow track, which
nothing will break. I asked her about her boyfriend/fianc
again. His name is Nigel and she works with him. She knew
him before but he transferred back into Sutton only a year
ago. She doesnt want me to meet him. She doesnt know
when they will marry, they havent decided yet. I asked her if
she was not going out with him this week and she said no. I
said dont be silly, that I didnt mind. She was very emphatic
then; and edgy. Is there something wrong with the
125

relationship? I hope he hasnt left her. She is so flat at times,

as though she did miss someone.
We packed until about ten I got everything into the
boxes and went for a drink this time at my suggestion to the
place over towards the hospital, which is far livelier. Its
good to see people enjoying themselves, it lightens you. She
laughed for the first time since I came up. We began talking.
We told each other something of what we had done since we
separated. Then we talked about moving out of the flat. It was
only then that I realised I was losing my garden. It hurt more
than I expected. I want to photograph it, but what is the point:
a garden lives. I will take cuttings of the roses. Perhaps I will
be able to create a new garden. I was glad I hadnt brought
the car, because we talked with an ease I havent known with
her for years. She dropped her official accent and I told her
I preferred her South London accent because she was much
funnier then. She linked me after a while, and I asked her
about the weight increase. She didnt know, but thought it
was because she was alone, to give her a feeling of security. I
had always known she would put on weight, she has that kind
of build. But she has put it on suddenly for some other
reason. I can only penetrate so far into Angie, mainly because
there is something about her I never understood, a distance in
her that she shares with many of her friends and which I have
always assumed to be London-ness. A distance that is wistful
and yet always defensive in a weary-fierce way. Almost as
though she is holding on to something that is long gone, as
though she perpetually turns back towards that something.
And yet it is not from her earliest childhood, because
sometimes she can be so spontaneous in such a way that you
know she rehearsed it long ago. A lot of reaching and
126

clapping hands and sharp laughter when she is like that. I

would have thought some kind of abuse (that she hinted at
from time to time), except for the wistfulness it is
pervasive, a childhood trauma would not produce such a
steady feeling. Ive never asked her about it, mainly because I
never became involved to that extent. I always left it alone; in
fact I liked it it kept her before me, as it were, so that she
didnt affect my work.
She took me through the worst years of my life:
despondency when a book was published, joy while it was
being written, sadness typing, publication loathed. She had a
way of handling each state, almost as though to orchestrate
me. She was the first person to show a real interest in the fact
that I had written the book, the first one. She loved every
word I wrote, watching me sometimes, across the room on
the settee by the fire. Walking, always walking on the
Downs, separating into our own daydreams, but always
together. My moods she sympathised with, she let me live
them. Crazy sex gave way to a curious shyness on her part
and fascination on mine, which allowed me to model
characters. I think she liked the eroticism of that. Thought is
the past-tense of thinking. She thought agonising was what
the English called posh it had gruesome style. Once she
described me as having lost my soul I search.
We opened a bottle of wine when we got back. We
toured the garden, glasses in hand, talking about the plants
an old custom. And the birds, especially the jays. Inside,
more wine, walk around the flat recalling the rooms, what
happened in them, snow, the outdoor holidays in autumn and
spring that got us through the winter and summers. Then she
realised that I was fascinated with her. That she was my
127

puppet. We put on some music, more wine, and sat on either

end of the settee. When it finally broke through, we went into
a frenzy. On the floor, on chairs, every way on tables and
settees, all ways on the bed. We fucked and fucked all night,
sex like an itch scratching. Dressed she is voluptuous, naked
shes a hole. Its like trying to embrace water. Neither of us
had control of it. Her new boyfriend is not fascinated with
her. But thats not why she is getting fat. Perhaps she is going
back to something. Sex like that is impossible, she can never
be touched. Was it like that before? Yes. She has to be
stormed, overcome her resistance. You can see the pattern,
its
The pattern: She has to be sure she has my attention,
because I am in many places creating, so she knows Im
fucking her and not one of my characters. She dislikes my
female characters because they come from my past, but also I
think because she feels Ive had something she hasnt. Yet
when I told her once that she was having it now, she refused
to agree. At times like that I felt I could never reach her. Its
as though the only part of her she owns is her vagina.

25 June
Louise rang after Angie left, just as I was feeling the
sag of being alone in an empty flat. She got the number from
Directory Enquiries. The name of the road was sufficient, it
seems, though she did say she was very nice to the operator.
We were on the phone for an hour. I spoke mostly about the
garden and she asked for all details of the flowers and
128

arrangements of plants. She told me she went to see her

mother last night. She wouldnt tell me about it, she has to
put me in the picture first. Thats not as bad as it sounds,
judging by Louises tone. Shes very amused by it.
I came out of the record shop on Park Street and
looked into the eyes of Louise. We both cringed. Standing in
the door of the shop, I forgot which way I had intended
turning on the street and moved only when someone else
wanted to come out. Simon called me, and both Louise and I
turned to him, and I think glared at him. There was a private
joke for him in introducing us, getting mileage out of
Louises discomfort. Being the only chance I might have of
gaining a foothold with her, if only to put an end to the
glares, I held out my hand until she took it and shook it
firmly. The footpath was crowded and we bobbed about, I
endeavouring to keep Louise from grouping with Simon: I
knew she would get him to move away and leave me
standing. Simon finally suggested coffee and put it to Louise
that she decide where. She turned away from both of us, face
smooth, carriage without access, and pointed upwards. Simon
talked about music, because I had been in the music shop,
Louise on the other side of him. To answer Simon I looked at
him, and saw Louise, cool, set, hair tied back exposing her
large bow and deep temples. The shapeless white tee-shirt
flapped against her breasts, her arms white in the sun. I
resented her lack of interest in me, while I was driven by an
interest that had no focus except to look at her, to see what
she did and how she responded to her own actions, how she
thinks.
129

We crossed at the lights under the monstrous university

tower and Louise went slightly ahead, leaving Simon to talk
to me about pure electronic music on headphones in the dark,
stoned. Louise walks stiffly, barely lifting her feet, tending to
roll her hips instead of striding. A suburban walk, to and from
convenient cars. The path narrows near Dingles and a big
black came swinging through, elbows out provocatively, and
struck me hard on the upper arm. I spun out into the road, as
much as to ride the blow as in ricochet, and looked back,
amazed that anyone would need to do what the black had
done. He glanced back, smirking, and I mouthed black
bastard at him, then swallowed pride and looked for Simon.
Louise was standing facing me, but looking behind me. The
black reappeared, six foot two or three, a large steel cross
draping his chest, as puffed up with useless energy as a
bullock on steroids. He asked me if I had called him a bastard
and I said I hadnt. He then told me in as menacing a way as
he could manage what he would do to someone who called
him a bastard. He didnt ask me what I had said. I looked
concerned, he leaning over me waving his fists, forehead
coming down as for butting. Louise stood beside me, looking
at me. The black accused me again of calling him a bastard
and again I said I hadnt called him a bastard. He went on
again, shouting now, and I knew then he hadnt the nerve to
do anything at all: that his worst scenario had occurred a
white man had not so much chickened out on him as lied to
his face without scruple.
Passers-by totally ignored the scene: it wasnt
happening it was too close to the bone. The black wound
down completely and resumed his stomp along the footpath,
elbows out, like a childs toy. A patrol car stopped beside me,
130

and a heavily built constable in the back asked, You alright,

sir? I nodded and looked as I should after such an incident.
The constable nodded in sympathy. The car shot away, went
outside the traffic, swerved in at the lights and nosed on to
the pavement. The black turned, ran, and was brought down
heavily. A police van came out of Park Row, the black was
dragged in, doors slammed, and the van was away, the patrol
car reversing out and turning back up Queens Road.
No one paid any attention to this event either: it didnt
happen dont spoil Saturday afternoon by imagining what
was going to happen to the black. Louise said, mock ironic,
as though talking to me was dangerous, What did you call
him? I was annoyed now, not so much with what the black
had done, or with what I had said, as with the fact that I had
not prevented the incident occurring. I was annoyed by my
own failure. There was no sign of Simon. Louise had pushed
her hands into the pockets of her denims and was waiting,
shoulders hunched: the shock of excitement of the incident
hitting her now. I was adrift on the footpath, people passing,
not knowing where I was going. The shock was hitting me.
Annoyance became anger with myself for permitting such a
humiliating scene. What did you call him, Richard? Louise
repeated, the beginning of a judgement putting an edge in her
voice. I snapped, working out where to go next, I had no
centre in Bristol, What do you think I called him? I looked
at her now and knew I was glaring. My humiliation was in
part the blacks humiliation: he had communicated it to me.
Violence is surely the voice of the very timid the browbeaten trying to gain your recognition of their existence.
Louise now shrugged and looked up and down the footpath,
people jostling by us. She seemed trapped and the pleasure of
131

being introduced to her faded in the face of her disapproval of

me. Now she said, scandalised: You lied to him, didnt you?
My humiliation became focused on her as anger: Yes, of
course. Then there was no where to go for me either. Louise
looked very troubled. The lie is the most evil action for the
English: the lie is the deliberate act of individual will that
echoes the caricature at the heart of their culture. Where did
Simon go? She pointed at Dingles, and walked towards the
nearest entrance: before the closest moment, incipient
departure, always. The muted air of the shop highlighted my
shivering. I was appalled now by what had been done to me,
tending to self-pity. Louise was studying me; I wanted to
move. Why? She was curious, but now it was an
engagement with me, interest. I said, indicating the interior of
the store, Where to? She led the way, keeping close to me to
hear my explanation, so I said, I was under no moral
obligation to him. That surprised her and she swerved and
collided with me: Whyever not? The collision renewed the
shock and I said, thrusting my head at her: His action was
gratuitous. I was free to respond as I will. He was too big to
hit back, so I decided to insult him instead. In the course of
the following conversation we climbed the stairs to the
restaurant at the top of the building.
I thought you were afraid of him.
Of course I was. Theyre too damaged to be anything
but dangerous.
Richard, how did you insult him by lying to him?
He knew I was lying, but he couldnt accuse me of it.
Why not?
Because I am white, and he knows whites think blacks
are black bastards. He knew I would lie again.
132

I dont understand you, Richard. What you are saying

is weird. How can you lie about your own actions?
He had lied about striking me: he acted as though it
hadnt happened.
Richard, I dont understand that either. Two wrongs
dont make a right.
I wasnt trying to do right, dont you understand that?
I was trying to put an end to a mistake by the most expedient
means.
Mistake. What mistake? He deliberately hit you!
I should have avoided him. Everyone else was. I
wasnt paying attention. Do you know what I was doing? I
was studying how you walk.
What way do I walk?
Minimum effort to get you from door to car.
What? I dont walk like that.
You do, Louise. Anyway, I should have apologised to
him for that. But what do you think he would have done if I
had told him I didnt see him because I was looking at a
beautiful white girls bottom? He would have gone berserk.
He would never be let out of St Pauls again. As it is, hell
get pushed around a bit and be told to stay out of this area,
thats all.
Simon had bought tea for us. I bought cakes. I needed
sugar, and, as the chocolate gateau looked delicious,
chocolate too.
Louise told Simon what I had said, while I was away. I
think I left them together for that purpose: it would separate
their reactions to me. Simon was cynical at my expense at
first, stressing my fear of the black. The gateau was delicious,
though the tea was tepid and too strong. Louise argued on my
133

behalf, though not separating her own initial judgmental

attitude from my expediency very well: as a result, Simon
could only see hypocrisy, which pleased him. This went on as
we ate and drank. My shock eased, and in its place, helped by
the tea, I began to experience a compensatory high which
focused on Louises pained response to my description to her
way of walking.
Then Simon saw something in the garbled account that
interested him very greatly: it struck him that though afraid of
the black, I had yet stood up to him. I was grateful to him at
this point, I was ready for praise. When Simon repeated it, I
saw Louises face go slack and her eyes turn to mine with the
plea not to talk about the subject. I was puzzled by the
behaviour of both of them at the time, though not now. Simon
finally got around to asking me how I could do that; in his
words, as best I can remember: How could you act as though
you were not afraid?
My answer was spontaneous, it would have been
difficult to answer otherwise: I had nothing to lose.
I dont know which of them was the more interested in
that reply. Louises face veiled over and she brought her arms
in tight by her sides. On the other hand, it was Simons turn
not to understand me.
He was disposed to strike out, Simon. So either he
would hit me or he wouldnt. I left my fear exposed to the
possibility of being hit and concentrated on diverting him
from doing that. Otherwise I just played it by ear, but seizing
any opportunity to deflect his desire to hit, not me, you
understand, but some fat complacent white face. Lying to him
created a new target for his rage, one I felt he would not be
able to acknowledge. And you know why? The poor chap
134

believes hes a black bastard anyway. I told him the truth the
way he sees it.
We finished the tea and I made my exit. Simon was
very impressed by my final rationalisation, which was neater
than the version I had given Louise. Simon likes smart
expediency.
Louise remained preoccupied. You can see now that
the idea of overcoming fear intrigued her, but what I didnt
catch then was that the concomitant to this was to admit the
inevitability of fear and to see that against fear you have
nothing to lose: if allowed, the fear will eat you up anyway. I
think this insight gave her the nerve to expose her fear to me
that night in the car. Perhaps she also thought that if I could
handle my own obvious fear, I could handle hers as well.
Angie rang as I was cooking a meal. She asked me to
come to her new flat. I refused, and told her to ring her
boyfriend. I told her not to come here, either.
I was sharp with Angie because writing the above
account has left a nagging irritation. Its not a good account,
either as a piece of writing or as a true report. The interaction
between Louise and me on the footpath was much more
agitated and I was afraid she had contempt for my lying to
the black. Ive never referred to it again in case I remind her
of some judgement like that. As an outsider of sorts, I always
act for people, usually to prevent negative judgements on me.
I need people to think well of me, not in a personal way, but
according to broad social norms of civility and respectability.
At the same time, the incident, really my fear, exposed me to
her, and in doing so made me aware that I wanted her to more
135

than like me. I wanted to be intimate with her, in the sense of

being with her without barriers, so I could enjoy her
individuality. I repressed desire for her then because I
thought she was frigid, but I did want to know her and be as
close to her as I could.
You can see why I hated her questioning my motives. I
realised very quickly why the stupid incident occurred and I
felt guilty about it: she was young and frigid; this allowed me
to study her as though she was some kind of imitation
woman, who represented the body and movements of a real
woman. I didnt want her to realise that; that would be too
cruel. Later, on the stairs, I could tell her. That was because I
discovered climbing the stairs, brushing against one another,
growing breathlessness weakening our control of our facial
expressions, that she liked being close to me. I could tell her
then so she would know my interest in her and what I thought
of her, that is, that I had been so engrossed in looking at her
body and that I thought she was beautiful. Strange how things
turn out, isnt it? All I wanted was to be friendly with her at
the readings and after being struck and cowed by a stronger
and younger man, I achieve the beginnings of the intimacy I
really wanted. And as it turned out, more, much more than I
thought I had a right to expect.
Tony, I may have written this simply so as to sweeten
my mood in this empty flat. I realise that this is the last time I
will sit at my desk in this corner, writing. That in turn makes
me sentimental and I regret my curtness with Angie. But
whats the point? She is on another road now, and I am on
another. Our shared life in this flat is gone. Dead.

136

There is something else nagging me. Simon. I can

understand Louises interest in the notion of standing up to
fear, but where is Simons interest? I have always assumed he
intended making Louise afraid of what he did to her; now I
wonder. What if he thought he was doing good by his
standards? He asked me: How can you act as though you are
not afraid? Simon obviously cannot. What is he afraid of? I
must think about this.
Later: I have read the account again. As a piece of
fiction it might do if it is properly buried in a novel, but it is
too contrived for a true report. Theres something too
winsome about the movement from glaring to interest, and
from male vulnerability to female vulnerability. It didnt
happen so neatly. The truth is that the first time I saw Louise,
reading that magical chant, I wanted her the way a child will
covet a desirable object. I wanted to own her. Not simply as a
sex object, this is important, but her, Louise I want to own
her, all of her. If you think of it, I never had a chance to see
her in sexual terms, and the only thing I have committed
myself to do to her is to hurt her.

26 June
I was in the garden, irritated and lugubrious by turns,
saying farewell to roses nodding in the night wind, when
Angie turned up. She was as drunk as I have ever seen her,
shes a steady social drinker usually, and distraught. She had
to talk to me. I gave her a yellow rose and brought her inside.
She had a bottle of wine with her and I opened it for her,
137

refused to drink any of it. My mind was brittle and had a rare
clarity, as though I had been preparing for this moment. I
made tea for myself. She crashed down on the made-up
ottoman and started crying again, a deeply private weeping,
miserable and piteous. I walked around the large empty room
as she cried, figuring what was gone. The first Christmas
here: discovering at noon we had no corkscrew. We went
down to the pub with some bottles and everyone wanted to
open them for us. That was one evening we managed to
forget what separated us. The day the second novel was
accepted: I hated myself and she managed to get me to forget
the regret for that night. When my father died, she went
through all the motions with me, supporting my emptiness.
But when her mother died, I took my cue from her
calmness, her objectivity, though I thought she was wrong
not to express her feelings. Now she surfaced from her tears
and sobbing, body slack and a bit ponderous, wine spilling
everywhere, and told me she had mislead me all these years.
Recognition on my part. I sat on the floor in the middle of the
room and wanted to scream with sheer joy: it wasnt my fault
after all. I asked her to tell me.
The man she left me for is her uncle, with whom she
had a relationship as a child. Her parents had found out and
the uncle had been hounded out of London. He had come
back a year ago. She loved him deeply. I was the only person
to be told this.
I was touched. I asked her why she was so upset. Why
didnt she take her happiness and not worry about anything or
anyone else, including me. She let out a really loud wail and
began to thrash about on the ottoman, bedclothes falling on
the floor. I went back to figuring, sitting lotus in the middle
138

of the empty room. Behind Angie, the mature beech stood

steady in the night, light from the room reflecting on its
smooth bark. The figuration this time was complex: man the
deserter, the woman stranded, indulging at last her awful
dream of possession in the face of its absence. I desert all my
women at the moment of closure, when they are prepared to
make do with material possession. I was so happy I had tried
to hurt Louise: I was free of my own fear.
When she calmed she told me she preferred me to her
uncle. About the same age, he was old and settled, and she
was afraid he would never see her as anything more than a
child. Never very potent, she was afraid he was now
impotent.
Then she cried, miserable again, and yelled that she
loved her uncle she couldnt help that. She took all her
clothes off and asked me to fuck her one last time. I refused,
running on my own high. So she went to work and my penis
became erect. I fucked her until well into morning daylight.
There was no orgasms, no ejaculations: my erection seemed
immense, unflagging, her vagina a wet open sore; her mouth
perpetually open, eating, sucking, gasping. Her eyes
resembled those of an animal trapped in a pit, fearing the
worst. I was a furious machine, a dick out to here pulling my
groin apart, arms aching with the stress, my fingers sore
climbing up a body that flew up and up like a bird fleeing. It
was like a botched murder, where the murderer and victim
have forgotten the purpose of the struggle, to kill savagely.
Now it is over. The jays are arguing on the low wall
outside the main window. The cumulus above Mrs Simpsons
tall poplars is as white as any washing powder could make it.
The electricity was cut off while I slept and I cant shower or
139

make tea. I am numb and raw all over. But it is done.

Complete. I am free of poor Angela: twenty two years in
which she learned nothing at all, in which she grew not a jot,
dreaming of a lover while both grew old apart.

Evening:
The storage men came and went, sniffing in the room
the cold reek of murderous sexual desperation. I looked it
anyway. Then to really cap it all, Kathy, my agent, with her
usual sneaky instinct, rang. I told her I was returning to
Bristol at that very moment and that she had better write to
me there. She as usual pushed her luck and told me she was
coming out, that I had to do her the courtesy of waiting one
more hour. She has a talent for making men indulge her. We
arranged to meet at a pub in Balham she called the Tit and
Trumpet and then called by its correct name. I said no literary
lunch, I was driving down this afternoon.
Preoccupied, I loaded the car with the discs, some of
the prints and the more personal books. I closed the door on
the flat without thinking to look back, and threw the keys out
into the garden. That prompted me to cut every rose and heap
them into the passenger seat: yellow, pink, white, crimson,
and three scarlet roses. I wanted to do more. I wanted to
break every window, piss on the floors and walls, destroy the
garden. I wanted to do more than that.
The Tit and Trumpet is near the Westside of Clapham
Common, front line, the main road and the common itself a
march, English by day, disputed by night. The pub goes back
to the last great splurge of gruesome English good living:
bare walls, black jazz players on the walls, rock music
140

derived from black slave music, plebeian foreign beers and

food, and a clientele of white business types having noisy
boorish lunch. (A boor is uncouth and garrulous because
grossly overworked.) Kathy was there, table to herself I
think I have remarked that until recently she was the only
woman I knew who possessed her own sense of authority
bottle of white wine, Loire, because I dont know much about
other white wines, two glasses and the menu. She looked as
though she was going to have a good time.
The music system was very good, advanced pulse
speakers stringing stereophony down the long room, speakers
keyed individually through the separator. As usual, the music
was rubbish. Its amazing that as the technology improves,
the material processed by it becomes more mediocre, geared
to the latest technological novelty. For instance, it is possible
to key, lets say for rhythm, each source of percussion and
record and reproduce it separately with impressive
distinction. It should be possible therefore to produce rhythm
dynamics of the most subtle complexity, practically an
orchestration of beat. What happens? They separate all the
percussion that is the novelty but all the percussion bangs
out the same beat. Thats why I like the older music: the old
bands played music to the best of their ability, the later bands
merely sell new technology. Let me finish this. Except what
is called serious music, where it is now possible to truly
appreciate the sheer variety and complexity of sound
discovered by composers over the last three hundred years.
Only with my new system have I heard those, now crucial,
hints at the limits of aural range in Bruckners Eighth.
I am writing this under the influence of strong coffee in
a service point near Swindon: when Kathy waved to me, I
141

knew we were going to have a good jolly time together. I

only meet her when I absolutely have to. Publishing is a
different world to that of writing: full of hype and highs,
everything getting better and no one except some accountant
somewhere caring who pays for the good time. Kathy is
especially good at this, having decided years ago at university
to see the world in a particular finite way and get the most out
of it. Unlike most hypers, she doesnt hit you with the late
night down, when they try to capture a mythical innocence,
and tell you that you, after all, are doing the right thing in
sitting at your desk all day and going to bed early to conserve
energy for the Work.
We got through the first bottle fast, and she called for
another immediately, giving the usual message of the gold
credit card in her capacious bag. We had three bottles before
eating, music beating the floor, running up my spine, and I
told her about Angie. She loved it, especially the night-long
attempted murder. Then she told me about her latest romance.
She married successfully, finds sex a bore, but loves
romances, especially with old men friends, usually from
university days. Romantic heroine? Yes, but very good, and
entertaining, at it.
Then we ate some kind of spiced shit from the pits of
South America and later shifted over to spirits, gin for me,
whisky for her, quieter now, alcohol diffusing the world
around us. Then to business.
She needs a new novel. She has worked it all out. My
first novel sells steadily, but sales taper off with each
successive novel. I complain about the marketing, especially
the presentation of the later novels. She accepted that, so she
gave me the plan. A new novel, new edition of the others,
142

package the lot: let me write the blurbs, use my covers. I got
excited then. The bar had emptied, so we cajoled the staff
into playing some real music I found Wheels of Fire at the
bottom of a stack, the live disc, keyed their machine and
transferred to a better table.
I laid out the concept for her, in broad terms, using
paper from her notebook. When I had finished she translated
it into her own language:
Pity XX (no names) is lasting, Richard. You could
have done really well, you know. You are doing what XX
never achieved and knew it, believe me, Richard and that
is the creation of character, as you did in your last novel. I
mean, that woman, Richard. Well. You got her as a character
in a novel, you know I mean this rather than the usual
halfbaked social science caricature.
As usual, Kathy managed to get me going:
Transcendence, Kathy. Transcendence.
Yes!
XX tries to makes this world transcendent, Kathy.
Yes!
Nearly did it a few times, too, Kathy.
Yes! Yes!
But the women, Kathy, they live in mirrors. So what
can you expect of the men only reflection.
Yes! Yes! But I could get her going too: Youve
caught it so well, Richard. I think you are a genius, do you
know that? She paused, going foxy: You dont know what
its like, Richard.
Whats it like, Kathy?
Ill tell you, darling. I go out into the world after I get
one of your novels...and I recreate it!
143

And?
Richard, I can live in your work for weeks at a time.
The intensity, you know, Richard. I can work a man into
that.
Good heavens, Kathy.
You know the scene with the glass in the swimming
pool? I got that in Barbados. And you know what, Richard
darling?
No what?
He reacted exactly as the man does in your novel!
Took me days to get him down.
My mood suddenly shifted, catastrophically, like a
balloon deflating, an ambiguous sense of danger:
What about the rest, Kathy?
She was surprised, completely unaware of the change
in me.
What rest, Richard?
The feeling now was of thin ice, like a whole world
suddenly turned to glass. I went out to the car and brought in
a yellow rose.
Here, this.
She gazed at it, appropriating eyes, alcohol giving her
continuous terminal energy, her lips boorish in her own
sudden deflation, and asked me in a quiet voice, as though
she too saw error and catastrophe, like a razor sharp knife that
was to end all the good times: What about it?
The muteness of the flower incited a pain in me. I
spoke rhetorically, saying what I wanted to say despite the
pain: Ever recreate that, Kathy?
Her eyes were like a childs then, a true belief in her
that she really could hide as long as she wanted to. She
144

looked up at me, the alcohol blurring the rough edge perhaps,

but also I suspect this was in essence a common enough
scene for her:
I dont understand, darling.
I went out to the car again and got all the roses except
the scarlet ones and some of the yellows. I carried them in my
arms, ignoring the thorns, feeling murderous but also a sense
of a huge relief in the offing, and emptied them out on to the
table.
Here, Kathy. Read my fucking works again, will you.
She followed me out to the car.
Come on, Richard, tell me. What are you trying to
say?
She was looking at me with interest, and I felt myself
part of a scene she was creating. Even so for the record I
said what I wanted to say, whether it was part of her story or
not:
Theyre not fantasy, Kathy. A sudden affection for
her then, I think because I realised she was actually listening
intently to me. Tell you what, get a little room somewhere,
paint it white, get a comfortable chair, and sit there and read
them. And when you start to burn, and the voices speak and
the rose opens in your imagination, youll get a really big
surprise. Youll find yourself there already. Thats what I do
writing, Kathy. So if you follow the tracks Ive laid out,
theyll bring you to yourself, too.
All she said then was: Jesus, Richard. Oh Jesus
Christ.
I burned out of London, burned down the M4, and
came all the way down here.
145

CANT ANYONE SEE ANYMORE?

27 June

KINGSWOOD

I came back through Chippenham, down through

Noddy Land to Kingswood, rather than up the sacrificial path
from Bristol, back to this phantasmagoria. It was latish, so I
decided to ring Louise before going in. In the phone box this
red haired girl in a mini skirt, back of her knees white,
waving her free hand emphatically. I opened the door and
held her from behind, face in her hair, she screaming into the
phone. Then she was screaming my name out on the road,
outside the library, cars changing gear after the hill, the land
clear to Wootton-under-Edge, jumping up and down,
throttling me, I feeling the solid weight of her in my arms.
It was all true, after all. Oh God, it is all true. Louise
does exist.
I tried to say something, I garbled, she shook my head
vigorously, punched me in the chest, doted on me, eyes
sparkling, leaning on me and supporting me. What did I do? I
held on to her and held on to her, feeling relief flooding
through me: the sperm of heaven.
We walked back down the road afterwards, arms
around each other, walking towards Noddy Land, Wick spire
just perfectly placed on its little wooded ridge (the road
widens at the church in a long curve, making it a noisy
racetrack), the line of beeches on Freezing Hill sentinels of
146

remote significance. I wanted to shower, shave and change,

Louise wanted to talk, to be together, so we went into The
Miner next door, and sat in a corner in the back room until
we were ready. I was moving fast in myself and she was
flying. We talked at first without listening, lost in the
brightness of our faces, the life in our eyes, joyous. Then
seeing the radiance, recognition. How do we know each other
so well? I dont know, but I know her as well as I know
myself. Then the questions, in order of importance, answered
without being asked:
Its over. Complete.
You were right, Dick. Only energy.
Kathy, my agent. Lunch with her. Afraid of roses.
Simon wanted to kill you at the weekend.
You must tell me about your mother, Louise.
You look so sweet, Dick. I bet a lot happened.
At least I got the secret about Angie last night.
Childhood romance with an uncle. Thats who shes gone
back to. Even so, shes found she wants me to fuck her
forever.
And did you?
Murdered her.
How was she after that?
Relieved, I think. She seemed surprised at herself this
morning. Very calm, yet shaking all over. I think she feels
she has made a mistake. But shes resigned to it.
Sad. Im glad its over for you, Dick. You were
courageous to do that for someone else.
Perhaps. But, you know, Louise, its like she wants to
keep a wound open. I always thought she wanted to be
147

happy. I shivered then, feeling drained. And how are you,

Louise?
Oh Dick. What we have done. When you touched me
in the phone box, I felt such a jolt.
And when I knew it was you I wanted to screw you.
And Louise smiled and nodded her head eagerly in a
sunny way.
The car was still there, keys in the dashboard. I pushed
the dead roses out and helped Louise in, if that is the word.
Got into the laneway without much difficulty. We fell on the
floor of the room and there was a mad scramble for about
four minutes. The word is joy. You do it as often as you need
it.
We slept on the floor until three. She said shed take
the day off, so we put on TV and boogied naked for an hour
of so. Not great music, but a pastiche of a particular musical
lineage, VU. Then we sat on the bed looking at one another,
touching sometimes. Then we cuddled and cuddled until we
fell asleep again.
Shes sleeping as I write this. I am happy.
I remember she took me to see the Gorge. We walked
over through Clifton. She was so many people then and I was
fascinated by them. All those lovely Louises, all bright. She
was constantly trying to find a way into me. I didnt know
that then, but I let them in anyway. I could lean and whisper
to her in certain roles, in others I could tell her she was
beautiful. She could tell me that she loved me she never
held that back (She said please in the magic chant instead of
praise because she had just seen me.), that she was very
frightened, most of all of me. How do you love someone like
148

that? Constantly, never turning the gaze away, following all

those characters like lights in a tunnel. As you know, you can
find someone real at the end, if you are constant. When you
meet someone you are given a life story in gesture and image.
And you give your life story, whether you know it or not.
Thats love, too. The longer you give or receive the more you
approach the real person. And the more you approach, the
more you want to approach. Thats love, too. But full love,
the centre, as it were, is when you can give yourself, and can
receive the other you must do both. Then you are suns to
one another, full of admiration for the beauty of the other, for
the radiance. The secret is in the heart, where you are.
The city was stuffy that day. Strong winds but humid.
Louise wore a tight yellow dress, skirt flaring over knees. It
was hard to decide whether it worked or not. Sometimes it
highlighted her hips, but that failed to do justice to the rest of
her body. But when it indicated her throat and breasts, her
shoulders had very good presence and I would want to
embrace her. I realise now that she offered me the choice of
her waist or shoulders and I chose the latter. Arm around the
waist is clutching. She was aware of my response and she
relaxed for a while and we talked about numbers I was
reading Jonass book then. She knew a lot more than I
expected, I mean for her age. She has a very good memory,
better by far than mine. It amused her that the road to
Kingswood, the A420, meant Isis. So it does. I told her then
that the Roman Catholic church in Kingswood is dedicated to
St Bernadette and the Lady of Lourdes, both vision and
visionary. No man is ever portrayed worshipping the Mother
of God; only women may.
149

We came to the Gorge across the park. On the far side

of the Gorge there is a wood, very dark. I had forgotten about
the famous bridge over the Gorge. In private, my first
reaction was that it was all too tame. Louise didnt want to
cross the bridge, but we finally did cross, hand in hand,
talking about suicide. We went into the wood, along paths
that seemed to meander while going deeper in. The yellow
dress was bright in the gloom, and we pumped waves of heat
then cold then hot then cold at each other, tearing leaves apart
in our agitation. We talked about hot sex in the guise of gods
and goddesses, about Isis and Saturn, and the son who
survives and the son who is sacrificed. How Eros lived while
Christ died. Eros weeps: she told me that, and I believed her.
And I put my arms around her, looking at her and said,
Louise, I want to fuck you. And she said calmly, Not
today, Richard. And I gave her a quick hug and released her.
Need I explain that? Not today. I didnt hear it at first. I
thought she had said Not your lay, Richard. That
disappointed me deeply.
We walked back by a different route. We talked about
death this time. Playing with concepts, really. We crossed the
bridge, hand in hand again, that was spontaneous on both
occasions, and she told me where we might have tea.
It was in the park adjacent to the bridge that I saw the
shadow in the trees and felt this new fear. Look into the
shadows and see your mother, little baby. Dont cry. My
mother lives quietly in Dublin. I am preparing for her death, a
deep preparation, preparing for a new world without her. In
that park I saw it.
I have written to this point and only now does the
memory become clear. I finally realised what Louise had said
150

in the wood and now in writing that I turned to her with

gladness do I remember that she said, We wont be afraid,
will we?, not what I have written at the beginning. And she
laughed a curious tittery laugh, tip of her tongue against
partially open teeth.
But all I felt was terror, which I think was wise at the
time, because I was afraid. Louise knew I was afraid, too, and
she risked a lot reminding me that we both were afraid.
Tonight, apparently, we run with Louises pack. The
run starts every Friday night and can extend across Somerset
and Gloucestershire, lasting, if it is a good run, well into
Sunday.
Over the top with Kathy again. Im still not sure if she
provokes me to it or I pick up her hysteria. I should have told
her I am finished with writing. I wonder what effect the
business with the roses will have on her. Does she seriously
re-enact the novels she reads? Shes the one who brought XX
into it cans she see its all in the imagination only? It is not
to be projected.
Whose novel did she recreate yesterday? She was like
the server intoning the prescribed responses, right up to the
last Jesus Christ (which is not her kind of ejaculation like
most secular English she has a superstitious fear of religious
power words). No doubt shell tell her other writer about how
she recreated a scene from his or her novel and the subject
responded as prescribed.

151

28 June
We are somewhere near St Briavals. We landed here
about three this morning. An unreal night, apparently with
more to come. We drove, in Louises car for a change, down
to the Somerset border to a place called Temple Cloud
(which may be Temple Clwd, Temple of the Cliff, though I
had no chance to check). Pubby pub, cheerful, everyone
beaming at you as you come in. Odd group, mostly country
middle-class playing at county. Some nice people, though,
among the snobs (people who cant get far enough away from
their roots). Tom Johnson especially, looks whimsical and
warm, Phillip Davids, about the worst of the snobs, though I
seemed acceptable (Dressed smooth, black and white, hint of
red.), he was amusing as a caricature. Paul Smedly I liked,
though he was very furtive, apparently a very successful
solicitor. We bellowed through a couple of rounds there until
Louise appeared at my shoulder and asked: Ready? About
six cars at first, a Range Rover leading, of course, across the
river near Bath, along the ridge I see from Kingswood to a
village at the edge of the Cotswolds. We found the
escarpment at Wootton, not far away. More people here.
Attempting cosiness rather than cheer. We sat. (Only certain
men could stand near the bar.) Sat beside a woman, Phyllis,
who glowed as though she had just stepped out of a hot bath.
We talked about house prices, very useful. As the charm of
the place faded, someone called out and we were off again, a
different group now, more hilarity, about eight or nine cars,
no Range Rover now. I asked Louise about Phyllis and she
said, Terrific fun, a great dancer, but something sad behind
that, like someone who either couldnt get in or who could
152

see through it all. We drove over to Gloucester and some of

the cars turned off, the rest of us going to what seemed a
party in a large house in the city. I was given a glass of
delicious port and a slice of rich fruit cake and I walked
around taking in the atmosphere. Like a museum: the house
represented an earlier age, the people there representing a
later age. It was so sad. An elderly man with clear blue eyes
and I discussed the woodwork, very finely proportioned, and
he showed me the gem, a little room looking out onto a park
of beech trees, a huge garden, young moon setting before the
sun, some of the panelling five hundred years old. I was taken
away by two women, mother and daughter, with long pale
faces, fine fair hair and the same blue eyes. Everyone was in
a large room clearing a buffet table. I got dessert first, a
strawberry and cream confection I enjoyed very much, more
port, then meatloaf and green salad. Everyone was content,
eating and drinking away, talking at a pleasantly warm pitch,
shoulder to shoulder. I met Mike Miller, not controlling his
ambition very well, but a good talker, local history. Then
Jean Michaels, very attractive and articulate; we talked about
ethics, strangely. Good intuition. Louise said afterwards that
she was totally cooled and couldnt drink. Then a man tipped
my shoulder and pointed towards the door. About five cars
this time, across the river and up some narrow roads to a
house near the Forest of Dean. Real party this time: music,
lights, party dress, going through phases of frenzy and
recovery. I danced a lot with a woman called Olivia, who was
a marvellous dancer. I didnt drink or have the drugs going
around. Dancing was enough. Superb system. To lie in really
close on her was heaven, feeling her pelvic bone locking in
above my penis. Later, I got into conversation with a group,
153

one of whom was a poet (Louise later described her as Alice

in a world where people long to love her, but she is terrified
of their coming near.). Interesting conversation, except
someone kept carping all the time, which no one liked. At
about half-two a fight started in the kitchen and we were off,
only three cars now, down through the forest, very fast, but
the trees didnt move. We came here then, and there was a
very smooth party underway, low ambience music, a
complicated game being played in the corner of the larger
room. Louise told me it was a game invented by one of the
players. Very detailed board, looking like one of Jonas
patterns, but from the branching Id say it was some kind of
logic system, dice determining some of the moves. Tom
Johnson came over to me and mentioned Louise. It was the
first time anyone associated us and I gave her a wave across
the room. She looked very presentable, deliberately, in a
summer dress, rolled collar to flare the fabric from her
breasts, large violet and red pansies following the curves of
her body. Took me a few moments to realise that Tom was
fishing. I felt I had given my answers already, and I saw a
woman with a serene face but sad eyes approach me and
Louise turn to look. It was Louises mother, who lives in
Gloucestershire. She was younger than me and I was a bit
overwhelmed by the sadness in her eyes. Louise watched us
closely.
Richard, at last. My name is Miriam. Im Louises
mother. Why do you always imply so much?
I kicked levels immediately and I was back in the West
Country, feeling the density and light.
To train the imagination, Miriam. To take it for a run.
Tom said: The preoccupation with gesture. Business?
154

To gesture is to touch something, Tom. What words

cant touch.
Your uncluttered world, Richard, Miriam said,
touching my elbow with a finger, all the echoes.
Tom nodded his head, smiling, touching the flank of
his nose above his moustache, Even pain cannot sunder it,
Richard.
And I said to both, opening my hands, Heaven cannot
come down to earth.
Rilke sought the voices of angels in order to express
the nameless.
As you say, Miriam, the echoes. He also said that the
world must become invisible to us.
Tome raised a finger, But, Richard, from the past?
I agreed at once. Yes, not from the past, reflected
images. We have the images.
Miriam nodded significantly; her eyes are sad but not
unhappy. Yes, we have the images, she repeated.
I had passed the second test.
Louise came over and said to her mother, at ease with
her: Well, do you fancy Dick, mother?
Miriam acknowledged the Dick and said smiling:
Could I compete with you, Louise?
Louise wrinkled her face happily and glanced at me:
Not now, mother.
Miriam grasped my elbow and then Louises and
shook them gently, I am very glad to hear that, Louise. And
for you, Richard. Now, lets have a drink to celebrate.
Everyone in the room had a glass of champagne, and
we were given our portion. I was shocked to see all those
glasses raised to Louise and I. She could have warned me, at
155

least. We stood in a loose group, and an old man, very lean,

Louises grandfather, said to me, You publish, Mr Butler?
The cue in the room was an old painting, heavily varnished,
showing a yellow moon. Im obliged to support myself. I
was candid. The old man nodded, stroking his gleaming
cheekbone: Yes. That is understandable. Are you selective?
I said no and he thought and said: No? I publish nothing, Mr
Butler. I noticed Tom and he nodded. I sighed and finished
the champagne: it should not be drunk so late: What
prompted you to write? Miriam came towards us, walking
sedately, grave: Daddy. Blue begonias cant writhe. Miriam
did say this, and her father nodded and went away. She
turned her head to me, her troubling eyes hooded: Daddy
writes the most beautiful verse that only he can read, Richard.
Are you tired? Well turn in soon. Ill show you to your
room. I couldnt see Louise. In the room there were pyjamas,
fresh clothes, toilet things. I said involuntarily, breaking
levels: You were expecting me? Miriam smiled and showed
white teeth: Yes. Richard. I suggested it to Louise. I looked
around the room and Miriam left. I slept deeply for about five
hours, crashed in a sprawl.
Yesterday, after I had slept again, Louise said to me:
A new notebook? She didnt open it, just held it slightly
raised. A womans vagina is suspended as a rule, but
Louises vagina seems to reach forward, the curves and folds
smooth and firm, the hair light. Do you want to read them?
Louise put the notebook down, looked at the table, said
absently, Yes. But not yet, darling. I see that her body is
still, at last. She has a good body, not in proportion but in
enticements. Her breasts are high and close, smaller than they
156

seem, but tight. Her flanks are long and smooth, her hips not
too wide. Long firm legs. Its Louises body. Her skin is
white all over. She curls when you caress her, cuddlesome.
When we touch, her skin drags slightly on mine, which
excites me enormously. When we are in a room we always
know exactly where the other is. I can see her with the feeling
I have for her.
I notice an error towards the end of my account of the
run. When Louise came over to Miriam and I she said, in a
decent voice, Well, do you approve of Dick, mother?
Louise looked confident, radiant in her gay dress. Miriam
smiled, Louise, I compliment you. Louise went positively
sweet and said, Thank you, mother. Miriam took our hands,
I on her left, and said, Prosper in your work. She turned to
Tom and said, Perhaps you will arrange some light sherry,
Tom.
Passing the sherry around had a ceremonial air, and I
was toasted in a discreet way, with tact. An elderly man, thin,
Miriams father, came and said to me: Mr Butler, I have
written but it was not accepted. I did terrible things in my life
and I sought to expunge them by writing them out. The clue
in the room lay in a painting, beautifully executed in tone and
detail, of a court of trees before a small lake. The king was a
young mature conifer, needles larger than pine, perfect light
on trunk and boles, and the queen was a silver-lit willow,
with fine hair. The ladies of the court, maples and other fine
willows, the nobles beside the king, smaller versions of
himself, all dark green and shadow. Behind the king stood his
army of young pine. To the left of the ladies of the court was
the crowd, sycamores, oak, chestnut, and others muddled into
157

a sea of leaves. And on this side of the lake were the royal
trumpeters, Lombardy poplars, blowing a fanfare. At the far
end of the lake, there was a small balustraded enclosure from
which outsiders could view, and here the words DECKO
HERE were painted. You should have written them as
novels. I thought it best to be practical. The old man sighed
and rubbed his eye. Yes. I think you are right. Need one be
selective? I said no and he was surprised, No? Then I can
publish something, Mr Butler. Tom was watching,
interested, and Miriam came over, looking mock-stern and
said, Daddy, dont trouble Mr Butler with your writings.
Miriam said this in the right tone, for her father gave me a
guilty smile before he went off. She joined me in front of the
picture and said, Daddy writes the most incredible stories,
really, Richard. Were going to turn in now. Would you like
me to show you to your room? Louise was not in view.
Everything I needed was in the room. I said to Louise,
switching off, Looks like I was expected. And Miriam said
at my back, You were, Richard. We slept in a heap.
Evening:
Louise will read these notebooks soon. She can then
perhaps explain the significance of what I am doing. This
afternoon we went on a hunt. I knew from Miriams tone
that it would be odd. Four of us, Louise, Tom, Miriam and I,
and two horses, took an hour to sort out. At first, we all
argued about age with the tendency for Louise and I to treat
Tom and Miriam, who is Miriams second husband, as
parents and insist they ride. Then Louise and Miriam saw the
incongruity of my, who was as old as them, treating Tom and
158

Miriam as old. Both stared at me, hard stares that were tightly
focused, and I thought I was younger than them, and Miriam
turned and mounted a horse. Tom rode the second horse, and
as if to make up for the argument, I walked as Miriams
squire and Louise esquired Tom. We went down a short lane
on to the bridleway and meandered along fields over an
undulating land. The hedging is full in sheltered places, the
path various, still wet in places. At one point we had to help a
dog out of a mire and it followed us for quite a way. The
others were at times annoyed with it for following, but I liked
it, perhaps someone at my back I was the outsider. Tom had
known Miriam from childhood and had always wanted to
marry her, so he was like an uncle to Louise. Dogs are always
for the good, once shown how they can help you. We entered
a wood and rested. Then of course another argument about
who would ride. It was ridiculous, our gesticulating like that
beside two sweaty mares, but in the end Louise and I
mounted and set off through the wood. Some fine trees,
perhaps overgrown parkland. An especially handsome beech
which also provided good viewing points. Some oak, but I
am always disappointed in the oak, it always seems meaner
than it should be. No elms. We stopped again at a large pond
in one of the denser parts. The water was black, little light
through the trees, made worse by the dark lichen growing
around it. Yet attractive for some reason, because we were
drawn to take another break there. I stood looking at the pool
for a while, taken with its fascination it made you think that
water couldnt be dark because you had never heard of dark
water and then tossed pebbles into it, seeing light on the
ripples. Miriam thought that was a good idea and came over,
saying, You ride well. I gave her some of my stones and
159

said, Shes a gentle mare. She hasnt tested me yet. Miriam

and I watched the ripples and she said in a low voice, And
Louise? It was a truly intimate question and that caused me
to say, You want my opinion of her? She stared hard at the
water, which was becoming still again, nodded her head
emphatically and said: Yes, we do. So I said, Look at the
water, Miriam, and I will show you. I waited about five
seconds and then tossed a pebble into its centre. After a while
Miriam said in recognition: Yes! When she turned, her face
softened completely, the deep folds about her mouth as she
appealed to me.
You let her show her fear to you, Richard. She
smiled, suddenly decent in an outgoing way. You are a good,
courageous man. I thank you for what you have done for
Louise.
Miriam, it must be done by both at once. I showed
Louise my fear, too. Louise gives me courage.
Miriam turned towards Tom and nodded, her eyes
closed, and Tom raised his hands, one towards Miriam, the
other towards Louise.
I decided to walk a short distance down the path, to get
a closer look at the trees. This part of the wood certainly was
parkland, and not long ago, because many of the trees are still
quite young. Sunlight was variegated and I developed a kind
of hunger for light, if only to improve my view. One
particularly beautiful sunspot stopped me, standing between
beeches, and seemed to entrance me with its brilliance. I felt
for a moment that the light was within me, glowing but not
burning me. Later I saw a curious scene, where two oaks
flanked a beech which had a tear in its bark strongly
suggesting the vagina. I couldnt resist helping the oaks and
160

the beech consummate their relationship. There was a shower

of light rain and I sheltered beneath a tall beech, bark very
smooth and bright. Nothing moved in the wood, no bird song.
I found that strange, though I prefer mountains and know
very little about settled areas. I half expected to see elves and
fairies come out, but none did. I walked on after the shower
and soon came to the edge of the wood, and for the sake of it,
I stood in line with some young oak, part of the approach no
doubt. I can see why oaks are symbols of virility, they do
convey that spirit. Out of the wood, the path dipped down by
some fields and entered a copse that was obviously sheltering
the crossing of a stream. Two local boys played in a pool
above the little bridge, floating boats made out of reed. They
simply pinch a slit in the stem of the reed and ease the tip
through as far as they need to make a boat. The reason they
do this, one boy told me, teasing me, is the tip will always try
to lift itself back to the light and so will keep the boat afloat.
So I asked the other boy, to balance matters between us, what
made the boat sail. He answered so quickly that for a moment
I almost believed him: The wind helps the tip rise again, but
the other lad piped, laughing again, Because the sun asks it
to.
I walked up to the next ridge, now entering the
meditative state that steady walking induces, becoming aware
of the land around me and the sky above, movement, pattern,
colour, most of all movement. I sat on the brow and looked
down at some kind of concert. There were thousands of
people shuffling about, obviously an interval. From this
distance all the men seemed to be wearing the same suit, the
women, the same summer dress. The orchestra was huge by
any standards, and they seemed to be assembling a choir. The
161

speakers were in three groups, extra woofers in the centre,

well forward of the stage, to keep the crowd back, I suppose.
Tom said behind me, puffing a little, Interesting
arrangement, Richard. We have often watched them. He sat
beside me and tested his forehead for moisture. You see how
the crowd is somewhat thinner over to the left of the stage,
thats because the police always hold one third of the
circumference should they need to bring in the heavies. If you
look you will see the concentration of police over there, and
thats their control unit beside the stage. And all the little
tactics they use to intimidate the crowd into enjoying
themselves. For instance, they use their harmless looking
vehicles, tow-away jeeps, motorbikes, stores vans, to break
up the crowd on the approach roads. They go through the
woods ferreting out the drinkers and the druggies. Any
moment now well hear a police siren in the distance, they do
it from time to time to remind the concert-goers that they are
being looked after. You know, Richard, concerts train people
to act together. He suddenly smiled, now revealing his irony,
and said, Actually, Richard, whenever I see one of these, I
think of Nuremberg and wait to see who finally gets control
of music. I mean, Mozart is not too bad, but what will happen
when they discover the really affective music?
Louise and Miriam came up then, looking very pleased
to be mounted. The orchestra struck up as we started down
and it took a bar or two to identify it, what with air warping,
and it was Mahlers Resurrection Symphony. Tom grunted
and Miriam laughed at him and pretty soon we were all
laughing at the perfection of it, though all of us disliked
Mahler. Yet there are those lyrical passages that can be
enjoyed on their own: we listened to them as we followed the
162

perimeter of the concert area, closely observed by policemen

lurking in the bushes. Then up and down over low rises, a
complicated unevenness in the land, no watersheds that I
could discover. The music grew fainter and fainter and
Miriam said: Do you know that the orchestra faces Tintern?
Youll see when we get there. Then we came out into some
open park, very broad, a chilly aspect though, seeded grass
brown and the trees very dark in the shade. Louise said, Oh
the Deer Park. Its been so long, mother. And Miriam
replied: Yes, it has. I knew then that there had once been a
crisis here and that Miriam was afraid of its recurrence.
Though repellent at first, I soon came to like the park. It took
a while to understand why: the dark view compels you to
look for the light, and in doing so your attention is drawn to a
gap in the trees a little to the left, facing west-southwest,
where the glow in the light contrasts with the darkness of the
field. We let the horses walk in the grass, seeds grazing their
bellies, and Tom and I followed, both of us extending our
hands to be grazed also. Then I saw some young deer and our
approach startled them. They ran across our path, fawns and
their dams, and I shouted joyfully to Louise, Look, fawns.
Louise laughed, remembering Johns paper, and leaned to
explain to Miriam. They ran down to the main herd, clustered
about two hundred yards away in deep grass. One fawn began
to run amid all this stillness. He ran to our right at a wide
angle in our direction, then curved back round to the herd
and, heading left of us now, ran around the perimeter of the
herd once, then ran around again, this time within the herd,
until just over halfway round he began a complicated
weaving among the scatterings of deer within the herd. The
weave was broad at first, half way down, however, he began
163

a more tight weave for a while and then came in our direction
I thought he had finally halted swerving to the right
towards the perimeter so as to turn smoothly at the point in
the herd nearest us and trot up the centre of the herd, to a spot
twenty or so yards beyond the herd and stop suddenly.
What are you looking at, Richard? Miriam asked
suddenly, no doubt sensing my concentration. A fawn
running. I immediately jotted down the pattern.

It is meaningless, I know, but there is a pattern to it

its not simply random. What does it mean to the herd, to the
fawn? Did he tell them a story, or some history? Louise came
over and stood very close to me: What did you see, Dick? I
showed her the pattern and said: Think about it, Louise, will
you. She nodded and pointed out a rare bird to us, flying
towards the woodland ahead of us, a kind of pigeon. We went
on across the park, the gap of light ahead of us now and then,
skirting a wood, began to descend. I could see now where the
land began to organise itself as it approached the Wye Valley;
you could sense the openness before us. We entered a stand
of trees, a small bridge in the shade. Miriam pointed to the
right and there was a little balustraded stand bathed in
sunlight, a small lake beyond surrounded by trees. We took
164

another rest there and decided to eat our chocolate and fruit.
Our voices echoed, but none of us wanted to break the silence
by shouting for the echo. All an echo says is here, here, here.
Then I saw it and said to Miriam, holding her elbow firmly,
The painting. She nodded, her eyes bright, and she said
softly to me: Daddy carries great guilt, Richard, but he has
done beautiful things too. I prefer him to paint. She pointed
up the little valley to the right. Unfortunately, that view is
gone now that the trees have grown up in that side. She
looked terribly sad then: But I suppose, you know, that all
the trees have changed now. It was a long time ago. I saw
that her serenity had grown from her acceptance of something
very painful and, to her, tragic: But writing helps him,
Miriam. She nodded, grieving that her father should feel
guilt: Perhaps. Will you let me tell you about him, Richard?
I would like you to know. I felt a strong sympathy for her
that she should ask me this and I said seriously that she could.
She smiled her deep decent smile and shook my right wrist.
My hand tingled; Miriam seems to store emotional power.
Touching her is a complex communication. I looked back up
the lake and saw the poplars, tall now no doubt, but the light
did play on them so as to suggest trumpeters blowing their
instruments, and I said to Miriam, touching her left shoulder
with the pad of one finger: Look at the poplars, Miriam.
And she smiled and shrugged the spot I had touched and said
Music? And we both smiled and called Louise and Tom
over to show them.
We followed the track down and crossed the river at
Brockweir, and went the short distance up the other side to
our destination, a house of their friends. The orchestra was
playing Shostakovitch now, weirdly distorted at this distance.
165

The house is plain, a lot of painted walls, run now as a

farming commune for refugees. I was shown around by a
London woman named Nicky, very open and friendly in a
spaced-out way, as though she couldnt see you. Tea and
scones with jam then, the scones homebaked with plenty of
eating in them. Tom and I were mounted for the first part of
the return trip. We went up to the left at Brockweir this time,
the horses as little up to it as we were after the break.
Through a screen of trees at the top of the escarpment, we
came out into another open park, less extensive, but
beautifully lit, the grass soft gold, the trees brilliant deep
green. Tom told me that it was called Whitefields, which was
a just description. We crossed through the long grass, and I
could feel the seeds beating my boots, as though calling to
me, and Miriam sang a song in a low voice, making us all
very content. We changed riders at the edge of the park and I
went ahead of the horses, Tom to the rear, and I slipped again
into meditation, feeling the land about me, until we came out
again to the concert area. People were leaving now, going out
through breaks in the skirting woods, police in evidence
moving among them, marshalling the exit of so many people.
Tom told me that buses take them to Chepstow and
Gloucester. There seemed to be no trouble, except perhaps
one old man lying in the grass, surrounded by five or six
constables. We followed the path around and then it climbed
and I saw the dark wood from the ridge, but Miriam said to
Tom, Perhaps straight down, Tom. Its getting late. And
Tom smiled indulgently at her, tired but happy, and said As
you say, dearest. He turned to us, I was holding the bridle of
Louises mare, and asked if we minded. A short steep path
down brought us into view of the house and Miriam and
166

Louise dismounted, and we led the horses in, chatting gaily,

voices ringing out in the yards.
Louise and I rested together, both of us thinking. We
didnt speak, simply lay hand in hand on the bed, and I knew
I could ask her about her mother then and perhaps ease the
atmosphere building up about us all. But I did say, after lying
together for nearly an hour: Your mother sees only pain in
you, Louise. And she said, almost by reflex: Yes. Thats
true, Dick.
I must have slept then, for suddenly Tom was in the
room, smiling at me and telling me to come and try some
dress wear for size.
It seems we are going out to dinner at ten. Everyone is
very cheerful about it, and Ive taken my cue from them.
Ive just realised that we didnt go to see the Abbey.
That surprises me because I have always wanted to see it and
I have it on my list of places to see down here.

167

NOTEBOOK SEVEN
27 June
Tom has given me this small memorandum book to use
as a notebook. It was Louise who noticed I had filled the
other notebook and asked Tom and Miriam. I could have
written this up this evening in one of the large notebooks I
bought, but they all thought I should do it now. It is true I
want to write this down as soon as I can, in case it gets
garbled in my memory.
We drove down in Toms big car, the leather smooth
and non-committal. Miriam put on the old Mixed Up by The
Cure, good volume and plenty of push. This is, obviously, the
cue for the evening and formal clothes: I didnt look forward
to this kind of mincing. I was sitting in the passenger seat and
Tom said, The people we are going to, Dick, are distant
relations of mine. Only been there once, ages ago. My
ancestors have lived here for six hundred years, all over the
common. From Scotland originally, the English put us here.
He smiled, looking embarrassed. Im sorry to go on, Dick.
Checks road. Butler. An old aristocratic family in Ireland,
arent you? Its a question only a Scot would ask; to the
English, there is only the English aristocracy. I did laugh and
say, There are thousand of Butlers in Ireland. We do all
kinds of things now. Tom came down a level to answer this:
Norman. Do you know, Dick, one thing we have learned
here: where the Celt and the Norman met, there was magic.
The Normans built, like the Romans, but they merged into
168

this western world, indicating the evening lands all around

us, their language utterly lost now. He nodded at me to
show how serious he was. But the English refused four
hundred years ago. The only evidence of this is the Fairie
Queene. The battle was lost there when Spenser died. Since
that time they have tried to hide in the world, but we follow
them everywhere. Miriam leaned forward and said: Tom,
time for the rose garden? He nodded excitedly: Oh yes.
It was a rose garden neglected for many years. The
roses had fought the battle to survive and they were riotous,
everywhere, up trees, through bushes, their evening scent
very powerful. All colours and all types had survived. I
picked an especially fine ruby rose for Miriam, a peach flame
for Tom, for myself scarlet, and for Louise a small bunch of
young cream roses, strong scent, to pin to her white gown.
Miriams breast burns, Tom more whimsical, Im making a
promise I couldnt keep, and Louise glows all over. Tom
said, You see, Dick. This spot is holy. Do you know what I
mean? Louise and Miriam were listening. I know, Tom. I
smiled at Miriam, feeling ambiguous for the first time down
here in the West Country. Roses make the ground holy.
Roses love to be seen. And Miriam knocked the rose from
her bosom and said Oh and picked a large yellow rose for
herself. Tom said to Louise and I, Its a heavenly place. I
love it.
We drove in silence then, a tension which bewildered
us all between us. I hate to see yellow used like that, the false
face of pain. Yellow is the sun, ardent. Tom said in a low
voice, Where were going, Dick, take it as it comes, eh? I
mean, theres no London speed down here. I smiled and
nodded and Miriam said, Youll find the food heavenly.
169

And Louise mouthed over her mothers head: no music. I

switched on The Cure again and brought up the volume.
The Owles have lived here for three hundred years.
They have extended their original house a number of times,
so that it is now a hotch-potch of three centuries of
architectural fashion. One effect is that each face represents a
different style: the original faces west, still Jacobean,
mannered to the north, classical to the east and Sir Walter
Scott gothic to the south. Tom warned me to be careful
moving from room to room, because the styles can change
abruptly.
The Owles are very old, they share an economic loosekneed walk, very slow. Their son, his wife and their children
share the house. The other guests were also relatives. When
we all joined in the modest reception room to drink port and
eat cherry fruit cake, I realised that they all looked alike in a
strange way: they were a very mixed group, but they had
something in common that gave their faces a mask when they
were together, even Louise (which surprised me). It was a
grave face, very white, large blue eyes, a nice mouth but
inclining to sulk. The chin was longish, but not plain for all
that, the eyes and mouth held you. Tom introduced me to
several people, but they seemed to gaze at me forlornly
before fading away into the gathering again. I looked at Tom
and said, You were right, Tom. London speed. Perhaps this
could have waited. And Louise said between us, No music,
Tom. He said enigmatically, Is that it, Lou? He went away
for a while, then came back, small spools in his hand. I
couldnt believe it. He gave me one and I checked the code. It
was a multiple system, so I keyed for Led Zeppelin and
smiled at everyone.
170

The meal was eaten in total silence, but the food was
very fine, yet not so fine as to distract attention, just to
complement. After the soup I signalled to Louise for the
music she was playing. She indicated TV with her fingers. I
checked the index at the edge of the table and wrote 256 with
my finger as a suggestion, and she keyed in, scowled, then
brightened and waved her hands at me. The old woman to my
left signed to know what I was listening to, keyed in, listened,
and wrote 256 on the table between us. I nodded and changed
channels, then changed back once she was engaged with the
man across from her. I asked Miriam what she was listening
to by pointing to her ear. She mouthed Hendrix and I nodded
to say I understood. And she fingered a number into my right
palm: 710, and I keyed and heard part of the second
movement of Bruckners Eight, the Stoic. Then the head of
the family told me to play a Fantasy by Stanley and I gave
him Kashmir and turned Miriam on to Chopin. We spent the
entire meal swapping music and I got to know everyone. One
girl of ten gave me the most amazing dance music, beat very
complex, and I gave her Cream, so she might learn variation,
and to a very placid woman I gave the Beatles and she gave
me back Velvet Underground. The son gave me jazz, which I
didnt like, you have to be really miserable to stomach
unending jazz, so I gave him Muddy Waters, going back to
switch him to the Stones (of course) after a while. A young
child gave me The Doors, which daunted me I hadnt
realised it had gone in so far. Terminal support. I suggested
Les Illuminations, Gomez. During dessert we tended to settle
down to listen, either to our own choices or anothers. I
listened to the Bach prelude and fugue, eating strawberries
and cream, smiling at everyone.
171

The dining room was classical, a little overbearing, but

the sitting room was Jacobean, nicely proportioned, with
deep wing chairs laid out in a wide circle about a table
bearing coffee, bottles and nibbles, including some of the
fruit cake. Someone said, loudly, That was a fine meal, and
everyone began fussing, moving chairs around, helping each
other at the table, chatting before settling down in little
groups, a few solitaries, to talk. Louise and Tom sat in the
company of the family head, Louise talking and gesturing,
telling them about the Bristol readings. Miriam and I sat at
right angles, and the first thing I did was to take the yellow
rose and give it to the nearest person, who happened to be the
wife of the head of the family, and give her my rose. The
scarlet drew attention to the depth of her eyes. She seemed
pleased, fingering it, letting me see her eyes. A few moments
later a young girl gave a rose to the old lady, and she passed
it to me with a shy smile. The rose was bright red, in the low
light even lustrous in its depths. I offered it to Miriam but she
insisted I wear it. Then she laid her fingers on my right knee
and said, Its magic. Do you understand magic, Richard? I
drank some coffee and ate some cake, deliberately. Then I
said, Magic is always the death of something. Miriam
sighed and looked happy that I did understand. Daddy
believes I was born as a result of an operation. I have powers,
but Daddy cant be right. She looked very anxious then, and
I saw her at an early age, sitting in her room rubbing her
hands together. Richard, that would mean I have no soul.
She braced herself, smiling bravely, tears starting into the
corners of her eyes, scintillating. I said, Why not, Miriam?
How else could you be alive? Now she looked horrified:
Evil could bear me. I took her left hand and she came
172

forward in her seat: Evil can only bear reflection, I told her
with the seriousness you can only use with children. I shifted
closer to her, our knees touched sharply, and we
simultaneously slid on to the floor and sat lotus facing each
other, knees touching, fingers embraced. Miriam, you can do
evil but you cannot be evil. Then the old lady knelt on our
left and asked me, What is evil, then, Mr Butler? She stared
at me in an unfocused way, short-sighted, but intent. Evil is
the mirror we use to hide from the dark. The old lady gave a
buzz and left, and Miriam said to me, Then my father isnt
evil, Richard? I always believed so. And he tells me every
day that I have a soul. She relaxed, closing her eyes in relief,
and said softly in her decent voice, Thank you, Richard. You
have reassured me so much.
That was the third test. The old man got up, clapped his
hands once, and led the way into the next room, which lay
down a complicated corridor, a confusion of styles, into a
room that, judging by its scale and presence, formed part of
the original structure. There was another round table, this
time with seating for twelve, laid out on which was a version
of the game I had seen in Gloucester. I drew six and Tom
showed me the layout and the screens. The word WRITING
came up on the right screen and suddenly I was in the middle
of a game where I had to cut down trees to make a log road. It
turned on speed of advance as a complex problem in logic:
whether to lay the log first or cut down the tree. I must have
succeeded, the screen suddenly stilled to a highly erotic
fishbowl picture of a womans raised foot, a mans hand on
the gear-shift, the focus portraying the man lustfully staring
at the womans ankle. That faded out and in faded a womans
breast which began to resemble a dark wood. A flashing
173

window offered me the choices of being lost in the wood or

being hunted. I punched for hunted and I was very frightened
alone. Flashing: knowledge, prudence; I hit knowledge. I
saw a king, then I saw the alternative: treasure, and I hit it, a
castle appeared, turreted, and below the word: CAVE. Choice
wasnt flashing, so I took this to be a recap period, but we
were still early in and the choices were plain. The next
question will be hard: you choose in the cave for that which
cannot be found elsewhere. The flash came: mother,
daughter, and I hit mother immediately. The choices: death,
pain. I hit pain, and I was a wolf choosing between lost or
led, and I said led; lion or woman, woman; knowledge or
guidance, knowledge; king or partner, partner; cave or
cottage, and again a rest. I have a partner now, though the
woman wont think so. The flashes started and I hit for cave
and I was offered wife or daughter and I hit for wife, then
pain or joy and I hit joy and my partner screamed. Joy
became the wood and I was a lion choosing lost or led and I
keyed for lost; then father or mother and I chose, deliberately,
father; guidance or knowledge, guidance; king or treasure,
king; cottage or castle, castle; mother or daughter, daughter;
pain or death, pain. The flashing stopped and I sat there, as
quiet as I could be, and felt I needed to search. Then I was
offered father, man, son, the start of a new game here, and I
chose son; I was a fawn deciding I was led or lost, and I
chose led. I was immediately threatened by a wolf while the
daughter led me and I keyed for daughter; prudence or
guidance, guidance; king or partner, partner; cottage or cave
and thank goodness the game stopped again. It was getting
harder to absorb the roles and I was beginning to concentrate
on fewer and fewer as I got further into the game. The
174

flashing started again, I keyed cave and chose between

mother and daughter and the daughter offered death or pain
and this time I keyed for death. I was an eagle over the wood
choosing between hunted or led and I keyed hunted, and got
man or lion, man; prudence or guidance, guidance; treasure
or partner, treasure; cave or cottage, and took a rest this time.
Then I keyed cave and I was offered daughter or wife, chose
daughter, and I was offered pain or joy, chose pain, and I
became an eagle again, hunted or led, led this time, which
was followed by lion or woman, woman; knowledge or
guidance, knowledge; king or partner, king; cave or cottage,
cave; wife or daughter, daughter, then joy again, no screams
this time. The screen went dark.
The second screen came on displaying a complicated
score-chart. It seems I broke role towards the end and
engineered the final choice. Tom came round and put his
hand on my shoulder. He read the screen and said, Dont
mind that, Dick. It hates being taken over. Well done. They
started conferring on whether they should have another game
or not. Everyone agreed, so we chose new seats. I got number
ten. Miriam sat beside me in number eleven. Louise was at
two and Tom sat where I had sat last, number six. I wired up
made myself comfortable and hit for preparation. I was
grasping so tightly that my hand glowed and I saw heaven,
which became me on my knees offering an exaggerated penis
to a naked girl, who shrank from me. Then I was bending on
one knee, arms out, supplicating the girl and I was asked if I
was man father or son and I said man, then I was asked lost
or led, and said led; daughter or wolf, daughter; prudence or
guidance, guidance; king or partner, partner; cottage or cave,
cottage; mother or wife, wife; happiness or pain, happiness. I
175

was the lion in the wood choosing between lost or hunted,

hunted; man or lion, lion; prudence or knowledge,
knowledge; king or partner, king; cave or cottage, cottage;
mother or daughter, daughter; happiness or joy, happiness.
Now I was the sun; hunted or led, hunted; father or eagle,
eagle; guidance or prudence, guidance; king or treasure,
treasure; cottage or castle, castle; mother or daughter,
daughter; death.
The screen went blank. Miriam said to me, Richard,
why are you so wilful? I said, my eyes looking for Louise:
Even the sun cannot survive. Louise smiled an unusually
brave smile, shrugging her shoulders and I could see tears in
her eyes. Miriams voice rose slightly and I heard the very
slightest exasperation in her tone, It depends on your
choices, Richard. I got up to go round to Louise, but said to
Miriam, The sun can only shine, Miriam. And she said after
me, her voice becoming decently stern: Yes, but it only
shines constantly on that which protects us from its
destructive ardour, Richard? I stopped and said, Your
mother? She nodded. Louises father? She nodded again,
looking brave. A thief, though I was too young to know. It
will destroy him. I touched her shoulder, You must be very
beautiful, Miriam. She pressed my hand to her shoulder and
said, I am, Richard. Louise joined us from one side, Tom
from the other.
How are you, mother? Louise asked.
I an happy, Louise. Very happy. She looked at me
and then looked at Tom, who said:
Shall we run a last game? Im sure everybody is
agreeable.
I said to Louise, What was it?
176

She leaned over and kissed my cheek.

I am happy, too, darling.
I put my arm around her lovely shoulders and kissed
her ear, whispering: Yes, Louise, happiness. Then I said
spontaneously, Remember the mothers price, Louise.
She looked at me, frowned, and said, But not Miriam.
I agree. She is very happy now.
Which makes Tom very happy.
It was decided to take refreshment before the next
game. I took a glass of claret with a large slice of the cherry
cake. Some of us went into the garden, the night being fine.
My host came over to me and said, My name is Simon. May
I call you Richard? I said, Do, and he took my arm and led
me out into the gloom of the garden, saying, Come and scent
the roses. The roses are set along little paths, twisting and
turning. Simon led me to one of these paths and we set off
moving from plant to plant, scenting roses, in deep gloom.
Our path crossed another and we met his son and wife, who
were also scenting the flowers. The son said immediately,
Good night, Mr Butler. Are you enjoying yourself? And
Simon said, You did it again! in a surprisingly firm voice,
and his daughter-in-law said, We make them, and I said
Couldnt fuck ducks.
I went on, wanting to scent the roses, and I followed
the glow of the roses in the gloom and the path turned and
twisted until I came to Toms path. He showed me a fine red
bloom with an appropriate scent, inducing torpor. I said,
Youre the guardian. And he nodded, and said, Presence is
enough for me, Dick. There was no sign of Simon, so I
continued on our path, scenting roses. It was less gloomy
now, I had left the shadow of the house behind, and I
177

followed up until I met Louise. We cuddled one another for a

while, and I think dozed afterwards. When we parted, going
our own paths, I said to her: Dont forget, Louise, we are
always approaching. And she hugged me again and
whispered, Together, darling. I laughed out loud, liking the
sound of the laugh in the night, and Louise was charmed by
that. I went on then, happier, and scented blissfully until I
came to Tom again, and he said: I admire the way you risk
yourself, Dick. I replied: Heaven is for those who believe in
heaven, Tom. I followed my path down among some very
easing citrus scents, and then there was a break and it made
me realise how dark it was. But I went on, the starglow to
guide me until I began to scent honeysuckle. The scent is
usually sweet, but after the full scents of the rose, there was
something in the honeysuckle that made me burn in an
uncomfortable but pleasant way. It is sharper than the rose.
Then I saw the little glows of the blooms, a very large plant,
spread out. Miriam smiled when she saw me and touched the
scarlet rose below her shoulder. She said, What a beautiful
night, Richard. Arent you glad to be out here. I sniffed
deeply and said, Yes. You know, Miriam, I never knew how
sensitive our noses are. She raised her wrist as though to
sniff and said, I am forty one, Richard. I teetered levels
then, holding on tightly, saying No once and for all.
Why? She lowered her arm to her breast.
Two reasons, I said, having no choice but candour. I
love Louise and I love you, as her mother.
Miriam relaxed from her pose and said, And I love
you as a man, Richard.
Youre a bit of a vamp, Miriam. Dont push your
luck.
178

I couldnt find the path and wandered around the

honeysuckle (getting tired of its scent by then) until I met
Miriam again and I said:
Cant find your path either, Miriam?
Oh yes. I thought Id rest and enjoy the night.
Waiting for me to come around?
You said I have a soul, Richard.
Im sorry about the rub. You really are very beautiful.
Will you touch me then?
Ill kiss you. But only if you close your eyes and keep
them closed and dont touch.
She agreed, laughing, teasing me by pretending to grab
me. I put my hands behind my back, leaned forward and
kissed her on the cheek, from where I could see the faint
starlight penetrate the upper layers of the skin on the bridge
of her nose.
She showed me the path, of course, and I set off,
relieved and enchanted at once, and followed the path to
where the roses resumed. I met Simon and his son and I said
to the son, in a gay tone, You never get tired scenting. The
son laughed in a jovial way and said to his father: Who
shovels shit? I said goodnight to them and went on until I
met Louise again. I said: Hello, Louise as kindly as I could
and she smiled and embraced me, leaning on me in a way she
rarely does. After a while, I said to her: Who did you meet?
Tom, Miriam and you. Who did you meet?
Simon brought me in, met his son, then Tom, then
you, Miriam. I met everyone twice. Did you?
Yes. What do you think?
I loved it. Especially meeting you.
179

She shook her head eagerly, Especially what you said,

Dick. Its so true.
We were not far from an exit, so we walked arm in arm
back to the house, where we all gathered for supper. I
discovered then that the game had been observed by the
others, by means of infra-red cameras, which I took with
good grace because it had been a game and also because
Louise and I were voted winners.
After supper, the Owles asked if we would stay the
night, but both Louise and I gave Tom a glance and everyone
came out to see us off. They all live there, apparently, bored.
We sang songs for a while, then changed places when we
stopped for a pee. Tom has a wonderful baritone voice and a
practised repertoire, so he treated us for the remainder of the
journey, Louise lying in my arms, holding my hands.
Weve refused to do anything this morning except stay
in bed together, me writing this, Louise reading over my left
arm. She thinks Im a wonderful writer, and also very careful
in how I write. I like hearing that from her. Yes, I do, Louise.

Evening:
I asked Louise to write this herself into the journal, but
she wants me to do it: it is her account of who she met in the
rose garden last night:
Mrs Owle led Louise in and said to her: I want you to
experience something quite wonderful, my dear: silence.
Along their path they met Tom, who said to her, Enjoying
180

here, the garden, angel? and Mrs Owle said to him, Why are
you afraid of coming here? Then Louise said to Tom: Dick
showed it to Miriam. Louise continued alone and next met
Miriam, who said: Have you ever done it before, Louise?
And Louise replied immediately: You are too beautiful,
mother. Louise and I met then. What we said was a
revelation to her, so that when she met Tom again, she said to
him: Start with the darkest sort, Tom. He replied: Simon
destroys them. Next she met Mrs Owle and she said to her:
Dogs think we save them. Then Miriam again, and Louise
said to her: The woman follows the man she leads. And
Miriam replied: Light penetrates, Louise. Then we met and
went back to the house together.
Miriam gave me an account this morning, very neatly
written. I wasnt going to ask Tom for his account, I thought
it could be compiled from the other three, but Louise and
Miriam both argued that it would be better to ask him.
This is a transcription of Miriams account:
I have been twice in this garden before, Richard. Once
long ago with my father and once with Louises father. Sally,
Freds wife, thats the son (how they introduce themselves!),
led me in this time (Olga, Simons wife, led me in the first
time she told me it was just a game), and she said: Were
going to go to the Canaries again. We met Louise and Sally
said: Power penned. Then Louise and I spoke and I went on
alone, feeling very light with all the scent. I met Tom and he
said: Black suits you to which I replied immediately, The
roses scent finely. Painted air, really. Then I waited at the
honeysuckle and you came. Afterwards I met Sally and I told
her: Birds dont need to know. Then I met Louise for the
181

second time and went on to meet Tom at the exit and he

escorted me to the house, whistling one of his songs.
Thank you for showing me that pain is light.
And this is a transcription of Toms account:
You know the atmosphere of the garden, Dick, so I
wont need to do more than list the conversations I had
(which is presumably what you want from me):
Richard I:
R: Manure the garden?
T: The sense is on off for me.
Louise I
T: Then join it, Hear it, guardian angel?
L: Prick shoved into merry jam.
Miriam I
T: Blanks shoot too.
M: Hero is sent finally. Pay him to dare, really.
Richard II:
T: I admire the way you risk yourself, Dick.
R: Uranus farthest hub we leave in heaven.
Louise II:
L: Startled, the dark is hot.
T: So I mind this child again?
I met Miriam at the exit and brought her down to the
house.
Incidentally Freddie, the son, took me in. His words
were:
Flayed mysterious erection. Its infamy to play. Prefer
racking mine off, you know, to every waltz. Rushing it, isnt
he?
I met him again, after my second meeting with Louise,
and I said:
182

Look after the horses, Freddie.

Its obscure, isnt it? Let me know when you make
sense of it.

183

NOTEBOOK EIGHT
1 July
I have time to myself at last. I have cleaned the room
out, tidied the kitchen and shower room, showered, dressed
and eaten. I will have to move out of here soon, the
deterioration is more rapid than I expected. I washed the
cooker, but I can no longer use the oven, I never grill (just as
well, a thick layer of meat fats being gradually carbonised,
the smell offensive as the fat is tortured to inert matter), and
the rings smoke when used. Luckily I have use of the upper
shelf of the fridge, though it over-chills my food; all kinds of
brightly coloured goo oozes from the lower shelves to collect
in the now broken vegetable drawer. Smells rising there too,
of sugar and petroleum wax.
Both of the couples I share the facilities with are locals.
I dont know either and so can only judge by appearance. The
couple here the longer are in their late teens, the youth
amiable in a bombed-out way while his girlfriend is attractive
in a sharp way, conscious of her appearance and dressing to
draw attention to it. They seem uncertain of the subculture
they have adopted, perhaps this is part of the general
confusion of styles throughout society. Sometimes they look
hippy in that English rustic way, waistcoats and floppy hats,
other times they are vaguely punk with a touch of biker,
padded leather jackets, black clothes, the girls hair dyed matt
black. I suspect it is connected with whatever drug they are
using (or can afford, neither has regular work): either hashish
or cheap cider in plastic bottles, perhaps heroin in good
184

times. Strangely, the music doesnt vary. The system is

cheap, with boomy speakers to give the impression of body in
the sound, and the music contemporary heavy rock, long
reduced to pointless loud accompaniment to saccharine
ballads. The same group of friends come every evening, I see
them drag themselves up the metal stairs to the door, the kind
who have young mongrel dogs on leashes of twine. Some are
fat and helpless, others thin and surly, all carry bags of crisps
and sweets. They dont mean to make noise, outside the
room, that is, but they and their dogs usually succeed in
hammering walls, slamming doors and, for some reason,
setting off the fire alarm.
Of the other couple, recently moved in, the man looks
to be in his late thirties and the woman, she has told me, is
seventeen, though she has already that indeterminate worn
quality of those descended from a long line of poverty. He
helps on a stall at markets in the surrounding towns. He has a
heart of gold, means to do the right thing, and flies into
wonderful rages at everyone and everything (not me, yet) to
insist that the right thing be done. He loves the garden,
having helped to lay it, but often parks his van in the middle
of it, thus cutting the insecure turf to pieces. Last week he
had his head shaved for charity, and then fought some man
who refused to pay his promised donation. His girlfriend is
pregnant. She was raised in a tower block and is organising
this house on the same lines. She sets great store by the
pinning up of official notices in the kitchen and shower,
though she is far dirtier than the other girl.
Though both couples are poor, they cook elaborate
roast dinners on Sundays (throwing half of it out afterwards)
and compete for use of the oven by starting the preparation of
185

these meals at earlier and earlier times. On other days, when

there is the means, they buy large sirloin steaks, grill then to a
crisp, and heat tins of peas and instant potatoes as
accompaniment. Usually, though, they live on cheap pies and
beans, bread and tea.
The revelation for me is that people can be very serious
about their lives of deprivation, they observe the ceremonials
and take great pleasure in doing so, even if the diet kills them
and their environment stultifies their souls.
There is a flat below me (a shop fronts the house), the
same size as this room, but compartmentalised into a
television room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. The
police have raided it twice for drugs. Apparently, Bristol
pushers have the habit of giving the room as their address, so
that van loads of detectives descend on the place and tear it
apart. The man occupying it feels hurt by these raids, and
though he has been told he would be compensated for any
damage caused, he either has not the courage or is afraid to
go over the local police station to fill in the necessary forms. I
offered to go over with him (it faces us across the road): he
looked terrified by the prospect.
Ive wanted to give an account of where I live, Tony,
because I want you to see that I have not been totally
immersed in the events I have recounted here. This is not to
say that the Kingswood squalor is somehow reality and
Clifton and Gloucestershire some kind of fantasy. Both are
real; what I have written in this journal is true to the best of
my knowledge. The distinction I want to draw is this:
The relations between the couples in this house have
the kind of accidental quality I would call ordinarily real, a
186

quality I have witnessed in the lives of most people and I

have experienced myself. For instance, there is no feeling of
destiny in the relationships of the two couples here. The
youth likes his girlfriend well enough as long as his
habituated appetites are satisfied. She cooks his food, she
dresses for him, and he is happy that others fancy her. The
other girl is much more proper, she cooks their food, but she
over-dresses, covering as much of her body as the weather
permits, and, as she is plain and dumpy, no one ever looks at
her. The youth fondles his girlfriend all the time, an expected
display, it seems, but the older man hardly looks at his
girlfriend. The point is that these relationships are, within sets
of habits, interchangeable, each could behave in exactly the
same way with any other appropriate partner.
The same is largely true of the lives of most of those I
have come to know in Clifton and Gloucestershire. Tom
Johnson would always be the protector of a vamp, Fred
would always be the husband of a plain, busy mother of his
children. Each has his habits and expectations, and would
seek to have these either supplied or shared in much the same
way as the couples here, though on a different scale and in
different settings. All these lives are determined almost from
birth by the habits and expectations of their parents.
The exception to all this is me. Like all of those who
try to break this determination, I have ended up with fewer,
and in many ways more restricting, habits and greatly inflated
expectations. The social life of my parents, which I once
thought was narrow, was certainly more satisfying to them
than mine is to me. My father would not have allowed a
secret to render his life sterile for twenty years or more and
my mother would not have tolerated my introspection and my
187

preoccupation with getting rest which accompanies that

self-engrossment. On the other hand, they lived their lives in
a closed world, the end of which was their children married
and settled in life and the prospect of enjoying my fathers
retirement. My expectations know no bounds: famous writer,
household name, interviews on Radio Three, critical
appreciation, academic analysis, and above all the ease of
being known by those who dont read me. To be honest,
Tony, I want the whole world to know me. I have become
aware of this ambition only recently, I think because I have
only now become aware of what drives this ambition. To step
out of the world prepared for you by your parents and culture
is to step into a strangeness that is truly frightening. I am
lucky to be a cautious person, so I have all my life stalked
this strangeness. But I have done so under a misapprehension.
I believed that the strangeness was a new world and that I
was exploring, and reporting back on, this new world, on the
assumption that the strange world I saw was the world of our
future. But that is not the case, there is no future, only the
present. The strangeness I experience is merely the
experience of incompleteness, which thankfully I have
grasped at times, based on my experience of perspectives
within my own culture or my experience of other cultures. In
other words, instead of witnessing a brave new world, I was
merely holding up jigsaw pieces from a variety of jigsaw
puzzles. And like everyone else in my position, I tried to fit
these pieces together, in the belief that they would make a
coherent picture. Of course, since our intellects operate by
taking hints, I worked hard to convince myself that I could
see this picture, and called it art.
188

Ambition inflated as I slowly realised that I was

becoming trapped in this incomplete world. On one hand, a
moment came, which coincided with the publication of my
first novel, when I knew that I could never go back to the
point at which I departed my parents determination of my
life: in the life of my brother I could witness the evolution of
that lifestyle into something new, which became alien to me.
On the other hand, a moment came in my early forties when I
knew I was living my future, when I realised that my life
would never change substantially. It was then that my world
began to set, for all the incompleteness, into a pervasive
continuity, and I saw before me a hell worse than anything
my parents ever faced: my death would be meaningless. This
is important, Tony, because I have written about it
extensively. Determination of life is also determination of
death: my father faced death, sad because it was too soon, but
accepting its apparent programmed necessity. I expect Tom,
Fred, Peter, John, all the rest do so too. For me, however, my
death will be inevitable, but not programmed. It will be
incomplete, strange, always misunderstood, because I have
no longer the means for understanding it. That is one hell
placed on top of another.
This is the situation against which my ambition
inflates. You see what I mean when I say I want the whole
world to know me? I need the assent of everyone, regardless
of class, race or religion, to make my life meaningful, and I
will need their attention to make my death meaningful. Yet I
know perfectly well I cannot get this kind of attention. So
what happens? This is the megalomania of the artist,
politician, priest: I set out to build a world in which I will get
assent and acknowledgement. Some try to convert the world
189

to their own image, consider religion, political movements,

consider most of all capitalism and money. I do it in my
imagination, projecting it in religio-philosophical terms as
transcendence (despite the fact that I have shown this to be
impossible): a veritable heaven on earth. I have reduced the
actual world and all it contains to the ideal, that is, nouns
written in pencil, and all the relations, activities, hopes,
despairs I have reduced to predicates written in pencil. I will
readily admit that doing this eases my experience of hell, and
that I even experience positive pleasure in writing. I live in
my own world: powerful, revelatory, full of the feelings I
want to share, full of the conversations I want to have and
want to hear. I sat at that desk in Epsom for twenty years,
looking at my garden, Angie out of the way at her work, and
lived intensely in my imaginative world, glad to go to bed
early because I wanted the energy to continue my creative
exploration the next day. You can see now why I loathed
publication and despise those who praise my writings and
flatter me with the term real. (One academic sent me a long
paper analysing with approval my theory of language. I
reminded him that it was part of a work of fiction.) The curse
of this kind of attention is that it both makes me aware that it
is all worked out with pencil and rubber, and tempts me to
project it as real, tempts me to believe my imagination the
greatest threat to the artist.
I know this is running on, Tony, but I ask you to bear
with me because I think these preambles are necessary to
make sense of what I need to tell you.
To start with, Tony: at what point in this journal did
you ask yourself why I continue to write it? When I
discovered what the fear the shadow inspired was? When
190

Louise and I discovered each other? After gaining the

approval of Louises mother?
I was prepared to end it once I knew of my
apprehension concerning mother. It is an honest fear. I think I
continued because, as I say somewhere, I have the habit of
writing, and it was fun to reflect on what happened between
Louise and I, and, to a lesser extent, on our weekend in the
country. Now, however, after reading the account of the
weekend, which was written very hurriedly soon after the
events, I detect a pattern which makes me uneasy: I have a
sense of foreboding that something truly terrible is going to
happen to me. In effect, I have reasons to believe that the fear
I refer to in the opening passage of this journal is yet to come.
I am prepared to accept that perhaps, after years of
agreeable disclosure, my imagination is now moving on to
reveal its dark side. Thats fine: it can produce some more
novels. But if it is my imagination, then it is disclosing in
some uncanny way a commentary on my actual situation in
this actual world. It is hard to convince you of this: but that
opening sentence It was in the park. haunts me. I cannot
know what the it is. If you read closely, you will notice the
prominence this little word has in the journal. Consider the
last words I wrote before going to London: It is love. Fine.
Consider Toms last words in his account of the rose garden,
Let me know when you make sense of it. Opening the third
notebook I find last night my declaration of love controlled
it: it replaced her own terror. (Yes, the first it here refers to
Louises will, but the second it says nothing more than that
one fear replaced another: there is a concatenation here
between two fears and will that I find disquieting, if only
because it implies a bottomless regression.) But there is more,
191

Tony: what Park? Yes, the little park adjacent to the bridge
over the Gorge (even this description makes me uneasy). But
this journal is full of parks and gardens, some real, some fairy
tale, so that I am prompted to see metaphor in the word
Park, and, worse, a vision in the whole sentence, and this
whole journal an elaboration of this vision.
Admittedly, Tony, there is something morbid in all
this, but you know I am not a morbid person. It is possible
that I am undergoing some kind of life-crisis: I have been
discarded by my companion, I have lost a home I cherished, I
have hinted that I want to write no more, and my mother is
getting older. It is possible that I am finally cracking. I dont
think so. Is there any evidence in the journal that I am not in
control of my faculties? There isnt.
Now I want to tell you what is happening.
The discontinuity I have indicated in my own
experience can occur in groups as well as individuals, and
can be caused by the decay of a group-world as well as by
breaking out from such a world. In England, a significant
section of the middle-classes, whose ethos was established in
the nineteenth century, an imperialist bourgeoisie, has seen
its world pushed to one side by new group-worlds, middleclass and plebeian. They now live in a collective hell, trying
by assertion to create a simulacrum of their vanished world.
At the same time, the urban middle-classes experience a crisis
of identity as their cities die around them, which they attempt
to resolve by aspiring to recreate the city as a social collective
in place of the now defunct economic city, a collective of
capital and labour. In both cases, as with the experience of
the individual, the habits the customs and ceremonials
become simplified and restricted, while the aspirations inflate
192

in compensation, the aspiration coming to focus on one habit.

In my case, aspiration focused on the act of writing, but it is
not possible for either of the groups to focus on an action, for
it is the context of their actions that has been destroyed. It is
possible for an individual to find a context that permits a
specific action a flat in Epsom allowed me the peace to
write but for national groups, the decline in national
circumstances does not permit such a closed context. Instead,
these groups are obliged to focus on symbolic contexts and
symbolic actions. In other words, these groups are restricted
to the imagination alone.
But
imagination
remains
discontinuous
and
disconnected day-dreaming without an instrument of
expression. My imagination would not have been sufficient
of itself, without pencil and paper. Even so, artistic
expression is not of itself sufficient for the aspirations of a
group, because the symbol must also express the relations
between members of the group, and art, as individual
expression, cannot do this (an audience is only a relation to
the work of art, not among itself). Therefore, something more
than art is required, something that expresses imagination but
also entails social relations. Superficially, organised religion
would seem to perform this function, but religion only
expresses existing social relations in a ceremonial way and
could not serve to replace defunct social relations if only
because the social relations expressed in religion are already
long defunct (nomadic tribes, feudalism, master and servant).
But magic would serve very well.
Contrary to popular notions, magic does not require a
context, magic exists purely in the intention to do magic. It is
my belief, Tony, that I have been taken up by two magic
193

groups, who are in competition, and that both are attempting

to use me to create specific symbols to satisfy their respective
aspirations. I will not list all the reasons I have for this belief,
this statement is already too long; I will try to outline what I
believe has happened so far.
I am a writer, skilled in expressing the imagination,
and capable of casting spells over some readers, that is,
causing them to believe my characters and their environments
are real. By accident, I come among a group of urban
intellectuals who are immersed in the products of
imagination, and I contribute to their discussions in such a
way as to arouse their interest in me. I am put through trials
of their devising and am brought into a relation with a
woman. The relation is specific, erotic and tactile, the woman
mistress of both. But the second group, hearing of this, use a
young woman to draw me into their group and in turn attempt
to establish a relationship with a woman with somewhat
different specifics.
Now consider the magical workings (Bear in mind that
they know me through my novels, and so probably know me
better than I know myself.): To start with I had come from a
long, frustrating relationship with, in their terminology, a
daughter who had a secret. As a relief from this, I am offered
relationship with women of similar age, who are mothers
separated from their children, both of whom surrender their
secrets, both concerning a deprivation: the urban of
knowledge; the rural of soul. I could satisfy both of these
deprivations; doing so was one of the tests. Now, secrets
were surrendered in symbolic places: the urban is an ancient
religious town, the rural in an old manor. And both were
satisfied in the place of the realisation of the symbol: in the
194

modern city and in a rose garden, respectively. Whats the

point? Conditioning, the subversion of my imagination: for
the urban group the Wood is sinister, the place of the Wolf
I am being prepared for Jonas reading on the subject of the
New Jerusalem, symbol of their protection against the Wood.
For the rural group the Wood is dark, hidden, the place of
secrets, and I am being prepared for the search for the garden
within it.
What do I do in these places? In both the New
Jerusalem and the garden I murder the mother. Tony, this is
how it looks to me. This is magic, not social engineering I
dont pretend to understand their reasoning or, worse still, to
know the outcome. When I say murder, I dont mean I will
throttle, stab or shoot Rita and Miriam. I mean, and I write
this for you only in the strictest confidence, I will do what
Simon has done to his girlfriend. I dont know if such murder
entails physical death or some horrible deprivation of being
or soul. The trouble is, I dont know what Simon did that
night, but I do know he did something, and it is something
that didnt work as expected. But it is something he knew
could be done, some specific action or actions.
Finally, Louise. Here is where I am most afraid and
most vulnerable. The experiences we shared are real, but are
they part of the magic? At the moment I think not; neither
group has done anything to interfere with our relationship. I
think our falling in love is the one unplanned event here. Yet,
and this is what makes it so vulnerable, it is not an accidental
relationship. I think I have made that evident, Tony. I dont
want either group to discover this. They would use our
relationship in place of those they have prepared. They might
want me to murder Louise, the daughter rather than the
195

mother. My fear is that I might not know I was doing it it is

their collective intention that makes the magic, not my
actions. This means, Tony, that there is no point in Louise
and I simply leaving Bristol, and I cannot leave without her.
Therefore, in order to protect her and allow us to
escape, I may have to consider murdering Rita and Miriam.
But that would destroy Louise and I. How could Louise live
with my evil: look what has become of Miriam.
I know you will think at this point: why didnt I contact
you. The answer is that I do not want to spread this
contagion. I may already have affected Angie or Kathy.

2 July
Perhaps it is being apart from Louise, she must give
time to her work, but the sense of foreboding is depressing
me with nameless anxiety. My face is tight, my eyes darkrimmed and weak. I had planned to rest, to read and try to
compose a letter to Kathy explaining why I dont want to
write any more novels, but I couldnt stay in the room. I walk
for an hour, come back, make tea or coffee, read for a while,
and then go out walking again, down to New Cheltenham and
Warmley, north along the ridge to Soundwell, or south to
Hanham and stand looking down on the Avon and west to
Bristol, Kingsdown woody from this distance.
It is as though I am waiting for something to happen: a
situation I dont like. I am helpless.
3 July
196

Last night, sitting at the window after dinner, eating a

peach for dessert, I saw Simons car glide in a curve on to the
grass in the garden. He did it on purpose, smiling one of his
cheery provocative, or provocatively cheery, smiles. Rita sat
in the back. She didnt see me (smiles are silent, they dont
draw attention). Simon kicked the turf, lifting lumps, of
course, exaggerating his disgust. I smiled, liking his
affection. Then Rita saw me and became springy, and I
realised that what I had assumed to be an essential energy in
her was in fact a put-on designed to hide something. But that
she chose this springiness as her mask of itself tells you much
about her. I waved to her and went out to let them in. How
deep her languor would be. Simon spotted the leftovers on
the table, the peach kernel on the plate and said, Oh good,
youre going to make coffee, Richard. May I look at your
system? I nodded and asked Rita if she would like coffee,
and saw Simon approach the system with the air of seeing a
jewel. Strange how they weighed me down, seeing the two of
them together here in Kingswood again. How I like Simon
when he comes here. He talks to me. I like that. But the effect
Rita and Simon have on each other: they are so at ease with
one another, in their appropriate roles, Simon is Phillip and
Rita is his mother. But like Louise and Rita, that only shows
that they cannot see each other. Yet Louise and Rita touched
one another, danced together. That is true. We had our coffee,
chatting, mostly about Somerset, where we had been. Then
Simon asked me about the system, going over to it again, this
time more at ease with it, even fawning to it, and I said,
Sony, I still use discs, more reliable for analysis more
information, I mean separation variable, for these new
197

speakers. You can adjust the balance of any instrument

within the separation. Ill show you. Put in Emotional
Rescue and gave him the controls. He must know the
principle, because he crouched in the cone, head down. The
drum rocked him more than he expected. Too tensed. Still, he
had his sound-spread set in about a minute, too fast for real
enjoyment of the action itself. How you can hear. I took the
controls from him and signalled I was going to cut, reset the
controls, broadening the cone to include all three of us, and
said. Now. The drum strikes on the up of the sine and
beckons you up a bright path. I didnt hurry setting the
sound-spread, letting all the accidentals the separator has
revealed command their attention, and, anyway, theres a
long way to go. Tightened up a lot during Summer romance
to give them the percussion, loosened for Send it to me,
which is elastic. Rita was sitting on the bed down to my right
and I could see her foot tapping. Simon was absolutely still,
staring slightly upwards. Tightened for Let me go, giving
them an interpretation that focused on the timbre of the voice,
so they could see the characterisation. Rita passed her hand
behind the bottom of my right thigh and the trouser fabric
crossed my flesh in such a way that my leg kicked in shock. I
loosened again for Indian girl and sat on the bed beside Rita
and my hands went over her whole body so fast, feeling her
hands all over me, that I hadnt time to register what was
happening until it was over. I smiled in amazement at her and
her eyes were bright with such happiness for me. I tightened
up Where the boys all go for Simon, and looked at Rita again.
There was no defence in her, a lot of fighting and bitterness,
but no courage. And then I saw the connection between Rita
and Simons girlfriend: neither has courage. Simon hadnt
198

moved, so I loosed Down in the hole slowly, but tabbing the

true values on auto, and set for Emotional rescue. When it
came, Simon shuddered, knees bending, bottom jerking out,
shoulders striving up, grimacing. He began to shiver. Rita got
up and began to dance, pumping her thighs, head up, joyful.
How she can emphasise her knees, and make you aware that
all her movement comes from her sex. Then Simon took the
control and began to check the sound, becoming cold and
tough, then of course you go into Shes so cold and that
seemed such a good joke that I laughed out. Simon was
furious with me. He gave me back the control and I adjusted
to bring up the warmth in the guitars that is the male
expression on the track.
Afterwards, Simon had a conflict with himself, because
he was really stunned by what he heard, and Rita asked me
about the Claude print, which I hung up yesterday. I said,
Its the Queen of Sheba. Shes on her way to Solomon. She
went closer, peering, and I told her in a teasing yet
exasperated tone that she couldnt see and to put her glasses
on. Simon came over then to tell us he was going, meeting
some people for a drink. He shook my hand, very unusual,
and stood over me in conflict: spite contending with pride. I
squeezed his hand and felt the rigidity in him: he really
couldnt dance. He kissed Rita on the brow, his hands
embracing her forearms, and went out of the room. He drove
away very slowly.
Rita put her glasses on. They have the effect of perking
her up, putting all the emphasis on her mouth. She studied the
painting, too intent. She wore a darkish grey skirt today with
a black thread pattern worked into it, a flat-red blouse, collar
a little too high, looked like armour at her back. I said, What
199

music would you like? And she said none, scrutinising the
painting as though looking for the key of the work. I eased
her away gently and brought her over to the bookcase and
showed her a photograph of the painting and said: Pretend
its a photograph, Rita. She nodded after a moment and said,
not looking up: I see what you mean, Richard. It looks like a
photograph but you know its a painting. I took the book
from her and said: Its a vision. There are two others I would
like to show you. I flicked to the earlier Seaport work and
said to her, Follow the sun. She nodded and I could see the
white flesh of her nape between hair and collar of the blouse
in flashes. When I sensed her attention weaken, I flicked
forward to the Delos landscape and showed her the vision of
an old man, painting from memory. I whispered, What are
they saying? She looked, more relaxed now she was able to
see the works, and became excited, saying, The grass is dry.
I nodded and smiled at her, Yes. A river separates them from
the sea, water rushing to the sea. Claude is saying that the sea
takes our memories back. She nodded, pretending to
understand, and I moved away, asking her if she would like
to go for a drink. She wanted to go to The Miner, having
heard of it from Louise, who probably hadnt even noticed
the place on Thursday. We sat like a couple in a window seat,
the swish of the cars passing audible. For once, she did not
like all the looks and stares and shifted to cover her knees,
drawing her legs in under the table. I said to her, Have you
come to tell me what is wrong? I suppose I thought a public
place would be better. She gave me a hurried glance of alarm
(she had left her glasses in the room) and said, Oh no. I want
to ask you about your letter. She took it out of her bag and
shook it. Here. I took it, opened it and looked at my scroll,
200

more orderly than usual. Rita said in an ambiguous tone: I

dont understand, Richard. I dont understand any of it. She
wasnt sure whether she meant she didnt understand the
letter or didnt why I had written it to her. And with the latter,
her tone signified habituated respect or the fear that I was
beyond her.
I asked: What dont you understand? My voice more
severe than I had planned. Our knees touched under the table.
How can the mind be free, Richard? she said in a
programmed way, when it is only a machine. Machine was
Alvins down-teaching rendering of instrument.
I continued to feel colder towards her than I wanted. I
could feel the bones of our knees grinding. Well, now you
know, Rita. Thats what you asked me to teach you.
Now she got testy, her brusqueness a private
movement for her: But what do I know?
That the mind is not free, Rita. Alvin didnt go too
deeply into this with her.
Immediately she said, Oh but, and stopped, feeling
the contradiction but lacking the idea.
If it wasnt, Rita, you couldnt know anything, not
even that you are not free. I spoke calmly to her now.
She looked genuinely perplexed and I began to believe
that my second thoughts about the letter were true. She said
slowly, thinking painfully, But that means that everything is
free. I nodded for her and went and got another round. The
blond woman served me, throwing me one of her looks as
usual. Her husband sits around the bar, a two oclock from
me, watching her all night long, whether out of jealousy or
desire I cannot tell yet. But he is fascinated by her.
201

Back at the table Rita looked at me, peering, as though

seeing me for the first time. She was shrinking from me as
she became aware of her innocence. She didnt speak as we
drank, and looked as if she was having an argument with
herself. I think she was realising she had known the truth all
along and that she was annoyed with herself for not being
aware of it. She looked at her watch and said, not looking at
me: I have to go. Its almost ten. I nodded, wondering just
what I had done, and we had to go up for the keys and for her
glasses, which she put on. The room was dusky, so I put on
the main light, bathing the room in glaring light. She was
looking around her, seeing things in my room. I said, to help
her:
You see. You can know for yourself. You share that
with everybody. Now you know that you can know. Thats
what you wanted me to teach you.
She sat down suddenly and shook her head again,
raising her hands. She seemed slimmer at that moment, legs
tucked under the chair, and she lost her sexual aura. Her
hands closed and I saw her acknowledge her error: that she
hadnt known when to stop.
For the sake of doing something, I made tea and found
the biscuits. In the room,. Rita was studying the print on the
wall. She asked me:
How did he get everything like that, Rich? I mean, it
looks so real. She was smiling now, I suspect experiencing
wonder for the first time.
He painted what he saw as he saw it. I was noisy with
the tea things, so she would listen to me.
But theres no such place, is there?
No. She took the mug automatically and sipped tea.
202

And thats what you mean?

Yes.
She sat down again, looking at me. Richard, I want to
tell you something. Her tone made me sit facing her. She
still looked demure, rather plain and thin, flashily
overdressed. Richard, Im going to die soon. She brought
her free hand up. No. Wait. I have cancer. She pointed
towards her lap. Thats why, I began, understanding her
refusal a week ago, but she said, Im sorry, Rich. I didnt
mean to lead you on. I went and looked out the window at
the factory wall, and said from there, You havent told
Louise or Simon? Her voice took on a secondary pitch, like
an echo, and I could feel her catching up with herself: No.
Ive told nobody, Richard. I turned and faced her, seeing the
finality I sensed in her. There was no one to tell. She shook
her head, putting the mug on the floor to concentrate better:
No. Thats not it. I had no reason to tell anyone before now,
Rich. She paused again, searching for the mug she had just
put down: I like you so much, Rich. I wish I could have got
to know you better. And I could see the horizon she was
looking at, where it would end for everything, and feel her
mixture of regret and relief.
I sat down again facing her and said: Perhaps I should
not have told you, Rita.
The feeling in her made her skin glow, giving her a
waxy fluid quality. Her hands embraced the hot mug in a
balanced way I knew was deliberate. She smiled for me, her
eyes behind the lens intent on me: No. What else could you
have done, Richard? Im glad you told me. Then tears came
into her eyes and made me aware of all the suffering there is
in us, racked between birth and death and never
203

understanding anything. I squeezed in beside her in her chair

and put my arm around her shoulders, removed her glasses
and wiped her eyes with my handkerchief. She put her arm
around my waist, clutching my shirt as if to hold on, and
cried without a sound, tears welling in her eyes and trickling
into my handkerchief. I could see her very clearly, the child
who had been biddable cut off by the freedom of others and
being unable to rise above her lack. Her trust had found no
answer but she could not stop trusting, demanding trust in
return.
After a while I combed her hair back with my fingers
and said, squeezing her against me, I am so sorry for you,
Rita. She nodded, forehead stretched with new pain, and laid
her temple against mine, eyes staring out. I stroked her face,
feeling the finality of her soft skin, that the softness had an
end. Then I saw the real finality in her knowledge of her
death, and asked her: What do you want me to do for you,
Rita? She smiled and glanced at me, moving her head the
absolute minimum required: What else can you do? I held
her closely, yet I was numb, feelings and knowledge diverted
into some pit below my heart. I felt no recognition, what Rita
was telling me didnt answer my premonition of danger.
Will I tell Louise? Rita pulled back, but not out of my
embrace. She looked as though she felt unreal: I dont know.
It makes me feel alone and I didnt want anybody to say
anything to me about it. If you tell Louise, I will have to tell
Simon.
My numbness was making me feel inadequate. I felt
like a teenager in love, trying to plan a future I just could not
comprehend. But I was holding someone whose future was
an abyss for me, and that abyss kept coming back to vacate
204

the present. I realised then that my first reaction to Ritas

disclosure had been: I dont know her at all and my
numbness had its origin there, in not knowing her and yet in
desiring some kind of future with her.
Rita, I will have to tell Louise. In any case, she is
going to sense something.
Her hand moved down my flank and I could feel her
fingers measuring me: she was beginning to realise that she
had things to lose by dying. Tears welled up again and my
inadequacy found a refuge in patience. I absorbed each tear
into my handkerchief, feeling at last a movement within me,
a dispassionate sympathy with her. I saw her so clearly: the
motions of her eyes, trapped now in aimless focuses, and the
fine lines under her eyes, a process of ageing she contended
with, but which was now utterly futile. Her death so young
rendered the struggle of her life meaningless. Yet that made
her real to me: the lack of a future gave her a present. I
stroked her face, sensitive to every contour, feeling the
privacy of her mouth and ear. She stared before her, tears less
frequent, and I relaxed from the crisis, seeing her reality
become what it really was: an image. It was then that it sank
in that Rita was dying. My tears were more bitter than hers: I
could see her death in a way she couldnt. Grief welled up
and blocked my nose and I sobbed, the grief expanding to
encompass the death of a world, and the futile inertia of that
world of hers, an image that no longer represented anything
at all.
Rita then showed what I had always sensed in her: her
goodness. She began to stroke and comfort me, holding my
face in against her cheek and neck, murmuring, forgetting her
own terrible pain for the sake of my knowledge of her pain.
205

The scumbag troop came out of the front room,

shuffling down the corridor, the odd clink and bang, then
clattering on the metal steps, talking in squeaking voices. I
checked the system display and said: Its almost twelve,
Rita. I had better run you over. The only time Rita came to
my room was to tell me she is dying. I waited till we were in
the car and over the hilltop before asking her: Who else have
you told, Rita? I could see the beginning of her languor now
from how she sat beside me, slightly slumped in the seat
towards me, I think looking at me, her knees towards me like
a sisters knees, which make you feel very comforted. No
one else. Only my doctor and me. And you, Rich. I suddenly
felt on the inside of her experience of dying: she knew her
death was her own, what she had always known. Rita trusted
death, because death responded by coming. I asked,
ironically, Your doctors name is not Michael?
No.
A name I know?
No.
What is it, then?
She threw up her hands then, and I saw she was almost
luminous in the street-lighting, because she still knew things I
did not. Its Gabriel, Rich. I laughed out at that and said,
Two archangels, Rita? Then why a Richard? She looked at
me very directly, her face stark: I dont know why, Rich.
And she leaned over and pressed her brow into my shoulder
and said in a confessional tone: Oh but I do love you, Rich. I
love you so much. At the Easton checkpoint I was still so
overcome that I had to show the special my pass, because he
thought I was drunk. I held her hand tightly until I had to slip
transmission approaching the harbour checkpoint, but I was
206

waved through. I drove around the centre and up left to

Fremantle Square. Simon was there but not Louise. He was
playing early Fleetwood Mac and made tea for us. Rita
looked very tired, her movements slow, but also much
calmer, gazing more gently. I think the bluesy music settled
us down. When Simon brought the tea in, he said to Rita,
You look really tired, mom. Why dont you go up to bed.
She smiled and waved him away in a languid way. He smiled
back brightly, flaring almost, and came and sat beside me on
the settee, and leaned towards her and asked in an arch voice:
Richard take you for a drink, then? And she tilted her nose
and eyed him, tantalising him, You wouldnt know where
weve been, Si. He turned to me and looked at me, though he
couldnt see me, and said, his lip curling up tight: Rita never
tells me anything, Richard. He smiled at her again, face
bright again, and I said, There is one thing she is going to
tell you, Simon. I said it spontaneously; I think I have done
this sort of thing before. Simons face went utterly blank and
he said, almost by reflex, Whats that? and I knew that he
could not be told. He already knows. And I made a smooth
transition of levels and said in the right tone: That she loves
me, Simon. It worked, I think. I dont think he saw my face
when I realised that he knew already, because he wanted it
keeping him from Louise, maybe and he alternated roles of
jolly son and jolly father trying to get a level for what I had
said. Rita was very pleased, and I think she did know what I
had done and understood it. The tragedy for Simon now is
that what he wanted for an intruder be never wanted for his
mother. He would never be able to cope with that. But now
Simon was dealing with the deeper pain, that both Louise and
Rita loved me, that they liked him but wouldnt love him as
207

they loved me. We let him tease us for a while before I cut
into him again: Did you like the system, Simon? He sneered
and said, Sure. But not the way you run it.
I flexed slowly, like a scale falling off me. Dont you
like dancing, Simon? Simon doesnt know who I love, and
cannot know why I dont love the other. Irony in the service
of vision is the great teacher: Simon cannot know that who
dances for you loves you, and so cannot know love. Louise
came in then and she looked at me and said gently, Hello,
darling and I said, equally as gently, standing up, Hello,
Louise. It gave us such relief. But she looked drawn and I
asked, Busy? and she said I had to go to Birmingham to
see what they were doing there. Theres trouble there
tonight. Then she brightened, ran her fingers through her
hair and greeted Rita and Simon. Then Simon said in a heavy
tone: Theres no need to dance, Richard. Take it like a man.
And Louise turned her head to him, moving so her shoulder
touched mine and said, Do it, Si. And I said, Louise, and
she took my left wrist and pressed. Simon stood up (the disc
had just ended), stretching. He walked over to us, I could feel
the waves between Louise and I so strongly, and said, All
right! He put on Red House, live, and stared moodily at his
system until Hendrix took over the intro and then said to us,
earnest in a teenage way, How can you dance to that? (i.e.
because it is so deep). And Louise jerked my wrist to signal I
should answer: Why not, Simon? And I began dancing as
Hendrix began to scream, saying as I got into it: Youve got
to work the music. They are not giving this to you for
nothing. And Louise began dancing, pumping down on the
screaming music. Simon stood looking at me like a poor boy
looking in the window of a rich house: if Simon ever knew he
208

would kill himself. Why did his mother die? It reminded me

of Miriam, her mother dying young too. And magic?
I thought that then, Tony, not now writing this down. I
try not to confuse these two levels. I stopped dancing then
and walked slowly around the room, feeling like an outsider.
I defined magic twice recently. It always involves death and
that it lay in the intention not the ritual. What depletion of the
female these men achieve. But why? Ive been helped by
Christine: taking = stealing. Mans self-image: the ultimate
consumer. The human animal is the sole surviving labouranimal in the system of production now, and women are the
sole surviving slaves among these labour-animals.
Rita announced in a break that she would go to bed.
She looked even more languid now, and Simon went
immediately to help her. She was weak, but I could see that
Simon was used to doing this. He touches her and Rita
doesnt mind. I said that I would go, too. Simon didnt look
up. I kissed Ritas brow and squeezed her hand, looking at
the image, glad we had managed to hide the knowledge of her
dying from Simon and, for the moment, Louise. But out in
the car I said to Louise, squeezing her elbow, Sit in for a
minute. It took me a few minutes to catch her level. She was
feeling very vindicated. She tilted her head sideways and
said, like a stone dropping in a pond, Whats wrong, Dick?
I sighed, I wasnt sure until then that I was going to tell her.
Rita, Louise. She just nodded, raising her brows in a
hopeless but understanding way. She has cancer. Womb or
lower stomach. Louise shook her head. No. She had her
womb removed last year. She nodded. She said it was
prolapsed. Why did she hide the cancer? I touched two
fingers to the inside of her wrist. You know shes very
209

secretive. She touched my fingers, pressing slightly, And

why you? I straightened in my seat and stretched under the
wheel.
She told me once that she wanted to know and I
showed her how to know. Then she knew there was no point
in lying or hiding knowledge. Knowing is so precious that
you can only want the truth, regardless of the pain.
She tilted her head again and said, looking warmly at
me: And so you tell me.
Yes.
She put her head on my shoulder, looking pensively
through the windscreen at the lights of Bristol below.
Thanks, Dick. I appreciate that now. I shook her wrist to
indicate that she neednt thank me and she turned to me nose
to nose and said, I know, darling. Im thanking you as a
courtesy. She gave me a kiss, lay back on my shoulder and
asked: Simon? What are you doing to him?
Teaching him to dance. I lay back in the seat again: I
played him Emotional Rescue in Kingswood.
Who had the control?
I did, except for a minute, and than I had to laugh at
the effect. He couldnt understand that.
Why?
He cooled out the end of the track itself and of course
that leads into Shes so cold. I mean, it was either a joke or he
was telling me something. I decided to treat it as a joke, to
push him on.
And?
He wished Rita dead when she came between you and
him.
He did more than wish, darling.
210

The intention is all, Louise. And she sat up and

studied Bristol below her, nodding slowly. And I decided
then to tell her what really worried me: Except in war. I
paused. I want you to read the notebooks as soon as possible.
But you must read them in Kingswood, in my company. She
was still nodding at Bristol when she said, When? I started
the car. Tomorrow or Thursday night. She got out of the
car, but said before closing the door: We can decide on that
tomorrow evening. Youre coming?
I nodded brightly and she reached and embraced me,
and I said softly, Sleep well, Louise.
5 July
New Jerusalem Night. I knew tonight was the night.
Jonas reads his paper. I rested for a while and then drove
over. There was a large fire over near St Pauls and when I
spilled some of my first drink I remembered that we spill
liquids when we desire fire and burn ourselves when we fear
water. Edward started it by saying, as I came in the door, to
Louise and Jonas, No man would ever dream of bending
over and sticking his arsehole up in the air that is too
humiliating, as all torturers know yet women are expected
to do it. I patted Louises bottom, winked, and on the way to
the bar I was met by Old Bill, who said, Conservatives
invent the past, and radicals try to destroy that invention. I
ordered, asked Old Bill if he wanted one he pointed to his
pint down the bar so I answered him: Not your usual style,
Old Bill, is it? Anyway, a child does not gaze on the mother
because he desires her but because it senses her sexual
211

awareness of her husband, and is curious. The child is a

voyeur. I turned with my drink to find Louise standing there:
Hello, Dick. She said it playfully and I couldnt help look
down at her dress. She was dressed all in black, only her
fingers enmeshed in lace and her face visible. I got a shock
and had to jump levels till I saw the cave, a hint of deep
violet in the belt buckle. I said, very good, really very good.
And Louise said, Guess what? I drank some of the horsepiss
and guessed, Daughter? She gave a tiny shake of her head
and I knew I was on the wrong level. I asked her to tell me,
the only way I could find the level: Were having some
poems by a woman about her breakdown. And I said at
once: Jonas has cut his paper. Louise nodded. I was
thankful she had left her face untouched. You and Christine.
I nodded this time. Peter came up and said in an impressed
voice, You two again, and I felt the strong waves between
Louise and I. Christine said behind us, Drop the cone. Its
not necessary here. So I said to Peter in a bluff way: Double
bill tonight, Peter. Jonas having problems? Louise started
away and I saw Simon and Edward coming. We timed it so
Peter spoke to them, saying Sputnik destroyed socialism.
New boundary in nowhere what Columbus did to Rome.
And we went downstairs and embraced until the others
started coming down. Edward on the stairs said to John:
Bartok sees grief as an irritant. Bit shallow, really. And
Christine passed us, escorting a plump attractive woman,
saying to her: Those artists who want to know their future
before creating it have a miserable old age. Rita came and
joined us, also dressed in black, though not quite as gothic as
Louise. Simon sat opposite us with Edward and John.
Christine sat facing the lectern, as always.
212

The woman wanted to tell us about her recovery. I

dont know what they do to them in psychiatric clinics, but
one of her poems had the line Come on, baby, light my fire
in it, which she read with all seriousness; did she know that a
man first said that? At the interval, Louise volunteered to get
us all a drink, and Rita said to me when she had gone up:
You told Louise? I nodded, Simon was staring at the floor
to stop himself looking at us: She hasnt said anything? Rita
smiled with unusual warmth, almost fondness, and said, Oh,
not Louise. Shell wait for me to say something. When
Louise came down again I slipped out for a pee. Someone, I
suspected Simon, had written above the stall in purple: The
true believers are those who are aware of the absence of the
divine. Im sure it is a quotation; it is not an English conceit.
Simon must be desperate, to descend to that kind of
superficial flourish. Reading it I assumed it was intended for
me; downstairs again I thought it was intended for the cabal:
some code.
Jonas was shuffling his sheets at the lectern and I was
surprised to discover he was awaiting my return. I thanked
Louise for the drink, gin this time, gave Simon an appraising
glance and got my notebook out. Jonas was very nervous and
the reason became apparent when he started speaking:
Tonight I had planned to give a detailed exposition of
the geometrical significance of the ideal city, New Jerusalem.
However, I have become aware in the last few weeks that, as
a result of the influence of our readings, it might be possible
instead to give a more abstract version of the city. I will use
some geometry, but only as a basis for extrapolation. I want
you to see first of all, pointing to the patterned displayed on
the demonstration screen, the geometrical symbol of the city.
213

I think most of you are familiar with it: twelve sides, with
twelve gates, of intersecting lilies yes hexagons, and the
temple at the centre. Now, this plan can be interpreted in
many ways. For example, each gate is ascribed a different
jewel, or some other symbol, and the intersecting lines within
the city can be given meanings, and the significance of all the
relationships between symbol and meaning understood. I now
want to give you an interpretation which I have worked out
with a colleague, and which you might find of value. Jonas
brought up a modified image of the pattern; this time the
pattern had been coloured: crimson walls, bright green circle,
scarlet square, the gates violet, the city full yellow, the temple
cobalt blue. The intersecting lines are in red. He scaled up to
maximum, so the whole end wall was lit. Now, as I discuss
each aspect, the name of that aspect will come up on the
screen, so there is no need to memorise them. At the centre,
then, there is the temple. The cube you see is purely
symbolic, so it can be interpreted at will. The cube has seven
points when represented, as here, in two dimensions. These
points have different levels of significance. The centre point
is where three sides of the cube meet; the outer points to the
left and right of centre, together with the one directly below,
are points where two sides meet, and the remaining points
mark the extremity of a side. Here, the centre point represents
a well bored down through the cube into the earth. This is the
centre of life in the world I will show you. In the well there is
what could best be called gold. I will come back to this later.
Now, the extremities are points of movement, that is, they are
not intersected. These represent as follows: left, aspiration;
top, celebration; and right, preparation. The other outer points
those where two sides meet represent as follows: bottom,
214

desire; left, temple; and right, heaven. The lines connecting

these three points to the centre can now be interpreted as, left,
priest; right, the dead; and bottom, the living. You can see
that the priest goes to the temple, the dead go to heaven, and
the living desire. But desire what? They aspire to heaven, as
the priest celebrates heaven, and the dead prepare for life.
Well need to move out now to the circles
representing the twelve gates to begin our interpretation
outside the temple, that is, in the city itself. Treating the plan
of the gates as a clock-face, Ill list the primary meanings,
first of the gates and then of the connecting lines. We begin at
one oclock. The gate of involution, a deep tunnel, but lit.
The gate at two is the gate of convolution and the death of the
prophet. Three is inhalation and revelation, four, exhalation
and illusion, and five is birth and together at sea. Six, at the
bottom, is a complex symbol. The general sense would
perhaps be pushing forward, like building a log road through
a wood. Seven, then, is feeding and the act of realisation,
eight is the star of the sea, and nine is reach and movement
with speed. Ten is grasp and supplication, while eleven is
clench and offering. Twelve, the final gate, at the top,
proposes solutions to the series, one is that of the wolf who
feigns helplessness and the other is that of the fox, who
always catches his prey. You can see that there is a model of
a life here, with one and two referring to gestation, the next
two gates refer to initiation into life, then birth in the next
two, leading to realisation of woman, the courtship, to the
choice in twelve.

215

Now, the intersecting lines can be named. The lines of

the triangles are, reading from twelve to three, partner,
penetration, desire, sexuality. Those of the squares read, from
twelve to two, death of woman, false love, death of man. You
can see it laid out now. Oh, I have some copies of this, should
anyone like one.
So, lets look at the relationships:

Take the three gates on the heavenly side of the cube,

numbers one, two and three. The dead prophet is in heaven as
surely as revelation is. But what about the deep tunnel, that is
hardly an image of heaven, is it? But remember the well at
the centre, that is lit by gold: the symbol discloses something
to us about the way to heaven. Now the three gates on the
side of desire. Here we are given the three roads to heaven: as
two ships on a calm sea, as society transforming the dark
wood, or as individual enlightenment. On the side of the
216

temple we are shown what it is we actually do, we offer

prayers and sacrifices with anxiety and fear. Now we can
read the gates in terms of motions, as it were, within the
cubical temple. Preparation shows us that we look in our
bodies for revelation, find only illusion and so are lost at sea.
Our aspiration is motivated by shock, fear of death or panic.
And we celebrate with sacrifices in the hope of reward of
enclosures.
Now the intersecting lines:
The lines connecting the gates to the temple are
significant, those connecting with the points on the cube
slightly more so than those which do not. Of the six lines
connected to the cube, three are continued to the centre.
These paths are to heaven, expectation; to desire, fear; and to
temple, submission. The other three paths are: from twelve,
theft; from four, the path of knowledge; and eight is love. The
remaining paths, those which do not connect with points on
the inner cube, are as follows: one, departure; three, mating;
five, guidance; seven, union; nine, lust; and eleven, taming.
Now we can read across the temple-cube and see how
the approaching paths tell us something about the actual rules
of this world:
Taking the lines in rotation we can read: fear theft,
depart from unity, expect love, mate with passion, submit to
knowledge, tame guides. They can be combined as triangles,
thus: learn the theft of love; lust drives us from guidance;
expecting fear induces submission; and mating tames. And
combined on square, we get: theft is the mating of lust and
fear; depart knowledge and submit to union; love is taming in
expectation of guidance. You will notice here the different
217

characters of the plans, the triangular is descriptive, the

square is explanatory.
The lines connecting the gates now, first the triangles,
then the squares:
The triangle with apex at twelve is the path of
partners, and you can see that the choices at twelve are
detailed at four, two blind fish, and eight, the two looking at
the star. The triangle from one is that of penetration, when
reach into the tunnel leads to birth; from two it is that of
desire, where supplication of the heart is the road in the dark,
and from three it is sexuality, where the woman is fed by the
man. Now the squares. From twelve the path is the death of
the woman, where the intention of the man is realised; from
one it is false love, where seduction leads to abandonment;
from two the path is called the death of man here the
womans offer shocks.
Finally, the lines connecting the two hexagrams: those
connecting the even numbers represent the circuit of
gentleness, which leads to choice, and those connecting the
odd numbers is the circuit of striving, which is a closed
circuit.
Thats the main layout. It would seem that the world I
am creating is a pretty appalling place. However, let us take a
desirable state, say love, and see what the symbol tells us.
Love is the path joining the star of the sea to aspiration and
aspiration is the expectation of the poet in heaven. But this
aspiration can be fulfilled only in death. Take knowledge
now. Knowledge is the preparation of illusion to permit
submission to the priest. Let us try union, then. Realisation
united to aspiration leads to a celebration of entry into the
218

hidden. And guidance? Here birth is the preparation for the

taming of the woman.
I would finally like to bring together what I think is
the main instruction of the symbol, the nexus of lines and
gates connected with the centre point. Here the injunctions
are, submit to the temple, fear desire, and expect heaven;
submission produces the priest, fear produces the living, and
expectation produces death. These lines intersect various
paths. The way of fear is by means of false love and the death
of the man, to sexuality and penetration, and then to fear of
the partner. The way of submission is by means of the deaths
of the woman and the man by submission to the partner, one
to the other, and the way of expectation is by false love and
death of the woman leading to expectation of a new partner.
To clarify this by means of more conventional symbolism:
the way of expectation is murder, the way of submission is
invisibility, and the way of fear is sacrifice. Here one can
infer further, because eleven is the gate of sacrifice, thus
suggesting hidden relations between the gates. So, if six
connects with eleven, then we can connect murder with
realisation and invisibility with revelation.
At this point there were some restive murmurings and
Jonas quickly checked his notes and said, while working the
keyboard, A glitch, Im afraid. There. Now, instead of
connecting six to eleven by means of sacrifice, it is of course
evil which connects with sacrifice.
Allow me, finally, to indicate some of the subsidiary,
but no less informative, relationships in the symbol. These
concern how the gates equilibrate among themselves. There
are a number of ways of assessing this. For instance, you will
notice that the green circle is discontinuous, cut as it is by the
219

scarlet square. The effect is to divide the gates into four

groups of three, one of which in each group is more fully
anchored to the circle. The four gates thus defined are the
most active, mating, desire, lust and theft: the circle
represents the actual earth. The square, on the other hand,
represents a virtual earth, where the gates are in four groups
of two each, located at the corners. Thus one and two are
related in the truth that departure engenders expectation, and
corrects for the tendency to steal in sexual union. Four and
five are related in the truth that knowledge guides, and this
corrects for the fear of revelation; seven and eight are related
in the truth that love unites and so corrects for fearful lust,
and finally, ten and eleven are related by the truth that the
submissive are tame and corrects for thieving lust. The first
correction is preparatory, the second improving, the third is
admonishing, and the fourth is cautionary.
Jason switched the screen off abruptly and said, arms
hanging by his sides: You can work other implications out
for yourselves. All I have sought to do is to show you from a
novel perspective just how articulate a fundamental
geometrical plan is. I ask you to dwell on this fact: that pure
geometry can be the occasion for so much insight into the
affairs of mankind. For instance, there are gates of control
that offer radical solutions to the problems of this world.
These are gates two, five, eight, and eleven. Gates five and
eight show ideal partnership, connected with the sea, one of
being underway, the other of vision. The remaining two show
man and woman sundered, the woman offering and the man
dead. The solution thus is the death of man, but this would
never satisfy the woman, for she would be sacrificing herself
too. Thank you.
220

Jason vanished up the stairs, much to the surprise of

many, while Peter thanked him for his paper with a priest-like
glibness. Simon brayed out: Desire bottom, leave temple and
be in the right heaven, snorted loudly and then gulped his
lager. Edward said to Louise and I: There were two angels
and a dangerous force came between them, and the angels
said to each other simultaneously, So you can remain an
angel pure, I will permit myself to be coarsened and so
protect you from the force. He suddenly looked wry, then
winked at Louise and smiled. And I heard Peter say irritably
to Alvin, The devil offers consistency he offers us the
world as though it ran by itself. Old Bill and Christine were
laughing together, he bent forward, she leaning back, and Old
Bill said, obviously repeating his joke: Anxiety on the
stairway to heaven that God might call you from behind.
The woman who had read her poetry earlier sat alone,
looking down at her bright red folder. I said to her: Do you
know that a man said light my fire? And she nodded in
dejection and said, near tears, People dont listen. I sat
beside her. She was younger than she seemed from the
distance, face fatter. I said, Dont worry, they dont always
know what they hear. She thought about that and brightened
up. I went to Louise and said, Tonight? She nodded,
looking a little grim. I shook her black elbow: Chin up,
sweetheart, it wont hurt. A second opinion. She put her
enmeshed finger to her nose. No, Dick. Here. And pointed
at my clothes. I was dressed in white, except for a cream
shirt. And Louise was dressed all in black, except for a violet
buckle. I looked around. No one had taken a copy of Jonass
paper and diagram; I did and folded it. Few people were left
in the room.
221

You mean us, Louise?

She nodded. I said emphatically: Not you! Louise
nodded, I shook my head in reply and walked away. She
followed and I felt cornered, Louises following me, I mean. I
said, No! and felt that something in me was going to die. I
said, I thought it was Rita. Louise slumped her body and
gave me a mildly wry look: Would you? I turned back and
touched her wrist through the mesh and said, No. I couldnt
read her expression then, almost as though she was
completely vacant. So I said, to throw everything in now,
Nor your mother, Louise. She said, still with that distant
expression, Mother knows. Rita doesnt. I had a dart of
recognition, my heart pulling my left leg: it was only a flash
of light. The light approaching, someone coming. Poor Rita.
Louise looked at me and said, But she wanted it. My
shoulder still reverberated, neck stiff, I said, Shes got it,
Louise. I told you. And then I kicked levels, realising that
Louise seemed not to grasp what magic was last night, and
said: The one thing she can trust to come. And Louise said,
giving me her hard look, This is not magic, Richard. You
dont know what it is.
I wasnt frightened, though light burst on me again. I
dont know what it is. I nodded to Louise. For a moment I
couldnt see Louise or anything else, only vertical screens of
light, delicately coloured towards yellow and cream, but I
knew exactly where I was. And I saw the pain again, coming.
When there is nothing to do, do nothing: I stood there, the
light screens now rich creams. But I said, Louise. And she
took my hand, so far away, and said close to me, Youre
OK, Dick. Trust me. We stood then, she holding my hand
because I couldnt hold hers, and I began to suspect that this
222

state would not end. I asked, not knowing the pitch of my

voice: Is it for the good, Louise? I saw immediately that it
didnt matter and I thought to myself that it was a new level.
So I shifted gear and said: The notebooks? And Louise
smiled and said, Not yet, Dick.
We went upstairs, time for a last drink, and I was told
that the group were going to Christines house to hear Jasons
paper. Thought is the past tense of thinking. And Edward of
course said, You know, Peter, people put money into their
kitchens and bedrooms because they no longer labour in
them. Rita came over, stiff-shouldered, as though her heels
were too high, and said, Simon is driving me up, Richard.
Then I noticed how tightly she held her bag and saw that Rita
was closing in on herself, becoming herself, the poor little
girl imitating her mother, who liked a good time. I kissed her
brow and asked her how Simon was. More attentive,
Richard. Ever since you came. I touched her shoulders
gently, she is getting very languid, and said, No, Rita. Im
not the cause. Something between Simon and his girlfriend.
What girlfriend?
He introduced me to her the night I met him.
Something happened between them that night.
I didnt know he had a girlfriend.
Does that matter?
Id kill any woman that came near my son.
Not Phillip. Simon.
She hates what she thinks women do to men, its like
eating them alive. Hes like a son to me. I nodded in
appeasement and kissed her again. I chatted to Peter and John
for a while, until Louise came over and said we were going.
Jonah was by the car and I knew there was a test coming.
223

Perhaps because we didnt have far to go, Jonah asked me

once we were in Louises car, How do you leave the city? I
recited from memory:
There is a very holy monastery high up on the side of
a mountain, above a dark ocean. Now, it was believed that
there was another very famous and holy monastery on the
other side of the mountain. However, the road there was long
and crossed unknown lands; very few, if any, undertook this
pilgrimage, and few, if any, ever returned.
But two brothers decided they would undertake the
pilgrimage. Now because they were two, they also decided
that one would go by the road while the other climbed over
the mountain. No one had ever tried to cross the mountain:
the people of the monastery were terrified of the mountain, its
bleakness, its winds, its terrible bareness.
Even so, the brothers decided this, so great was their
trust in one another, and they decided to toss a coin to see
who would take the road.
The brother who won set out on the road, well
prepared and full of confidence, but the other brother was
terrified of the mountain.
He first argued that if he climbed immediately, he
would get there long before his brother. This was generally
accepted as good sense. He married, settled down and raised
a family. Naturally, he could not forget that he had to climb
the mountain and meet his brother. He found many reasons
for putting it off, so did many others he was part of the
community now.
Years passed. As the years went by, another feeling
grew alongside his terror of the mountain: the desire to see
his beloved brother again.
224

So, one day that desire became the stronger, and he

made his preparations and set out. It was a long, hard journey
and he had time to remember, to see all the years he had
delayed. That pain was the equal of the pain of the climb. At
last he reached the peak, and could see the other side.
He searched the slope below and the land stretching
away on the far side, and finally had to admit that there was
no monastery there only fields and roads and houses.
Louise and Jonah waited till I finished, when Jonah
said: And you? I said, getting out, Christine and Peter in the
hall door in the dusk, Read me. Christine shook my hand
and I had a distinct image of a little church, priest at the door,
but I also saw how the law makes enclosures: contracts and
prisons. We chatted together until Jonas and Louise came up
the drive, and inside Edward gave us some port, there was
cake on a side table, and said to me, The ancients tamed
animals by making them images of God. What happened
when we made ourselves the Image of God? And I said, We
crucify one another. Behind me Alvin said to Jonas,
Solomons dream was to see death in order to understand
man. Thats why he established peace and used the energy
instead to draw beauty into the world. And Jonas replied, a
bit abstracted in the room, He saw it built into the very fabric
of existence. He inscribed it in his buildings. Old Bill was
playing usher, and he said to me, winking, More like a
fucking perfumed garden, if you ask me, mate. All them
wives. Hearing all this, Edward leaned over and had his say:
If you think of it, chaps, old Solomon asked for
understanding of man and came to worship the god of
women. Jehu gave him what he wanted alright, though the
price has been great.
225

The demonstration screen had been set up and Jason

attracted our attention by switching it on and expanding it to
fill the end of the room. Jason remained seated to one side,
control board in his hand, and said without ceremony, You
cannot know the beginning until you know the end, so we
will find a beginning. He turned to me, Richard, there is a
control unit on the table beside you. Please key in a number
so we can begin. I keyed in seven. The pattern appeared on
the demonstration screen and the little screen on the control
unit said: Number 1 to 9? and I pushed seven again and Jason
said, False love kills the woman and the screen in my hand
showed a cross with a pip on the lower arm. I chose straight
on and Jason said, The desire of false love; the screen
showed the cross again and I took the left arm. Jason said
Man in bondage. I kicked levels, studied the plan on the
demonstration screen and drove straight through Mock union,
Mock penetration, Mock love, Mock sexuality, Mock lust to
Loneliness, all along the Path of Desire. Loneliness is the
penetration of death. I turned on to Death of man and drove
all the way to Sacrifice. The control unit went blank and I
heard Jason say False love is the death of man and a line
extended on the screen and Jason said The death of man is
desire. The line turned right and ran Desire, crossing the
Wife, Partner tames desire, through Desire for penetration to
the Theft of desire. It was Louise. She had the control flat in
her lap, studying the screen. She pressed a key and she rose
into gate twelve, through Penetration is the theft of desire and
the Death of man is false love.
My screen came up and I set out on Partners, passing
False love of partners to Revenge, where Partner kills the
man because of penetration. I didnt know how much of this I
226

could put up with, so I swung left up Penetration, crossed

Death of woman and entered the tunnel, going fast. The
sodium light was not too intense, and I climbed in a long
circuit up to the Wall and drove with the bypass traffic,
checking the signposts. I had broken the rules of games
before. I drove on and did the twenty miles of so in about ten
minutes and turned left at junction twelve and went in to find
Louise. Jason coughed and said to me, The rules, Richard,
and I shrugged and said, What can I do? I didnt invent
them. She got in, looking more animated than she had that
evening, and I smiled, cheered, and asked: Partner and
Desire? She nodded and said, Ill watch for the turning,
darling. I drove fast on Partners, not much traffic because of
Celebration via Departure, pushing the car hard. Music? I
asked Louise, not wanting to take my eyes off the road.
Nope.
Sing then, sweetheart.
She sang Three blind mice until I said, Not headless
mice, Louise, so she sang Mary had a little lamb instead and
I laughed out at that. Louise stroked the back of my left hand
as it rested on the transmission unit and I looked and saw her
white ankle peeking out from under her black dress. I went
down right at Partners desire mating onto Desire and drove
through the south suburbs of Desire for penetration, Desire
for sexuality, and Desire is the death of man, and up through
the bright entrance to Wood. We rested off the road for a
while and then I said, Straight up, Louise? She nodded and I
turned the car and headed out, waving Jason away again,
pushing it this time. The other game is better, I remarked to
Louise, who was peering forward, all these traffic lights.
Its a steep road, and you go through Fear of death inducing
227

false love and Fear of penetration inducing sexuality, right up

to the park gate and on into the darkness, heading towards
Desire. There was a checkpoint at The Living, priests in
indigo (terminal support), but I have a pass and I went
through the doors, then around and around up the car park to
the top. I said hang on and drove the car to the Well, not
slowing, and went in. Its the tunnel of course, sodium lit,
telephone every mile, ventilation rocking the car at times,
going on and on.
My screen blanked and I stood up and stretched and
said to Jonas, It doesnt work. I nodded at Louise towards
the door and she shook her head. It was ten past midnight. I
was very frightened again, this time the fear was in me, in my
bowels. Christine said, Lets have supper, shall we? Richard,
you come with me. I gave Louise a discreet wave and
followed Christine into a small side room. She brought up a
screen. A youth was dancing naked, smiling, and I heard
Emotional Rescue. The bulb in the room the youth danced in
glared on my eyes and I blinked furiously. This made the
background of the screen jump dark then bright then dark
again, on and on, and the figure danced, turning, gonads
swinging, smiling with very red lips. It was Simon. Christine
said, A relay. She turned me to her and put her arms around
me, squeezing me in to her stout body. And I said in her ear,
Rita is dying, Christine, and held her to me, to keep her
still, and continued, Hes already done it to his girlfriend.
She pressed her brow into my shoulder.
She turned me to the screen again, and I saw Simon in
Ritas room, Rita sitting up talking to him. He sat on the side
of the bed and pulled the straps of her night-dress off her
shoulders. Rita became alarmed, recognition in her eyes, then
228

frightened, trying to push him away. When he had succeeded

in trapping her arms, he suddenly caught her by the hair and
dragged her out of the bed, allowing her to stumble and spin,
her mouth opened in a scream. He grabbed her again and
threw her down into the angle between bed and floor, kicking
her when she tried to crawl away. He was shouting at her and
she was shaking her head screaming. Then he caught her by
the hair again, both hands, wrenched her until she lay on the
bed, her knees on the floor. Cant you stop this, Christine?
She said shush and Simon caught Rita between her legs with
a kick. She smashed into the side of the bed, head rolling, her
mouth open as she gasped and screamed, trying vainly to
push herself up. Then something gave way in her and blood
and pieces of her intestine, dark liquids, spurted out of her
vagina, dripping in gobbets on to the carpet. Christine, I
swung to her, revolted, Is this true? She said, touching the
controls, Analogue really. Watch. On the screen, Simon
danced, in her room Rita unconscious, her blood leaking into
the mattress. We rang her doctor an hour ago. Shes in
hospital. Very ill. The bed was empty, clothes thrown back,
red and black stains, viscid matter on the sheet. And the
other scene? Christine punched the keyboard under the
screen and a letter appeared.
My dear Richard, Thank you for your very interesting
letter. What I wanted, Richard, was something to stop the
pain really. Philosophy is all right for those who have the
time. I wanted to stop it and look what happened. When I told
you I wanted it now you said youd beat me. Daddy went
away because Mommy wanted it. But I do want to stop it
honest. Yours faithfully, Rita Grainger.
229

Did that scene occur, Christine? She keyed the board

again. Watch. On the screen Simons girlfriend stood on the
bridge over the Gorge. Simon spoke to her, studying her
intently. Then he helped her over the parapet and she threw
herself backwards and disappeared. A long shot showed her
flying down, arms extended, skirt flapping, into the river.
Christine said, He helped her, Richard. I nodded, though
with a reserve of scepticism and said, adopting her earnest
tone, And he danced for Rita, hmm? Louise said it isnt
magic, but this is magic. Christine switched the screen off
and smiled in a brisk way, Thank you for your help, Richard.
As you can see, we didnt need you after all. Now the fear
became real as I realised that I had made a bad mistake
somewhere, but I couldnt remember when. I turned in the
room, forcing myself to speak, And Louise? Christine tilted
her head at me in a patient way, Louise? I knew the kind of
answer I was going to get, but I asked anyhow: Louise drove
me here, Christine. She led me into the hall. The house was
silent, only my car in the drive. I never had children,
Richard. The one thing I wanted for myself. Thank you for
coming. She closed the front door, leaving me outside in the
poorly lit driveway.

6 July
Rita is terminal, blood, hormones, digestion gone, kept
alive by complicated drips in her arms and nose. Heavily
sedated, of course. Simon is staying with Peter for the
moment.
230

Louise died fifteen years ago, when Simon pushed her

out on to Whiteladies Road. He bullied her a lot.
Tony, what am I to believe?
What am I to do?
I know what to do. But I cant do it yet. Because of
this, I feel panic mount in me. Tony, this hurts.
I can choose now. I have an idea for a novel based on
Catherine. We put one another out of orbit (as it were) and
Id like to follow that up now. It will mean going to
California for a while, local colour. Im sure I can get Kathy
to advance something towards that. And after that I have a
vague notion for a tenth novel, where the characters will
write their own parts and I can take a rest.
The other track is this: Louise said it wasnt magic and
that I should trust her. My will is with mothers solicitor in
Dublin. The family can have the money, but everything else
is yours, to do with as you please, and that includes this
journal. I love you like a brother, Tony. I love Catherine
because I love you; I think she knows that.
One more thing, so youll understand what I am doing:
I love Louise, Tony, whether she is real or not, and I will go
on now and finish what has been started, in the knowledge
that I have nothing to lose now.
7 July
Rita sinking fast now. I held her hand for an hour but
she didnt respond at all. Peter tells me that Jonas went into a
complete funk before the reading and tore up his original
231

paper. Peter cant understand why, but Edward said when he

came to see Rita that translation destroys identity. I agreed
with him and asked him if he knew Jonas was short-sighted.
Edward slapped his knees, something falling into place. I
waited at the hospital in case Louise should come, knowing
she wouldnt, and I worried about her until I realised that I
was really worrying about myself. Trust me, she said. And I
dont know anymore.

8 July
Rita skin and bone, consuming herself like a candle
burning down. She should have known I couldnt do it for
her. Like an angel, all I bring is word; I can bring you nothing
else, otherwise I will fall from heaven too. But you have
heard the angels ecco, ecco for so long now that you can
no longer discern it in the noise we make. Even poor Rilke
went looking for silence. But, Rita, you can see Michael,
archangel of light, of silence, but who knows how to read
light anymore. You dont, looking back at fast mommy all
the time, at her striving.
Her crisis started about four, she made the last turn,
wheels down, guidance on track, and began the long slow
descent to the dark field (in darkness for fear of enemy
bombers), engines shot up, radio out, lying dying in the rear
turret, cold in draughts from torn fuselage, everything on
automatic.
Simon came in, looking as though he wanted to kneel;
then Peter, foxy expression, hands joined at his balls; then
Edward and Old Bill, smelling of bitter and cigarettes, pious
232

endurance on their faces; then Alvin, bringing four white

roses, bless him, then Jonas and John, Jonas nervous at the
sight of death (no articulation) and John said, Bit hot in
here. Then Christine and one of her friends, chatting,
obviously having gone through this before. Then someone I
didnt know, shortish, sharp eyes, handsome in the flaky way
of those who cannot rest. Louise was in the room, in her
white gown, hair tied back, thinking about growing lilies in
twenty years time, when I am almost seventy two: I saw the
screen of light near the door, violet tinged. And I knew then I
was invisible too, screens of light tending to pale yellow, and
I whispered: Strange, Louise, I never thought of making love
with you. And she said: In the evening, darling, sun setting,
splayed in our bedroom. Smell of flowers, that sort of thing.
Rita glided down, the sedation more apparent as it was
less required. Machines pumped nutrient, blood, and she
suddenly opened her eye and looked at me, settled down,
mouth falling open, snoring, rising and rising until she
frowned, went still, breathed, and slumped into death. The
nun came in and waited about two minutes, then closed her
mouth by wedging a missal under her chin and invited us to
have tea in the common room.
Jonas was pacing in the corridor and Edward patted his
shoulder and started chatting to him. I got a mug of strong tea
and a scone and, being where I was, jumped places and put
on the Bach and ate and drank with eyes closed, hearing the
cars breasting the steep climb from Noddy Land. Louise said,
Its not a problem really, darling. I said, my eyes still
closed, Are you real, Louise? And I felt her hand on mine
(the one holding the remains of the scone) and she said in a
sweet voice, Are you, darling?
233

I was afraid to open my eyes. I prayed I wasnt writing

a novel at my desk in Epsom, Angie due home at six. Was
that your father?
That was daddykins.
Looks a first class ballocks.
He is.
You died fifteen years ago, on Whiteladies Road?
I heard her laugh. Wrong Louise, Dick. Simons
mother.
He bullied her? I ejaculated.
Almost from the beginning, apparently.
Then what have I been doing? With Simon, I mean.
Pushing your luck, darling. As usual.
Dont be facetious, Louise.
Dont mean to be, darling. Its how you do it.
I opened my eyes and Louise sat, legs stretched, head
back, white gown contouring her. It was a relief. I said,
taking over fifty years to learn this, You cant really change
people. Simon cannot win. I put on Cream and we had some
gin. We danced then, vibrant. We built up a cone, letting the
music unite us. Then I saw that Louise danced with me but
that I didnt dance with her. I didnt like that, so I reached to
touch her, and reached and reached in the screens of light,
blind, reaching. Then I asked, reaching, Can I touch you,
Louise? And you said, Oh if you would, and came to me.
The man reaching the woman approaching. We embraced,
and I pushed through to where she was, vibrating in every
pore, glowing, radiant, joy in her face light of recognition,
and I said, Hello, Louise, and Louise blinked and said,
looking at me, Hello, darling. She was beautiful in her
white gown, hair tied back, and she was thinking of my penis
234

in her vagina, the vibration. We danced then, she for me, me

for her; she enticing, me working at it. I didnt like that and I
went at her enticement, and I can understand now the true
grace of classical Greek sculpture of women, and why they
practised homosexuality ashamed of what they did to
women of such grace, because they were afraid to touch
them. They believed they could not both touch and see, one
heaven the other hell, so had to choose prod or see and chose
to look. The history of Western Civilisation. And whats
wrong with touch? To touch is to work, to descend to the
material. To touch is to enter bliss, to light the inner light, the
glow of being. Louise was arched towards me, tilted slightly
to her left, the long curves of her flanks accentuated, the
slightish hips, the firm breasts, the pubic cone lightly furred,
looking at me. So I danced to that, still slim, stomach still
firm, legs strong and well-shaped, shoulders a little stooped,
head mobile, beat tight-flattening my muscles, hair greying,
good erection. I leaned over her, penis between her thighs,
and caught her waist with my right arm and we danced
together in oscillations until the tableau was drained and we
slid to the floor. Louise was threshing slightly, on her back,
buttocks tight as she strained up, so I lay on her cool, smooth
body, my hair an impediment until it warmed, and drove in
smoothly, inch by inch, mucous smacking and plopping, into
her, to the hilt. And I reached inside her and saw a small
house on a slope, surrounded north by tall trees, sun shining
on the doorway, everything below glistening in the light. I
kissed her and we cuddled into one another, rocking on the
floor. But we could not move in that world, unless time had
been frozen. Our cuddling was like that; we were so united in
235

one another that we didnt notice our movements, because

they too were united, one body. Rita taught us something.
Back at the hospital, Edward said, deflated, Like
that? And Peter said, What did you expect? Incense and
candles? Christine saying, to others, Women were let out
into the society of men on condition that they dress their
breasts to deflect attention from their vaginas, but woman
have always wanted you to look into their eyes, where the
soul is. And John said, as though on the same track, The
trouble with harming an Irishman, Jonas, is that he never
forgets and that causes pain for everyone. And I said to
Alvin, because he talks to Jonas, And he never stops
blessing the good done to him. And Louise ran her fingers
up my pulse and I suggested we have a drink in Clifton, in
Ritas memory. Everyone agreed immediately.
The pity is that Rita invited touch only. It meant she
couldnt receive attention, because mens response to
attention is to give attention to stopping reception of it, that
is, violence. It is the only time you actually look at anything,
when you are angry with it, because you know you will have
to work on it. Rita should have worn her glasses. She would
have understood that we etch one another all the time, trying
to see visions.
We were very mellow downstairs in our room, chatting
as though Christmas was coming. Then Simon came over and
knelt to the right of where I was sitting. His face was very
open and bright, brows arched, and I wondered what he was
on, seeing a flash of him dancing. He said in a plain way,
Richard, I admit I cant dance properly, gushing a bit
towards the end. And I replied obviously, Why not, Simon?
And he shook his head forward, bending his torso in
236

sympathy, in a way Id seen Louise do it, and said, When I

dance, I want to smash everything up. I supped gin, looking
into his big sightless eyes, and asked, Why? He wrung his
right hand, head tilted that way: Everything gets in my way.
I touched his hand and he looked at me, very lean and tight,
never fondled, and I said, Everything dances too, you twit. I
sipped some more gin. Louise was talking to Peter and Jonas;
Christine to John, Edward, Old Bill and Alvin. Michael
Grainger studied the SS Great Britain. Simon said,
Everything? looking frightened. I nodded, feeling at my
back bushes in twilight, waving in the suns last breath: that
the sun drives the winds. Then I said, making clear what was
being enacted: And for your penance, Simon, you will dance
now. I went to the console and found to my satisfaction that
it was linked to the BBCs Disc Bank, and I tapped in and
brought up the speakers and put Wheels of Fire through, and
gestured to Simon. He was startled by himself, but he began
to dance in an arms-and-legs-up sort of way, his face bright
again. No one showed surprise, except perhaps Christine and
Old Bill, the oldest members. Peter began to look restive, and
Alvin and Jonas stared at Simon. Then Louise called, in a
firm voice, Dance nude, Simon. I nodded and Simon took
all his clothes off, dancing, lank legs sinuous, looking for
flight, turning and turning, arms curving up, fingers pointing.
So Louise and I undressed and joined him, building a cone
quickly to envelope him, pumping the music, working it hard.
Peter came out then, a little dazed, with a summer-resort way
of dancing, all wiggly bottom. Alvin could dance in a way
that suited his paunchy bottom, and John tended to thrust his
limbs out, a long way to go. Jonas surprised me, though I
should not have been, with his micro-dancing, very fast, and
237

Christine and Old Bill were awkward, neither used to

nakedness, wanting to waltz but afraid to touch, her breasts
under his chin. So Louise and I tapped into Simon, almost
flying now, and spread the cone over the room, the apex
stirring the bar upstairs, and moved them all. It was slavery at
first, but then some of them, Jason and John, Peter, came to
see it as work only they could do, no doubt the rest will learn
soon, and we got a degree of unison during As you said, so
we all pumped the music hard, working the gradients on this
track. After a few more tracks they began to flag, not used to
dancing together, and John said, Oh this reminds me. Rita in
Sanskrit means right measure; the ordering principle, that is.
The memorial service came to an ended then and Louise and
I spread the cone across the city like a wave of joy, you know
the sort of feeling that can come on suddenly. Simon was sad,
and when I asked him why, he said: Its too late, Richard. I
replied, to encourage him, But youre getting good out of it,
anyway. Its taming him, poor lad.
Michael Grainger sat in a chair near the stairs, clothed.
I said, Michael Grainger? and he nodded, staring at me,
reading off his hatred. Peter volunteered to dress and go up
for a round of drink. We drank slowly, chatting, getting
dressed in a piecemeal way, showing ourselves off. Alvin
said to me, warmly, Rita would have loved this, you know.
Christine said, skirted but topless, But she would have to
wear her glasses. You know, dress her eyes. And Jonas said
to me: You told her, Richard, didnt you? Which got a reply
a reply from Peter: She wanted to be seen. Edward then:
So shed know shes there? I tried to get in then, but Old
Bill got in and said, Wherever that might be. Louise said,
mischievously pipping me, Kept her going, I suppose. So I
238

said, Got her killed. Grainger said, Amen, sarcastic

because he wasnt there.
We split up then, and Louise and I went back to
Kingswood, bought some food, and afterwards splayed the
bed, building up vision: the scarlet mouth, a land of blood
and wrath. In the evening, I unpacked the computer and dug
around in the memories, noting, building macros. Louise
leaned over me, watching, and asked: A new game? I
stopped, made to think of what I was doing. I dont know. I
dont know how to work it on the board. She brought over a
chair and sat in beside me. Wheres the problem? I flicked
some screens, showing her, Four playing points, only three
moves, though. She whispered, Twelve? looking at me.
No, I said, flashing the basic pattern, Nine. Appropriate?
She studied the screen image closely: Dick, a circuit? There
are traps? That was it, of course, and I squeezed her arm in
appreciation and made new macros. I worked away, testing
parts of the program, until Louise said, Its getting
complicated, isnt it? It was after three; I made coffee. I felt
shook, day of death and day of arrival: Louise looked pale,
eyes and lips glittery. I told her the truth: Meant to be,
Louise. Im randomising as much of it as I can.
Why?
I want it to be as meaningless as possible. You see,
angel, if anyone sees meaning in the game then that will be
significant.
And if they dont?
Blow out a few magicians. No harm in that, is there?
Louise laughed at this and I added to reassure her: No
more deaths. If I can help it.
239

I put on Busoni and tried to concentrate, finding I had

to search back for a base and discovering it here, where I am,
and said to Louise, Is your old man staying in Kingswood?
Louise moved in some way, as though stepping forward with
hand out, as though to touch in the dark, and I said: Stay
here. Use my car. And I thought: vision is worth everything.
It is worth dying for. Then I dropped levels and saw Louise in
screens of light, a full violet, and I realised I would never see
Louise again, only have visions of her grace. Rita had no
grace, and Miriams has been damaged. Christines has
stagnated. I said to a pensive Louise, The sooner we are
together the better, angel. She smiled, Am I really an angel,
sweetheart? And I nodded, conscious of being a vision too,
gesture grave, low light. She touched me, all over, and said,
Yes. And will I tell you who you are? I reached towards
her, the cone sprang up, and I smiled, head up, shoulders
back, and said, Do, Louise. I am seated, left hand
embracing knee, legs apart, straight, and my right hand is
extended elbow-level, palm up. The letter M appeared before
me, inner strokes crossed, scrolled; then the letter V, very
straight, like dark rods springing from my head. The darkness
after that was very complete and I raised my right hand to my
heart and bowed. There was an army before me, highlighted
from the rear, waiting patiently. I sat straighter and my left
hand withdrew up my thigh, and I saw slivers of Louises
face as though through slats and then a clearer view of a
blond girls head, hair bobbed, turning into a Palmer sheaf of
corn, then into a Palmer sheep, then into a face smiling so
gently for me, smooth-skinned, and then I saw it was the
Buddha, compassionate. I said to Louise, What does that
mean? She put her right arm through mine and swung lightly
240

on it, the gown folding and spreading, and said, a gurgle of

laughter in her throat, Dont you know, darling? Why
Buddha? I asked her plaintively and saw that I had opened
the barred gate, the soldier gaping but letting me through, and
I went into the tunnel, into the darkness. Oh great, I said
involuntarily, and Louise raised her head laughing and I felt
the darkness, embracing it. I caught her free arm and turned
to her and drove my body into hers, seeing the contact of our
genitals, lips peeling back to embrace me. We were like cats
fighting, fast, coming together at all angles, working out a
complicated measure of each other, sometimes struggling for
no apparent reason, then licking the sweat from our necks and
shoulders as I came, drowning in each other, conscious of the
womb, the womb, but unable to separate the vision from the
image and seeing only boring Dr Freud, a man determined
always to look down because Jehovah keeps his heaven to
himself. As though there was only one heaven. We were
slack afterwards, our lips full and soft, alive. The womb is
heaven, of course, but only an image of your heaven.
We came here by means of the womb and we depart
through the womb; the one a sign of the other. Put otherwise:
your mother brings you to earth and a woman can take you to
heaven; the one pushing you away, the other clasping you in,
who was also pushed out.
Reach, approaching, always.

241

NOTEBOOK NINE
9 July
Rita: theres to be a post-mortem. Why if it was
cancer?
In London to sign sale of flat. Solicitors letter had
been to at least three Kingswoods before getting here; they
put Glos in the address. Louise dropped me at the station.
Worked on the game, but not sure now if it will serve any
purpose. Its fun, anyway, Im packing everything into it.
Rang Kathy from Paddington and arranged to meet her at the
top of Tottenham Court Road. Solicitor in the City, young
chap helpful, but the place really frays him. Cheque for
220,000: I had calculated my share wrongly apparently, but I
dont think so. Went straight to the nearest branch of the bank
Im with at the moment and banked it. I never believe a
cheque until I have a statement to show it is there. I dont
believe much in statements either, and I move my money
around from time to time, sometimes just to see if the figures
are real. Nice girl, cockney sweet and mincing, with liquid
bright eyes. But I noticed that she walks with slightly bent
knees, from sitting too much. Most people walk like that
now, Tony, sitting in front of televisions, sitting in cars,
sitting at work: all trained at Play School, jolly little tables
and chairs for jolly little people. And, of course, their jolly
bosses are twenty feet tall, like school teachers, but jolly nice
unless you do wrong, like cry or say no. And their eyes are
TV eyes, fixed focals, being shown everything and looking at
nothing, their world tumbling down around them. We need
242

television and computers; we cannot see anymore: once we

sorted ideas, believing things were inert, now we struggle to
keep them together because we are learning that there are
no things at all.
Kathy arrived on time but bearing another of her
writers, well known (again no names). He wasnt drunk, but
blitzed out on something, which I think is his vision, because
all he said to me was, Butler, how do you avoid
sentimentality? Kathy smiled, and I wondered if another
circle was running, here is London, and I said, teasing her:
Leave the girls alone. He laughed at that, as though looking
at an emptiness. How well he knew himself from the
beginning, and he is now becoming that knowledge, unable to
break out of it after all. If they would only let us be, he said
in a properly haunted way, and we drove roughly south in
silence. Kathy has very articulate legs, not afraid to open
them, her knees tanned smooth. As we crossed the river, I
asked, Why south London? She drives in a haphazard way,
blaming everything on everyone else, often having to reverse
out of impossible situations. You lived there and I dont like
the rest of London anymore. A New Age survival this time,
in Battersea. Drink, eat, music later very placid. We chatted
over the first drinks, the author and I very pleasant, then
Kathy began gossiping, talking through the raw food and into
the music section. I fought the languor by running music in
my head, listening to it as closely as I could, until the author
said to me abruptly: Butler, how do you achieve
motivation? Kathy perked up to listen, obviously running
tests. I said, obvious enough I thought: Art is the expression
of feeling, and feeling always seeks its pleasure. Kathy took
the role of respondent, though there was faint disgust in her
243

tone: Shelley? The author was still waiting. So I amplified

for him: Intention appears in art as deflection of feeling, so
that motivation is only a concern where the end of art is pain,
and a problem where the artist is working against his or her
inclination. Kathy went severe: We English are embarrassed
by love. And I said to her, to settle matters between us:
Some see it as a holy shame, but pursue it knowing it would
include everything else in its pleasure. The author shook his
head, and said before going: But what you so with the pain,
Butler? I replied, a bit tendentiously I think: Evil has no life
of its own; we keep it in existence by passing it on to others.
Kathy took me to the small flat on Primrose Hill the
agency keeps for hospitality, and there put on Blondie, made
some sandwiches and we got down to business: we thrashed
out the makings of a contract for the next two books and the
new collected edition. She even wrote me a cheque towards
the California jaunt. I asked her where all the money was
coming from and she said it was shelter money finding a
home for a few years. I said immediately, Youre not
launching all of us, are you? She suddenly became very
agitated and said No, of course not, Richard. I pressed her
then, surprised at her intensity. The idea of revamping my
work had been initiated by the publisher. Do you know who
is putting the money in, Kathy? Then she bit down, sipped
her drink, looked elsewhere and said, Im not telling you.
But she did tell me there was a hefty advance involved, and I
couldnt help but see another working afoot.
The remainder of the evening was a matter of context:
I knew Kathy was running a scenario and when I saw the
little apron and the wood, I said to her, quoting: I know you
think life is a thriller, you play the vamp and I play the killer.
244

And she laughed, hitching her shoulders, legs apart in her

short skirt, breasts, and I hunted her through the night. We sat
and talked, gesture and glance triggering our bodies, and I
saw that in gaining what I had, I also surrendered something:
I was fifty one and getting older, passing way-stations I
would never experience again. The young think their lives
will always be the same, but we know our lives will be.
Inevitability, and how to surrender to it. Kathy sailed around
her vision of herself, crucified on the sight of her own
sexuality, unable to believe it. I gave her a merry dance, all
touching, her throat, her thighs, adjusting her bra, her fingers
so stiff on her body, her body so eager. I pushed beyond that,
looking at the hem of her skirt, the vee of her blouse, her
sleeve, and she pulled at her clothes, becoming
uncomfortable, touch becoming electric all over. Then I
looked into her face, and she couldnt bring her hands up and
I saw her face naked: the nymph surprised at her bathing. It
got so for her that she had to walk around, but I kept her in
sight, favouring the back of her, where she couldnt touch.
She began caressing herself then, at first in abrupt strokes,
then in more careful movements she contoured herself,
especially down her back and over her buttocks. I got up
then, keeping furniture between us, pacing her, feeling the
charge crossing the room, impersonal. She began to clutch
herself then, hands hiding her, back curves, taunting bottom.
Then we talked together in the middle of the room, facing the
door, two ways out for us, both on her side of the coffee
table, or separately around it. The charge began to affect me
then, and I felt the prospects rising: beating Kathy, hunting
her. Immediately, I wondered what she would do for me in
return, what guilt price. But we were only writing a novel, so
245

I could choose what to do. So I said, bending into her side of

the table, Take your clothes off, Kathy. And she did the
Rita thing, no cancer here. I saw her apron again and stepped
forward and pulled her skirt up as far as it would go, and she
screamed, Go away! Keep away from me. Her eyes were
huge, looking up, and she crouched on her knees, short skirt
pulled down as far as it would go, hiding whatever it was the
other desired. The guilt price was the desire to touch her as
she dreaded me touching her. I was disappointed. I made tea
and we sat at the table, eating biscuits Id found in the fridge,
and as she passed me afterwards taking the cups to the
kitchen, she paused and I knew I was supposed to put my
hand between her legs. She waited and even murmured
Dont once, then sighed hugely, seeing I was implacable,
and backed off. I thanked her for the evening and went to
prepare for bed, she letting herself out when she had finished
in the kitchen. Women have authority, like men, from
closure, restriction.
Walked to Paddington this morning. London fears fire,
like all cities they cannot protect against fire from heaven.
City of masturbation, its streets speak through womens
bodies only, the same stupor of encased flesh everywhere.
City of larceny, it is only in such a city that you realise how
little man has done for mankind. Timorous city: making a
virtue of non-existence, where the only act of free will is to
say No.
At Paddington I rang Kathy and told her to send all
contracts and payments to me care of you, Tony, in Dublin. I
will move from Kingswood soon. She sounded as though she
were made of porcelain, with a little porcelain apron and little
porcelain knickers showing.
246

Goodbye, London, terminal city.

9 July KINGSWOOD
The police came this evening to question us about our
relationships with Rita. How old was that scene Christine
showed me? Did she avoid answering when she saw my
horror? They were curious about our relationship, though
they said nothing about it. I finally asked why the questions
and they do suspect foul play. We were subdued after they
left and I could see that Louise wasnt comfortable in the
room. We spoke about that, seeing that plans could easily be
made but that they were not indicated. Our future is a blank.
The fear I felt was old, well-rehearsed and boring. So I
cuddled her for a while, teasing her, making her laugh and
then we went over to eat in a place near Bath, quietly chatting
all evening. I told her about my publishing plans, about the
sale and my share, and about going to California. We both
seemed to drain down during the evening, and in the car I
asked her if she would come to California with me. She
pursed her lips first, then her head went down slightly and
she looked at me, eyes moist. Youre afraid of something,
Louise. She nodded, beginning to cry quietly, my heart
going out to her. I stopped outside the garage in Kingswood
and she said Ill go, Dick in such a stricken voice that I
embraced her on reflex, knowing as well as she what was
happening. I said, kissing her hair, Not revenge, Louise.
Miriam ought to know better. She started to really cry then,
bending forward, vulnerable, whispering in a voice of
247

loathing: The screams, Dick. Oh the screaming. Then I saw

her fear: she had screamed too, twisting in that agony. I knew
how she was different from Rita and Kathy now: she hated
the enforced surrender. The tom mauling the she-cat into total
stillness. I had a vision of her then: clothed in my flesh,
radiant, and I knew this is what Miriam had wanted.
That decided it and I asked her if we could go running
at the weekend. She smiled and said we were expected. And
when I asked, she admitted she had gone to Miriam after Rita
had been taken to hospital. I asked her when, and she said
Edward had told her during supper in Christines house.
Why didnt you tell me, Louise?
She said in her decent, accepting voice: We had to let
you work through it in your own way, Dick.
But that was just magic, Louise.
She shrugged and said it had to be on that level. But I
was uneasy again and I asked her why she had agreed to do
it.
I wanted them to know, Dick. She paused and then
said deliberately: Trust me, sweetheart.
Call me if you need me, angel. She smiled at that,
shaking her head: No phone, chump. I touched her brow
and she flashed: Louise dancing, working, glowing, joyful. I
tapped her face, glancing, and she pulled back and I saw her
running at impossible speed over a landscape, her haunches
working smoothly. So I flashed a red rose at dusk, dark trees
all round, the rose flaring scarlet and crimson, and she sighed,
closing her eyes. We walked around the square, arms around
each other, feeling the smooth motions of our bodies the
prospect beyond all prospects: our ability, without attitude.
248

10 July
I hadnt planned going out last night, I wanted to think
out the significance of Ritas death, but the young lad upstairs
gave his old Mission speakers a blast, which brought out his
neighbour, an amiable, but weak, wild man, who wanted to
kick the speakers in, which in turn agitated everyone else, one
man shouting at his girlfriend, the other couple laughing in
sudden bursts, jeering. I had forgotten that Alvin was reading
his paper on art, but Old Bill told me as I came into the bar:
World is word learning, Butler. I said to Old Bill, and
Edward, who came over, halfpint to his breast, Words make
anything real, and Edward said, throwing his head back:
Modern homes are filled with junk designed to hide the
breeze blocks and to encourage pride in the blocks. Neither
Louise nor Simon was there, and not many casuals either.
The room seemed stagnant without Rita and Louise, and
Christine shed a cold light, moonlight on us all. Peter said,
As you know, Alvin is reading to us tonight. He tells me that
it is about what he calls the false aesthetic. Alvin looked
grim, clutching his paper, and started by saying in a biting
way: We admire the death of the rose. There was some
shuffling, so Alvin relaxed a bit and amplified: A flower is
dying to open. He squared off his sheets of paper very
carefully and changed levels, then read:
The Russian theorist, Shklovsky, said that art is a
means of re-experiencing the making of objects, but that
objects already made have no importance for art. What does
this mean? It means that what we call art, the finished
product, is of no importance to the artist. This means that our
249

appreciation of art is false: we admire the husk, with no

knowledge of the fruit it once contained. But it also means,
regarding the artist, that he does not create, only remembers.
In other words, the artist is so fascinated by his own creation
that he reflects it endlessly, and all he produces as art is a
kind of map of the act of reflection. The artist simply shows
us his creativity in operation, so that the objective of art is not
some kind of vision but instead the experience of an action.
Jonas became agitated at this point, and Alvin had to raise his
hand to forestall him before continuing. However, in case
this situation appears to be peculiar to the artist, let me
demonstrate that this obsessive reflection is the very
condition of our lives. Action should be inward, an inward
concentration that draws the externality upon which one is
acting inward. But the awareness of being watched destroys
this internality, and destroys the act: there is then selfconsciousness rather than inward concentration as the action.
How best can one act when one is obsessed all the time, that
is, when one is self-conscious? By learning actions and then
repeating them. Thus we all repeat determined actions: ritual
in religion, ceremony in institutions, conventions in society,
robotics in the workplace. Now, you will notice two
implications here: one, how do we learn actions in the first
place? and two, where do these actions originate? To answer
these questions we will need to decide just what an action is.
To start with, an action is complete, but not necessarily
perfect: we all recognise that most of our actions could be
better done. As well as this, an action is always in the past
and accessible to us in memory only. You can see that action
is available to us only in reflection; we undertake motions
and then reflect upon them, the motion always preceding the
250

reflection. But reflection of itself does not provide the

judgement that there has been an action we reflect only on
motions, not on actions. The judgement is possible only
because we have a prior idea of the action, that for instance
raising my hand will permit me to touch my ear, and we
undertake motions by reference to this idea. This means that
the motions constituting an action are intended to constitute
that action. There are seven elements in all this: reflection,
reference, motion, intention, judgement, idea, and action.
Now, conventional wisdom has organised these elements in
the series: idea, reference, intention, motion, reflection,
judgement, action, and these can be arranged as follows.
Alvin keyed the following chart on the screen:

You will notice that the operation is symmetrical and

that the processes of determination and assessment are
complementary at any level. Thus reflection is the obverse of
intention, and judgement the reciprocal operation of
reference, so that action as such always partakes of the ideal
as the identity of motions. If this is accepted as true, then the
question must be asked, Is the ideal complete or perfect? And
the answer is, of course, that the ideal must be perfect,
otherwise we could not conceive of perfect actions. How then
is an imperfect action possible; I mean, how else could an
action be judged by reference to the ideal than as perfect?
251

The implication here is that all actions are perfect, or else the
motions do not constitute an action. I think we all recognise
the discrepancy in the last argument, despite it being a cogent
argument from a proper deduction: we can all think of
imperfect actions which we would claim to be actions despite
the imperfections. So we have a perfect ideal of an action and
perform imperfect actions. How is this possible? In other
words, how can we recognise imperfect completeness? Well,
consider what happens in the preparation of a meal. We have
a list of ingredients for perfection and we undertake the
directed motions using the indicated ingredients and we
produce a meal which is the result of closely followed
instructions as to qualities, temperatures, combinations, but
which we can judge accurately in terms of completeness, that
is, the meal is prepared and cooked and judged to be edible,
and we can also judge accurately in terms of perfection, that
is, how closely it corresponds to the full possibility of the
ideal. We can then account for the discrepancy by explaining
that while some or all of the ingredients were edible as such,
some were not ripe or some were overripe, thus affecting the
flavour and appearance of the meal. But we can also point to
accidents in the physical circumstances, draughts affecting
temperature, utensils not of the right quality, our own moods,
that interfere with the cooking operation. Put schematically,
we use our knowledge of the ideal to specify the references
that determine our motions, but our reflections are
determined in turn by the actual motions we undertake to
follow the references. For instance, we are instructed to
prepare foundations for a house by digging a trench so many
feet by so many feet. This is one instruction, but it will
require many motions to fulfil this one instruction, so that we
252

will have many reflections to correlate to one instruction.

Again, we are told to add one spoonful of a herb to a dish: we
know what a spoon is, but what exactly is a spoonful? Level
or heaped to various degrees? You can see that, broadly, we
judge actions with reference to the ideal, that we can mix
these references to arrive at judgements of complete actions
and assessments of perfection. But it looks as though
perfection is not possible, unless we can determine, in
accordance with the ideal, all the physical accidents bearing
upon our motions which seems an impossibility, because in
that case we would require ideal physical conditions in order
to produce perfection.
Alvin took a little walk behind the lectern to give us all
a breather, he staring at the screen intently. He looked drawn
now, eyes dark and peering, moistening his lips continually.
What is wrong here? It looks as though perfection is
not required, and yet we are driven in our actions by a desire
for perfection. Alvin paused again, moistening his lips, and I
realised that he too had changed his original paper, that the
distinction between completeness and perfection was new to
him, and that he was distressed by the loss of his idea of
perfection.
He suddenly gestured as though to push his written
work aside and leaned upon the lectern, and said, as though
angry: Art is about the perfection of action. In poem, novel,
picture, sculpture, in all our patterning we seek to realise
perfection. Now you can see why the art object is only a
husk: it is only complete; it cannot be perfect. And the artist
is like the rest of us, desiring observation of performance,
that is, reflection, consciousness, in place of the performance
itself. Performance is merely complete, never perfected. And
253

we observe because we only perform actions and never create

them. We search all our actions for the trace of the ideal
reference, in other words, we seek back for the creator of the
actions, hoping there to share the creators vision of perfect
action. Above all, we perform our life as an action that we
know is merely complete we function but all the time we
sense that this life was created by reference to perfect life,
and we hunger, poor robots, to merely observe the references
to perfection if our lives. Alvin stepped back and we all
thought, relieved, that he had finished, but he suddenly
shouted: Reflection is the original sin! We should create our
own action, our own lives! And sat down abruptly, reaching
towards Peter as though to steady himself. Peter stood up as
though nothing had happened and thanked Alvin for his
interesting paper and invited questions from the audience.
Jonas asked, with little ceremony: Your actions exist
as thoughts, Alvin. Why bother with such impure thoughts?
Alvin rubbed his hands, obviously trying to find the level:
One of the last things Yeats wrote was Man can embody
truth but he cannot know it. Action can be the only source of
truth. Jonas laid his head back, eyes closed, inhaling slowly,
and appeared to think before replying: Yeats was a dualist,
good and evil everywhere, and like all moralists he tended to
see the certainty of evil as proof of the existence of the good.
As we conceive of evil as materiality, the effect of the
dualism is always to find certainty in the material and then try
to carry this certainty over to the spiritual, which invariable
involves making the spiritual material. Jason suddenly
smiled, happy to have achieved this insight, and he sat back
and opened his hands towards Alvin, as though giving him
the insight, and said with a sigh: Dialectics are always
254

materialistic. And Edward suddenly said, Cain went into the

city after he had murdered his brother. For once, he was in
awe of what he had said. Alvin leaned forward towards Jonas
and said, extending his hands too: But to judge as original is
merely a way of making the artist responsible for his work, to
say You said it, we didnt. John coughed then and said,
peering at Alvin as though he was brightly lit: Rilke said we
should not judge the work, only utter it. Alvin leaned back,
smiling with relief, and said in a disarming tone: Yes, we are
not to love our work, only to love the past, which is more
complete than the present. Christine nodded, drawing
everyones attention, and intoned: Consciousness is a state
of shock; the artist tries to master that. Silence then, until
Alvin said firmly, No, Christine, we already know. So I
said, to speed things along: Baudelaire said that art was that
upon which man bestows the imprint of his soul. I paused,
wanting to teach them this once: We make our world in the
form of the Self, the fallen soul. And Jonas said, jerking
slightly, The camera cannot see. To which Alvin added,
ganging up on me: The subject can never appear, otherwise
we would not need representation. And I had a sudden
memory of coming out of water, a memory without specific
location, and I said: Thats because you are the subject. And
Christine said to Jonas: The photograph is history, dead.
And John said to me: I agree that art is totally formal, but
that in itself does not guarantee its reality. Jonas said to
Alvin, We create the future, you know, and Christine said,
The unfallen soul, Richard? The silence told me that they
had all understood me. I stood up, intending to get a drink
after speaking: Has wings. Lassen sich.
255

We stood for a moment, such sadness in the room, then

we all tore up the stairs and laid siege to the bar, chatting in a
jolly way, all of us relieved, and I saw that this particular
operation was complete and I wondered for a moment what it
had achieved, until Old Bill said, Fill up or burn up, Butler?
And I bought him a half of bitter, saying: Dont you ever
listen? Christine turned and said to me, nodding towards Old
Bill: AC thought his prick was a magic wand. So I said her:
What then? and she towed me over to Jonas, who said:
Man murders woman in order to forestall murdering himself.
We apologise, Richard. And Christine said, obviously
representing the female element: I am glad to have seen you
laugh, Richard, before you cry. She took my hand and I felt
her charge pass into me, desolate as the moon, and I said,
Learn to pray, Christine, to offer yourself up, and then ask
for what you need, and in knowing what you need, you find it
there already.
It was at this point that I bitterly missed both Louise
and Rita, missing one helplessly and the other hopelessly. I
turned away from the group, seeing danger and death as two
dark eye-sockets in a skull, and with a sigh I sank into total
blankness, the echo suddenly gone, a calmness approaching.
Alvin came and said to me: Let it be? I turned to him,
slopping my drink, and said in the calm: Love is trust. And
John bent forward, showing me that this was the end:
Courage, Richard?
Christine wanted me to come back for supper, but I
declined as gracefully as I could. Out at my car she said, and
I felt a remainder of our partnership there, We tap power,
Richard. We do not make it. Simon was murdering Rita
anyway, but weve used it to achieve some benefit. And for
256

once I felt embraced by a mother, even though Christine was

just a withering spinster. In return I whispered to her: The
true state of the soul is pleasure. Pure expansion unlimited.
12 July
The situation now is, Tony, that I have only enough
time to report the events and none to attempt to explain them.
The incident with Kathy in London, I want to expand upon,
to show you how she was attempting to write my next novel
for me and how grotesquely she has misunderstood my work.
More important, I want to write about Ritas death, the utter
impersonality of it, as though Rita was just a container of a
life and all its sufferings, a life she could never take
responsibility for. And I also wanted to understand Louises
situation, why especially she cried because she had allowed
her mother to persuade her to spend three days in Kingsdown
with Simon and Grainger. But all this is by the board today
because Simon arrived out last night and asked me to do him
a favour.
I must give precious time (Im to pick Louise up at
four) to preparing the scene for what happened last night. I
made some coffee while he put on some music, Hendrix
again, sound sharpened for agony, and we sat and listened for
a few tracks, the screaming guitar bouncing the walls,
creating goodness knows what kind of hell in the house. Then
we talked, reasonably frank on some subjects, and he told me
that Rita never had cancer, that her condition was interpreted
as GBH at the hospital, autopsy that day (Thursday), postmortem Monday to determine cause of death (ie
257

manslaughter or murder), assailant unknown. He had seen

Louise for a few moments on Wednesday morning and she
seemed well, if a bit preoccupied. His father was staying at
Fremantle Square at the request of the police. Then he
suddenly said:
A couple of guys got high one day and decided they
would invent a language, OK? They knew they would need
objects to name, so they decided they would name everything
in their stoned-out wits. Of course, they told their friends
about this, and they of course wanted to know the names, the
better to grasp their friends vision. Having this language,
they then used it to one another, to recall the visions, and in
time found objects to take the names. Not being stoned, they
had to find objects out there. So they invented the world.
I asked him what he was on and he described a
complicated chemical tailored for fast vision and I said:
Sounds like hasheesh to me, Simon.
He stared at me, burning up his eyes, and cut the air
with his hand: No. This moves, Richard. And I kicked levels
then, Hey Joe coming on, and saw in steady succession:
1
A baby boy thrown into a fast deep stream; a
large domed rock in the foreground where the stream began a
turn to the right.
2
A young woman being drowned in a well or a
barrel by placing a lid on the top: the womans face was
bloated, eyes closed, cheeks puffed with air.
3
Me jumping off a high scaffold with ten feet of
rope around my neck: the crack of my neck and my feet
twitching a young woman looking up to witness these.
I was aghast because I couldnt understand the
sequence, and could only see myself jumping off the scaffold
258

over and over. There was something wrong, horribly wrong,

and I still couldnt remember it. Simon was burning up, eyes
flaring, fit to burst, and I saw that he had a level for putting
images across, just as Louise had, so I asked: How many,
Simon? He sat on one of the hard chairs by the table and
looked intently at my question, choosing an answer, but I
forestalled him to focus his answer by adding: I would have
thought one would be enough. He rode this like a punch on
the chin, but his eyes narrowed with sudden fury, taking my
addendum as a personal criticism, and stood up again,
crouched in a menacing way. I glanced at the now silent
system, making a measure I did not understand until he
replied: What you said, about everything dancing. Were you
winding me up? I went and put on Bruckners Ninth to
stretch him, to see if he could bridge the expansion and
incompleteness. I feel very rough about Simon, about his
stupidity and arrogance, his weakness in succumbing to
temptations. I keyed the system for a five second pause and
went into the cone, drawing him with me by my purpose. The
horns threw him, and I said, as the orchestra swelled moodily,
Its chicken and egg, Simon. If you dance then everything is
dancing with you. If you cant. I know how to hurt Simon; I
think I know how to destroy him: an application of force,
terroristic tactic take out a conviction. he jerked a thumb
towards the speakers, deliberately vulgar: Whats this shit?
I raised the volume, setting the separator lush for the great
theme, and said to Simon: Hes bigger than you anyway.
Show you sometime. Then I crashed, of course: Simon stood
there, mouth open, burning up on moving, three women to his
credit and not knowing a fucking thing. So I moved on him,
knowing he would counter-balance exactly in revenge: You
259

cant master the mother, Simon. You cant get back there.
Click-click-click went his burning moving mind and written
on his face was the conclusion: You can only destroy her and.
And. And. And.
I sat on the bed and listened to the trios, humming their
dainty pacing: I felt unpleasantly lucid, seeing the question
Whats the opposite of the compulsion to love women? Its
not hate, which is only resentment, thwarted love. Of course,
its the compulsion to possess the Woman, to absorb her and
so ease the eternal longing for. For. For. This was really
gritty, my joints stiff, cool draughts along my thighs and
down the hair on my shins. I knew if I named it I would be
outside again, seeing the impossibility of Louise, the truth of
Rita, and the justice of Simon. The longing for what? I tried
to kick levels, but all I could see was Simon standing there,
burning through millions of answers, lost in metonymy,
metaphor, joke, lesson, plea, inducement: images telling him
the same stupid story over and over. It is the obvious that
points beyond itself, not the unusual: it tells you that it, and
everything else, is a lie. The music crushed both of us: the
anguished music telling us that music is a lie. The lucidity
finally pushed me to pity, a pity where all sins must be
forgiven, and I said to Simon, gently, not caring what he
thought of it: Mothers must know death, Simon, giving life.
Thats why I love women: They are braver than men,
knowing more.
Longing for death: thats it saw it in the rising,
swelling, tumbling music: lies all lies lies.
Lucidity saved me then, gave me a level: one
symphony too many: reiteration, knowing the truth. Bruckner
looked for a young wife in old age, finally finished his
260

studies, knowing the truth: give the woman your life, its not
yours anyway.
Dwell in the darkness: calm there, no echo; angels at
your shoulders, no word needed, nothing to light. Love is a
state, not a feeling: love is the imagination, the call of vision,
saying here, here, here.
The symphony ended, obviously incomplete, and
Simon dragged about by movement, putting death in traction,
suffered beyond his comprehension, the scream hidden by
more and more answers burning his consciousness. I said to
cue him back: What favour do you want, Simon? He
clicked again, switching off the video inside, turning on the
light, putting himself back in his denims and tee shirt,
SMASHING in red across his chest, and said, his unctuous
grin on, Its about Sarah. He didnt switch levels, he
switched persons, discarding the burn-up, and I saw him as a
fly in the room, buzz-buzz, and so what. Whos Sarah?
My girlfriend, Simon smiling, wanting my help: Im
worried about her, Richard.
I cocked an eye at him, feeling shaggy, and said,
idiomatically cockney: Whats the problem then, Simon?
His personality switch was switching my personae about,
hunting through the theatre of his mind, coldly intent.
Its her old man, Richard. Bit of a problem there. An
Edward tone, crass insinuation about rag dolls.
I felt Old Bill, meat beaten to a pulp, magic as reflex:
Abusing his authority?
Now flaky Peter, gonads in a knot in the jocks to keep
him in control: Down on her.
So I key in daddy Grainger, to utter Simons little
scheme: Down on you, too, eh? Back-up?
261

That was it. Simon nodded going teenager, lower lip

hanging below sneering upper lip, gawky hands, censored
erections behind his eyes. In the passenger seat, the evening
paper said: MOTHER OF TWO KICKED TO DEATH BY
SEX FIEND. There should be no trouble, Richard. I would
skip the drive down, except that Simon was running his own
operation, driving fast through Hanham, down precipitously
to the river and across at St Philips out into south Bristol past
mean semis: She liked you, Richard, know that? Tried to
dance anyway. Double clutching on a bend, eyes on sticks,
hands pushing, the paper giving Ritas age as thirty eight,
meaning first marriage at seventeen or so, becoming fast
mother. Driving up, going down the phrases concatenated
around image of stroking girls back out of curiosity, no
resistance, body like a bubble: Jealousy, Simon?
Nah. Couldnt give a fuck about her. The sister was
different, I think. The old man likes a bit of a fight, I reckon.
Smirking at me, playing the ambiguity, then checking the
turnings, driving hard in the narrow roads past old cars,
clapped out trucks, satellite dishes like eye pods viewing the
universe in bright colours, checking things out for their
masters. Try to look as though you dont know whats going
on, Richard. Ill do the talking, OK? Up a turning, cul de
sac, bored houses, bored flowers, poor christain estate
waiting for the next coming, hopefully the last. I took the
paper with me, playing magic with Simon, which I think is
proper. Leery: the word, then smiling at Simon, old lad with
his hand out, cocking head towards me. Whos ee? Simon
shakes hand, turns from hall into little front room, wall ablaze
with some kind of drama, teaching usual wisdom: sit and
watch me. Simon puts his hands behind his back, fruity smile,
262

bowing towards the daddy looking at me with irritation, Just

driving by, Fred, thought Id drop in to see if our Sarah has
been in touch. I put the paper flat, mother of two kicked
prominent, in his armchair, and smiled at him and said:
Thomas Aquinas believed that incest combined family love
with the natural love between the sexes. Simon for once
jumped and I laughed out, competing with the summa on the
wall, and said as mischievously as I could manage: He was a
Catholic priest. He thought it was bad for business. Simon
kicked personae and lit up, brain trundling again, running
scenarios for him, and he said: Im worried about her, Fred.
And Fred read the head-line, licking the corners of his mouth
for the sweet stale debris, and said: Had a row then, Si? So I
said, winding it up: Was your daughter ever remotely
pregnant, Mister Albright? And Simon jumped again,
becoming considerate son again, Fred swivelling his eyes
between me and the flashy screen, said: I wanted her to be
happy. I interjected, making one last drive before the
business really started: Jealousy occurs when our
weltanschauung is contaminated by imagination. Jealousy is
not natural to either this world or the other one. And this
finally drove Fred to shout, watching the couple of the wall
slagging each other: Shed be no good for you, Si. Let her
stay where she is now. Simon relaxed, tilting his head fondly
at Fred: Gone up to London, has she? And I said, Divers
back drop because they know where theyre going. Fred
nodded, pursing his lips, and I realised that something was
wrong: I checked levels and discovered I was invisible,
screens of red light across the room, and knew that I had
wasted my time so I jumped and saw Louise talking to her
daddykins, glasses of whisky in their hands, and I said:
263

Sorry, Louise, my death got loose this evening. She smiled

behind screens of violet and said: Simon? Grainger was
saying: Actually, nastiness keeps you moving. I took her
hand and we walked for a while near Tiduff, under the massif
of Old Father Brandon, and sat on the cliff watching the sun
settle into the Atlantic. There was something finished
between us, perhaps the sexes fight to remain apart, and I
observed: Romeo and Tristan die first, thinking the other
dead. To die, I will weigh my body and drop one hundred
feet from the inlet over there. Pretty symbolic, because I
dont think suicide is a success.
Why Louise cried: wait and imagination with answer.
When I dropped back, we were sitting in a small pub
drinking cider and I was saying choosing one track on the
gift and realising that Simon wasnt very interesting
company, went away again, stepping up and up through
levels, calling Louise out, and we drove on through the
tunnel, some of the lights out, which was disconcerting at our
speed, and Louise kept going invisible, her screens violet
rising towards indigo, which worried me, but she sang an old
song, by Lennon I think, until overheard signposts appeared
and the tunnel began to branch. The traffic was heavy now,
so I couldnt slow down, and I called Louise to come out and
check the route. Then there were habitations along the tunnel,
yellow light in doorways and windows and people on
footpaths, heads down as they hurried along, and then we
were out into a huge cavern, traffic filtering now left and
right, and Louise shrugged when I asked her the way, so I
made for the largest opening, hanging down to the right into
the slow lane. Two guys thumbed pointedly at me, so I
stopped, thinking they might help us get out. Louise and I
264

were surprised: two rock stars, well known ( no names), and

they dived in, one bringing a rank smell with him. I booted
away again, cars hooting at my tail, and Louise told them the
story and between us all we managed to find the surface,
ducking lanes, guessing tunnels, traffic building up all the
time into rush hour congestion. It was a small seaport,
surrounded by wooded high ground, tall mountain inland, but
before I could disentangle from the traffic, we shot into
another tunnel, modern, better lit and ventilated, and I cursed
and pushed across the lanes and pulled into a small service
lay-by. I said, Whats in this stuff? and Simon sniggered,
drunk, and barked: Loony juice. Every man there had his
arm around a comely thick bird with long blond hair and a
sheepdog of sorts under his chair, licking its paws: bikers
gone rustic. I could see the carpark jammed with short wheelbased Land Rovers, ex-army, each rusted at bottom, each
with a leather jacket thrown across the drivers seat. I said,
Lets find a way out on foot and the older rock star agreed,
and dived out into the gloom, shouting to his chum, Come
on, weve got a gig tonight. The rank star was rooting in the
back, crying, Cant find my bleeding guitar, to which the
other shouted, You lost it last week for fucks sake! Simon
said, You alright?
This is scrumpy. Where are we?
Kingswood. Simon was genuinely shocked: Dont
you remember? This was your idea.
Strange thing was, Tony, and this may be an omen for
my future, I felt very well indeed, not a care, yet I felt that I
shouldnt ever show it, because people may resent it and may
wish me harm. How many of these have we drunk, Simon?
265

He held up four fingers and I did a quick check and

decided that detox would be marginal but that one more
wouldnt make much difference. Whose round? Isnt there
music? Simons look of consternation suggested I drop
another few levels and I found myself tapping my fingers on
the table in a complex pattern, four fingers and thumb with a
life of their own, and a comely blond sitting facing me, her
joined palms jammed between her be-denimed legs. Hello.
Simon said, Jo Anne. This other is Sandra. I said to Jo
Anne, Youre big (she was) do much riding? and to
Simon, Youve been busy. Are you getting us more drink?
Jo Anne laughing, big fatty breasts, small nipples, and I guess
the skin of her inner thighs unpleasantly smooth, vagina of
slicked india-rubber. Simon eyed the girls and said roughly,
Ark at him, chicks, whos doing the chatting-up? And
Sandra tried a competitive eye and she was nicer, except a
cowed air about her, face to imposed wire fence. So I said,
Theres a door here, lets try this way, and everyone agreed,
except Louise, who had gone behind her violet-indigo screens
again. In the passageway I said to the older rock star, call him
A, the other B, They dont still call girls chicks, do they? A
smiled, touched my elbow, and said in a charming way,
Maybe out in the sticks they do. Where are you?
Kingswood, Bristol.
Trying it on, Id reckon. Were trying to get to
Wembley. Dont know where the other two are. He ducked
his head towards B, Ten million in equipment coming over
from Le Havre.
This was weird. I asked him what he was on and he
said, eyeing me, wondering what my tastes were: Rock and
roll. Builds up over the years. You?
266

Louise was ahead, heavily screened, singing something

by our companions, Love.
A was charmed by that, and he laid his hand, fingers
slightly apart, on my shoulder, Good man.
Something ahead, Dick, Louise whispered in my ear,
and I could feel her response to the word love wrapping
round me, like her body falling away and holding on to me at
the same time.
I said to A, to answer his unspoken query: Yes. You
havent become bitter anyway. And I knew I was master of
something here, even if it was only habituated self-denial.
Then I felt the familiar rhythm and I said, Hang on, theyre
playing one of yours. I was taking the glass from my lips,
sweet-tart flavouring in my mouth, and my hand was rocking,
heel on two points, five fingers, better than I have managed
for a long, long time. Hear it? As face was split in
characteristic leery grin, nodding, Jo Anne saying to Simon
and I, again like that Ill have to wear a corset to keep me
together, to which Simon guffawed, legs tightly crossed, and
I said, Where are you, anyway? A checked and said,
Ealing. Checkpoint. Be another while, I reckon. B said,
Come on, you ballocks, I want to get out of here. He
checked the poorly lit ground: Gives me the creeps.
Louise appeared, dressed in a summer dress, bright
bands of colour, the maroon striving towards magenta all the
time: Theres a window, Dick. A said, Hello. I said,
Louise. B coughed loudly and spat and A said, Two of
you? I nodded, and he said, Oh, Babes in the Wood, and
tried a line, to which B immediately supplied chord, base, and
beat, one after the other, then pretending with his fingers took
the chord out and we could see the whole track running, three
267

minutes and forty seconds long, two solos, voice rising

towards a deliberate wry wail harking back to an early track,
lead becoming richer, notes rolled, beat tighter now, then the
pulse was found and A hummed the lyric, the odd word
coming through. Louise and I clapped, of course, afterwards,
and then we climbed some steps and found an oblong
window, about one hundred feet up sheer walls, wooded
uplands above the town bronze in the evening sun. B was out
and down like a shot and Louise went after him, but A paused
and said, Trouble? I nodded and he said patiently, OK.
Look. The wall was corrugated to the left, a cleft creating a
funnel we descended, legs braced against opposing walls. I
said, Have we arranged anything with these girls? the girls
knowing immediately what was afoot, and Simon leered,
covering up what I had forgotten, so I got up, had a pee,
hiding behind bales because security was on to us, and
slipped out a side door and off past the shopping centre,
dodging through the crowd outside the night-club. Id swear
they were bales, now they were bushes and the security
rooted us out, chary of us not the usual intruders it seems
who hauled us off to admin over beside the main gate. I asked
A if this was going to hold him up and he shook his head and
asked, What was it? So I told him about suicide off one
hundred feet and about the hanging video, and he went down
on that shaking his head and said, You should have worked
it out years ago. Get it out of your system, and B snorted and
I realised he was on a perpetual burn and that thought was the
past tense of thinking.
The trees surrounding the Holy Trinity church are
limes. I hadnt noticed that before, and two of the folk
coming out of the hotel bar said goodnight, one of them from
268

a shop in the centre, and then the first jeep came through,
studded tires beating the macadam, dog in the back, bird up
front, hair flying, pushing down towards Noddy Land, now in
darkness. I brought the sun up, say about eight, and laid mist
in the valleys and decided that heaven couldnt be a place, no
matter what habits of thought we had. The manager was very
campy this was the first signal that something was being
disguised, and I said to Louise, Whats running? And she
smiled and said, Keep an open mind. I am. Louise doesnt
know whats going on either, so I said to A, Are you running
this? He shook his head for the third time, looked at his
watch, squeezed my forearm, waved to Louise, then both he
and B became screens of red light, quite intense, and I knew
they had arrived at Wembley. An urchin came by, clothes
torn, his little gonads exposed, disfigured by a rash, and I
knew the girl in the office but couldnt remember her name,
more jeeps, then Simon, the two girls in back, and I waved
him on, laughing at him because he was furious. So I said to
Louise, Lets duck out of here, sweetheart. Ill have to get
some sleep soon.
Found this note stuffed into the top pocket of my jacket
this morning (head not too bad after all):
THE VIGILANT SEE THE HOUR OF
THEIR DEPARTURE COMING.
Where does Simon get his quotations from? This isnt
native either, has the pseudo-mystical air of French thought,
sentimental, the sort of thing that takes your interest but
doesnt mean much. However who is departing, and how?
Threat, reminder or promise?
269

Simons note reminded me that as least one operation

still running I suspect Simon is also running one, though
where I fit in I cannot see (other than as a character witness
for the police enquiries). So I geared up with some weapons:
wand for creativity, cup for preservation, dagger for
destruction, and a pentacle for redemption. They were for the
magic level; for the mundane, I slipped the disc with my
incomplete game into my pocket; and for everything else
trusted Louise, who doesnt know what is going on either.
Finally, I prayed for strength, offering myself up, seeking
grace.
12 July
I was late getting to Fremantle Square, apparently the
police had word that a co-ordinated push is planned for the
weekend, so of course all the checkpoints in the country are
on the alert. Louise was all set, weekend bag in the hall, but
on no obvious pretext she showed me into the small room and
went upstairs, so I was obliged to stay in the company of
papa Grainger. He was reading a brightly coloured tabloid,
seriously reading, dressed in bright grey slacks, fawn
moccasins and bright red shirt. I said, Do you mind if I play
some music? He put his paper down, jerking his head so our
eyes wouldnt meet, and gave his assent by part gesturing,
part vocalisation I didnt catch. I put on Simons Hendrix
disc, turned up the volume and was over studying a print of
Winsford on Exmoor before the noise came through. No
conversation was possible, as planned, and I moved on to the
next frame, a watercolour of the Tor, overly poignant,
expecting Louise to appear fairly rapidly. She didnt, and
270

papa joined me in front of the next print, a neat study of St

Marys Redcliffe, which did catch the character of the
beautiful church very well, and said loudly, My daughter
tells me you are a writer, Mr Butler. I interpreted this in the
spirit of my ID pass (licensed to live loosely) and nodded,
turning to cross the room to the next frame, which was a
cartoon of Stonehenge restored, the grass kept trimmed by
the local council, though no tourist facilities, and daddy said
in my ear, I read one of your novels recently, Mr Butler. I
thought it was quite good, though your characterisation,
perhaps because you are Irish, was somewhat unusual. The
next frame contained another watercolour, this time of two
dogs locked in fornication, a cat scratching the eyes out of the
mounting dog: the signature was MG, which I took to be
Miriam. It was some achievement to catch that with water
paints and showed intense conviction. Both dogs were male.
Da now said, I believe you are working on a new novel at
present, Mr Butler. What is it about? Louise came into the
room at last and switched off the agony and I replied: Hansel
and Gretel, except that the son kills the mother and the son
and father fight over the daughter, who, Louise completed
my sentence: has to go down to Bristol in a hurry. Come on,
Dick. Bye daddy, see you around. In the hall she kissed me,
gave me her bag, carrying a very hi-tec case herself, and led
the way to my car. She plugged the case into a socket I never
knew existed under the dashboard and donned a nifty little
headset. Where to? I asked, glancing at the display on the
case, mostly stats in many colours changing rapidly. She
winked at me and waved me towards the city centre, said
Three echo one into the mic, and then started laughing out
loud. It was contagious and I hoped she was laughing at what
271

I was laughing at. Down town she guided me to a small black

truck in a square off the shopping area, where she spoke to a
youngster dressed in a fire resistant suit, bulked out by
armoured vest and leggings. Louise was giving orders and the
youngster was listening and taking them. There was some
scurrying and shouting, and Louise was handed a small cube,
which she rammed into a port at the side of the case, waited,
then sprung out and handed back. More scurrying, then
Louise waved me forward, saying, Fast, Dick, and I shot
halfway round the square asking mock plaintively, Where to,
for Christs sake? and she pointed to a lane leading down to
the motorway. The roads were deserted and I could smell
trouble brewing in St Pauls next door. Louise stuck a red star
to the windscreen and said, Bath. Use the motorway. We
were waved through the checkpoints and I began to enjoy
myself, cutting up the fast lane at 120, glad to give the car a
chance at last. Louise sat for a while watching the road,
waving at the specials manning the checkpoints, then she dug
out Its only Rock n Roll and got it going at the title track.
She relaxed then, so I asked her:
Whats going on, Louise?
She shrugged and smiled at me in a decent way:
Were going on a run, Dick. Remember.
I liked that and pushed the car a bit more, getting up to
135, the music coming up my legs to sweetly: What was that
all about? War?
Louise touched my knee, matching the beat, and shook
her head dizzy: Oh maybe.
Can you clear off like that?

272

She was driving her body now, encased in a black

jump suit of very shiny material, deep breathing, head back:
Weve set it up, Dick, now its over to the warriors.
Can I ask what you do?
Loosening up more and more, her arms now across the
back of my seat, she leaned towards me, Till the next goodbye
coming on, and said, Didnt I tell you? We do the
projections, connecting surveillance and the troops. Sort of
intelligence, I suppose.
At your age? I slowed down a bit for the roundabout
leading up to the M4 and then slowed down a lot more as I
encountered the night traffic for London, filtered across and
got back up to 100+. Louise waited until this was done before
replying: Were just the kids running errands, Dick.
Checking things out, really.
There was something just too fast for me, a sedate
scribbler, to grasp: I mean, Louise, you can clear off for the
weekend, even though all hell is about to let loose?
She shrugged again and began to unzip the jump suit,
peeling it off as she did: As I said, Dick, if its not set up
now its too late. She shook her body vigorously once she
got the suit off, flexing her legs, massaging the underside of
her breasts and down across her stomach.
I said, Stop it, Louise. I cant stop here on the
motorway. I was packed in a column doing over a hundred, a
line of frenzied business types going home for the weekend,
listening to the news on their radios, wondering if London
would burn tonight. Then Louise and I were sitting on the
edge of a bed somewhere, wiping sweat from our chests and
stomachs, and I jumped levels in a panic and found myself
tapping the beat of Luxury on the wheel, Louise rubbing
273

herself down with a dry-clean pad and I asked her: Where

was that, I dont remember it? She eyed me, head bent,
Neither do I, darling. In the future? Little sister came on and
I beat the wheel exultantly, shouting joyfully, feeling still the
rank pleasure of that level. It was so good, not just to know,
but to have access to that kind of experience: so I asked her,
Last night, Louise. Where were we? She was slipping a
dress over her head, red hair tossed, her legs coming up to
balance her: when her face appeared, she said, Not sure,
darling. Can you read the signs? The Chippenham exit was
indicated and I broke column aggressively, flashing lights,
and double-clutched down, tearing the heart out of the
engine, and said spontaneously: Guys with jeeps, dog and
bird, going down to Noddy Land, which is not heaven. I
glanced at her, then at the traffic behind, pushing my luck
with it, and said, The Gates of Hell, Louise? Got away with
it realising we could jump levels if anything went wrong
and remain discarnate for the duration if necessary and
slipped on to the Chippenham road, quieter now, except that
Louise was dressed, green mini dress, white stockings, green
shoes, brushing her hair: You are so beautiful, Louise. Do
you know that? She laughed and tapped my cheek with the
brush and said, Hell is a city? Saw a pub then and pulled
over, intoning: Hell is a city. Drink?
It took two gins apiece to get ourselves down to a
manageable speed, stomping and swinging at the bar along
with the rest of the Friday night crowd, so I could think a bit
and suggest: Did Simon run it, do you think?
Doubt it, Dick. Its not his style really. She raised her
glass to me with joyful irony: I think this is ours, darling.
274

I toasted her in turn, sipped, and looked hard at her:

And you dont know whats going on, either, do you?
She moved suddenly, taking me aback because we had
settled down, kissed my cheek and whispered: No.
You were trying to encourage me? I really itched
then to put my arm around her waist and squeeze her, and she
must have sensed that because she swung in, turning, and her
thigh brushed the concavity of my genitals, saying, And
myself too, darling. I felt that niceness again in me and
jumped levels till I found us lolling on that bed, talking about
mirrors for the hall and saw trees silhouetted against the dusk
and I said out of context at both levels, We made it, Louise,
to leave a marker for us and Louise said, fine lines under her
eyes, breasts heavier now, Oh that weekend, Dick and in
her green dress said, Looks like it, darling.
Back in the car, I looked at a map and remarked that
we could have left the motorway earlier for Bath. I hadnt
noticed the exit, nor had Louise. The countryside was
peaceful where we were, on the outskirts of a village called
Kington St Michael, the trees waving in a friendly manner,
glad to see us. I took the back roads, through places like
Thickwood, Colerne and St Catherine to Bath. On a
particularly quiet stretch, I asked Louise if her dress creased
easily, and she took it off again and laid the seats back, and
we cuddled down together, arms full of hungry bodies, and
the manager, still camping it though he knew we knew by
now, handed us over to his security head, who drove us to the
road leading down through the wood to the city. He pointed
to the lawless poor area on the other side of the river, behind
the main docks, and we knew that there was his groups main
area of activity, searching for a being who prevented mankind
275

from having full or final knowledge, a being that was either

timeless or amorphous the idea is hard to define and his
agents ran the risk of being extinguished, not just killed, but
totally obliterated from all levels. When he left us, we stood
alone, hand in hand, and surveyed the city. New Jerusalem is
not nearly as big or as grand as people seem to think, and not
nearly as perfect in fact it is as incomplete as any city at any
point in its existence. With reference to the sea, we were on
the right of the river, with extra-mural suburbs dotted below
us on this side. The main body of the city, behind the walls
with twelve towers, not twelve gates lay on the other side of
the river, stretching down to our left towards the sea, with a
smaller section on our side between an isolated hill and the
tidal section of the river. In the context of European urban
development, NJ in many ways resembles a city of the
middle late eighteenth century, the inner part of the city a
huddle of very old houses and workshops along narrow
twisting streets, the outer part a fine development of broad
avenues, paved streets, and well spaced stone houses. One
suburb, on this side of the river to our right, is laid out in a
grid among the water meadows with garden squares and
proportioned elevations, served by broad roads that would be
appreciated in later centuries, when motor traffic appears.
There are two features uncharacteristic of Neo-Classical
Europe. One is that the fortifications of the city, walls,
massive towers, the forts on the heights on either side one a
few hundred yards from us and the city Keep on an island
at the inland extremity of the city, are in use, heavily manned,
with many pennants and flags flying. The second anomaly is
the railway system, quite extensive for such a small city,
which we could see running up both sides of the river, with at
276

least three bridges, one in the centre of the city, almost below
us, another just above the port, and the third away upriver at a
complex of large buildings which I knew to be the Temple
complex. At this point, Louise, who had been studying the
city too, observed, Actually, Dick, there are twelve gates too,
if you exclude those for the railway, though they dont
correspond to the towers. And Tom said, in the act of
handing us our drinks, What game are you two running, eh?
Louise gave him the English smile that commands discretion,
and he acknowledged that gracefully and went back to join
Simon Owle and Miriam over at the bar. I discovered we
were talking to Simons son and his wife, and just as I was
about to jump levels to NJ, I noticed the stranger: small, very
intense and with an air of darkness, talking to Jason further
down the bar. I keyed Louise with a twist of my left hand and
we went invisible, her screens violet again but with a tinge of
green fear mine were yellow tinged orange with some kind
of anger and I asked her who the new chap was. She
answered with the kind of edge in her voice I hadnt heard for
ages:
Hes a friend of granddads. I used to call him the
Devil. His name is Martin Shaw.
I reached through the screens and embraced her bare
arm and pressed it to reassure her: Magic?
Oh yes, Dick, but I dont understand it. And I knew
what she had meant by Oh that weekend earlier in Kington
St Michael.
Are you armed?
Green flared in her screens: I cant arm myself, Dick.
She touched my face, hand caressing down my temple and
over my cheek. Im sorry, darling. We really should have
277

discussed this. The green flared again and I could see Louise
running controls. But she wasnt adding anything, so I said,
Hold on, Louise. Control is no good. Waste of energy. Let
me try. I shot a bolt of anger at her, reaching her as severity,
and the green began to blue and I felt the element of water in
Louise, an element I hope I would never arouse in her by
accident, and fire responded in me, impatient, rising through
levels towards something like itself, and I understood then
the significance of wings, and remembered we have the
powers as we need them. I said, once I saw what was
happening, We need a line between us, Louise. Quickly.
Fire and water cant mix, and the line of course was a
pure light from me to which she responded by dancing occult
lines, apparently random but not so, a complex oscilloscope
conveying more information than I could ever consciously
absorb. I said, Can you read me, Louise? And the waves
said oh yes and I realised that she was reading the same
waves as I, that the oscillations were both of us united, light
on water, like skin merging into skin, body into body, mind
into mind. We better go down and take a train, Dick. Get this
part done quickly. I nodded and we jogged down among the
trees, then past isolated houses on to the river plain, the road
leading us towards the station outside one of the main gates,
between the towers of Heaven and Hell. We took the first
train they run on electricity or something like that, perhaps
sanctifying grace, very clean which wasnt the best one, I
think we should have gone upriver away from the city, but
that one left before we could change, and we went down the
right bank, over the river at the docks and got off in the old
city, the lawless area beyond the main thoroughfare, and
278

stood in the evening light, reading our lines, very frightened

together at last.
The lines said, Vastation, and I said to Louise, Hell
doesnt last for ever, sweetheart, and she smiled a brave
smile and I realised she was, and has always been, more
afraid of herself than of anything else, and by analogy I saw
that I am more angry with myself than with anyone else, and
that here we had a chance to get over our respective
restrictions, and I was suddenly very happy, and Louise lit up
at once, understanding too, and we embraced, running our
screens together, violet complementing yellow brilliantly,
and her fear absorbed my anger, and my anger absorbed her
fear, and the same strength rose in us, the capacity to suffer,
to endure joyfully what I had prayed for coming to us both
in abundance, with the added certainty unexpected but a
concomitant if you think about it.
There were five cars, no Range Rover thank goodness.
I asked Louise, Will your thingee take my disc? She nodded
and offered to drive. What are you going to do, Dick? The
display was good, but the glasses much better, stereoscopic
display that could be varied in depth, giving three
dimensions. I want to see what my game can do. I hoped
there would be no contamination from Louises police
memories, but I suppose that would make little difference.
The Devil, you say, Louise? She nodded vigorously, second
in line climbing out of Bath. I loaded my disc and the
computer went down, I said Ah, and it came up again.
What? I felt the NJ channel coming through, ominous
errand to undertake, and I put it on hold, saying to Louise,
knowing I fear deeper contamination: Orgiastic, sweetheart.
Your black box now hunts demons. Conquest? Screens of
279

blue driving the car, cold water lapping my thighs: yet I love
Louise, and she said, voice more pitched than usual: Arm
yourself, darling. I removed the safety catches, sounding the
alert along the line of cars and asked, reading the display
before my eyes, violet characters on a yellow ground: Seeing
or understanding? Wave of misery brought Angie, standing
at door of flat, bitter-toned, Why have you brought your
bitch? Louise in a ball gown, cleavage milky: Oh I can see
and so can he, Dick. Sun shining on my yellow roses, tide
lapping where beech once stood: NJ pushing through,
contaminating for good now, and the screen asked: Where
does the circumference have origin? I knew the errand was
doomed in a cunning way and that I was forcing matters, but
I took the bicycle (wheels) and rolled it into the street, hating
cobbles, but off I go down the hill towards the river anyway,
anus ventilated on springy saddle (read character weakened
I knew it was ominous), legs up going through flooded streets
made things worse: river rising, heavy sea, sirens in Old
Town below. The screen said, Does he sacrifice? and I said
Wait and Miriam said It surprises me that Tom is the
jealous type. And I snapped, doom approaching while I
cycled towards it, sore-arsed already: Interference pattern
somewhere? Short-cutting through the National Abattoir
(hear the terrified animals smelling death), lost then on a
bridge, flood has to be demonic, using Louise, I realise:
sitting with her, legs open, talking with Simon and Alvin,
Devil twisting his glass with Tom, smoke rising somewhere
and the lines say, Miriam protected me but I wet my knickers
anyway do you understand, darling? women should
withhold the waters. In the pub, I said to Owles daughter in
law, Who makes your clothes? and she fingered her groin,
280

smiling at me with suddenly-bright eyes, and I knew that

something is badly wrong while the screen patiently asks,
Does he sacrifice? Seven, darling, and I knew. The
contamination worries me and I said in NJ, it being broadcast
to all pods: Marriage? and the daughter in law fled, my
mother saying, sitting in her kitchen, I told you, so I
decided to have a pee, floodwater here too, steam of piss
rising. Men stood, trousers down, jocks nursing balls below
peaceful micturation, and the Devil wears tight clothes,
odorous, tongue fluted and I said Dad? and keyed yes, to
which the screen responded with ASPS, and the Devil said,
Mr Butler? We have something in common, you know. The
lines said Abu Simnel Preservation Society, page 481: screen
saying: p481: ASPS REFERENCE PYA VAR
ARSEBISHOPRICK BERSERKER RAPIST ELECT
THREE KNOWN SURVIVORS, BIRMINGHAM
JEHOVAH SHALOM SEMEN IS WHITE OUAI. I
coughed heartily, feeling relieved, and the screen said,
Power? and I said to the Devil, heading for the door, NJ line
going down for the moment, Should I blame you?
Kington St Michael. Louise whispered, A
coincidence, darling. Rather dull?, looking wan, which I
pitied in her knowing she had no arms, but I said, Over my
dead body, Louise, thinking of an evening by the fire,
reading The Number of the Beast again, Louise tucked her
legs under her on the settee and thought about nothing in
particular. Good, I said, the game works, you know,
Louise, contamination notwithstanding. And Miriam said,
Have you no news for us, Richard? to which I replied,
feeling rough in the aftermath, Well have to risk it, Im
afraid. Lets go. I drove fast, heading up towards the
281

Cotswolds, leading for once, through Hullavington, Easton

Grey, and down to Wootton-under-Edge, flexing the dagger
suddenly at the A46, beaming Do not look back at the pods,
and the screen said: Three six, Louise interpreting, Preemptive strike, observing to the night outside the car,
Strictly illegal, but this is war. We met up with some others
in Wootton, and I chatted with a professor of sociology,
dressed in aristocratic tweeds, of course, on the question of
the social consequences of day and night, and Tom came
over, looking very sedate, to say, Change of plans, chaps.
Big party over at Berkeley. I flashed, watch, on the lines and
the first strike occurred in the car park before I could do
anything and the sword carved the skin of my neck, cutting
deep at my spine, and Simon said somewhat contemptuously,
This is what we do to our enemies, black in the low light,
hint of red, rolling my skin down, and my horror was already
in the past with a death receding, and I complained to my
mother, now we were looking at her roses in the garden,
Skinned, mother, all over, and showed her what was in the
document wallet of Louises black box: a little dried
mannikin, greying hair, wistful writers face trying to be
handsome for the dust-jackets, and I buried it where once I
had buried a yellow canary called Dick. How time flies when
you are busy.
The party: formal dress, riotous ostentation, and Louise
and I waltzed in the throng, champagne glasses at each
others shoulder, smoked salmon sour in my mouth, but we
played rock with our genitals, calm for now, and learning.
Louise said at some point, Big trouble, Dick. London., so
we keyed in for movement and chose witness over freedom,
seeing that we were thoroughly contaminated, and went to
282

listen to the Messiah New England Music Ensemble rock it

up out in the garden, the crowd joining the choruses to the
Lets hear it! encouragement of its notorious drummer. The
screen asked, irrelevantly, If change is the remainder of
money, what is the remainder of man?, and I took a walk in
the evening air along Benjamin Street, which gives a view of
Mount of Zion, which is said to be NJs source of fame
though nobody ever goes there, and I saw a small plant-like
creature in a pool of water, with a number of heads, each with
a large mouth and sharp teeth. I fed it some crumbled
chocolate, and others imitated me, jabbering away in the local
patois, and I went on, suddenly paranoid, going out of body
to check situation and saw I had good reason for the paranoia:
the creature, now a thick wormish jelly, was approaching
even as I stood rooted and it said through thick lips, We are
brothers, man. I flashed this out on the wire service to all the
dished heads and the band picked it up, beating metal in
frenzy and I said to Louise: Not what I would have planned.
But it was Miriam who replied, tilting her head at me, fond of
me finally: You have to start somewhere, Richard. And I
wondered how women can live with pain and saw, on a new
level, my family sleeping with a corpse I knew was me.
Only three cars now, Simon leading, sword of light
above his car becoming the space ship taking everyone to a
new paradise, having fucked this one up good and all, and I
knew this was a dream though it was true, and at last at St
Briavals we were all weary, and Tom doled out whisky and
played Liszt, while I keyed to Louise, Is that it? and on the
screen a map told us that control was not the answer, as I
always knew, and Miriam said to Louise and I, Perhaps you
had best try, my dears. It was Tom who spoke to Simon,
283

Freddie and Sally, and it was Simon who balked, so I ran the
last game again because I really didnt understand it: how
could Simon be saved? And the screen said: Dump
procedures, (a) Disc (b) Modem (c) Logos, so I punched for
(c) and the screen filled with hexadecs, a motor whining deep
in the box, and Simon went down, catatonic, a fast dump,
obviously. I closed the machine down with obvious finality
and said, Give him an aspirin on Monday. That left six, fair
enough, so Freddie had to be Father; Tom, Son; Sally, Grace,
and Miriam, Beginning. I would have preferred more
protection, but sigils had to do, rotating the stars in the sky
manifested to earth, and we all went to bed, Louise and I
lying naked side by side in the humid night, hand in precious
hand, and with the worst luck of all, I thought:
The hill was steep and I knew the brakes had gone,
though I didnt tell Louise; instead I said, seeing the sharp
bend coming, Strap in, Louise, and she said, Yo, and I
manoeuvred the car, not used to left hand steering, over
towards the ditch on my side. Jump when you can,
sweetheart, OK? And I eased the car over, ignoring the wall
at the bend, drifting both wheels, front and back, to the edge
of the ditch, wanting to drop the car straight down to avoid
spin and tumble. And I did it, wheels crumbling the bank of
the ditch, the scream of the underside against the earth, stones
clattering, and I held the bucking car then, my body fettered
by the straps, hands braced on the wheel, crying now as I saw
it, and air in the car as Louise wrenched the door back,
snapped the belt off and did her police roll on the road. I flew
back and said urgently, Get off the road, sweetheart, theyre
coming. Terrible night of disaster, even here in paradise, and
she rolled into the ditch, scrambled up, crawled to the car,
284

ribs broken, left breast burst, ignoring the pain in her heart,
and pulled her bag from under the seat in the smouldering
car, my blood dripping from my smashed skull on to her
hand, and she found her gun, put it in her mouth and pulled
the trigger without hesitation as the car explodes in a sheet of
final flame.
Better than being captured alive. And I said to Louise,
We are dead. We have to understand that first of all. That
was a marker and we patched in NJ again, signal
strengthening as we did, and Louise said, It was because you
were dead like that, darling, and I nodded, eyes weak in the
sunlight reflected on the bare stone streets, saying, This is
the Father run, Louise. At last. OK? Louise stripped her
stockings off and tested the stride of the green dress, legs
strong and white, and I tugged the parti-coloured tie off,
jacket too, tossing them on the wet stone, rolled sleeves of the
scarlet silk shirt, loosening the neck and was glad the white
trousers were supple on my hips: OK, lets roll it, then.
The credits ran, old fashioned, ornate lettering:

285

Sirens again in Old Town as the tide surges in, water

gates closed, NJ sinking into the sea, and I stand on an outer
sea wall, thin layer of water streaming over, tide racing in the
channel behind me, water deep and dark, and I know that fear
makes me angry, so that two python-like sea serpents,
brightly patterned with some of Jonas cosmic geometry,
swim out of the sea and up the channel, one over twelve feet
long, the other six foot, swimming fast with the tide, bodies
straight and stiff, and after that I contemplate leaping out to
the outermost wall, deep water intervening there too. Not
afraid of the sea now fascinated by it, knowing death by
drowning chosen route though not to be achieved and the
serpents return, this time swimming-gliding through wet
grass like eels, yet still stiff and straight, and they pass me
again and enter deep ocean, and I realise the leap is not
necessary, so I went back to my lodgings, green door
numbered 171, 172, or 173 (cant remember clearly, which
worries me) and the landlady took me to my room to show
me the new security device, her arm low across my back, her
hand dangling against my buttock. I thought the plastic
covering was coming unstuck from the door but it turned out
to be a knitted woollen door cover, but how it had been
drawn down over the door I couldnt tell. I closed the door,
meaning to screw the bejasus out of my landlady, but the
door was opened again from the outside and we went to the
dining room, confusion of old chairs to be sorted out, and
jealousy was beamed from someone, eight of us for dinner
and I got to sit at the bottom of the table facing my landlady,
her strong face demure now, and I became frustrated trying to
tease the meat from convoluted shells and decided that the
test wasnt worth it so jumped levels and on the river four
286

swans swam upstream, but I couldnt follow because river

was backing up and flooding over bank. I called Flood! to
the security people in the watch tower above the river and
they nodded and ran up a flag, black saltire on a white
ground, and I knew then that it was time to leave but I was
very hungry, so I jumped scene again my nephew had just
played a malicious trick on me which generated hostility, but
the boy came to me and said, Love me, love me but his
mother shouted, He loves salmon, not children and I
thought that was inaccurate, and said Cant you read? Not
salmon. And the director shouted CUT! and I said Who
loves women to the destruction of mankind? and the director
screamed, on a hair trigger as usual, I said CUT, Butler, so
shut fucking up will you. So I went to mother but she was
not there, having finally removed, and when I found them
daddykins first appearance, big scene, all their new friends,
god theyre social climbing, shelling out a fortune to impress,
food everywhere, huge pots, pans, ovens, whole roasts, and I
couldnt find a kettle, or a teapot or cup or spoon, and the
parents became hostile because I was whinging for tea
when I could have fillet or some other bowel-binder shit is
money remember and its remainder is piss (tinkle tinkle?)
and I complained that this was a travesty and our director
took another tantrum, but a small stout girl came over and
offered to kiss me, and that gave me peace, so some test there
no doubt.
We had to change the reel then, Louise volunteering to
manipulate the archaic machinery, and Tom, pouring gins for
all of us, said, Funny mind, Dick, eh? Not artistic really,
and Miriam said reflectively, stretching her feet on the pouf,
leaning back languidly to accept the chilly glass, happy for a
287

Saturday night in for a change, just family, gorgeous men,

admirable daughter, everything easy: The preoccupation
with food? I passed around the cherry cake, at home in their
home, admiring Louises bent haunches, nicely tipsy on gin,
and said: Stuffing himself. You caught that very well,
Miriam. Tom laughed, hunkering down beside Louise at the
projector with her glass, I think I helped there, Dick. The
homosexual is the soul of guilt. Cosmicality here, Louise
tipping Toms bent knee in thanks, sipping the gin,
quaternary interchange of complimentarity, the son older than
the father always because of what the father surrenders in
creating the son, the lovers becoming brother and sister in
exposure, love here the unreflected gaze, and the mother
alone behind the screen of the daughter, desiring desire
transcendently, the paradise of mens backs mans soul
shining where he cannot touch, womans soul shining where
man cannot remember the significance of the cleavage. And
upstairs Sally screamed in a guest bedroom.

Louise sank down beside me on the sofa, thigh against

thigh, and whispered: The father is the receding man for the
daughter. False security, and were at the main railway
station, panic bustle, waters rising below in the town, who
said there could be no apocalypse in NJ: I am hungry, so we
go to the station cafe where a busty starlet takes our orders
for coffee, no food left getting serious and of course we
288

miss the last train out that night. We go home and I realise I
am leaving parents after EIGHT years and I cry but old man
of recession teases Louise because of her dress, so we go
again and get local train to Rockfort up beside the Island
Fortress, still in the city but safe from floods, and we watch
the sky from the edge of the wood, doing positive astronomy
on the stars, all that half-baked stuff about big bang (the
ultimate Fuck, yes? but only lasts nanosecond, yes? with dire
consequences for 15 billion years, yes? maybe another few
billion on the clock next year? NO ECONOMY OF TIME
THE NEW GRACE) bourgeois sex, semidetached sex, writ
large, but where is the woman, all this semen spreading out at
top speed, except that the universe is the womb? I was sick
with indecision and insisted on going back into city to home.
Tried to cook some oatmeal but discovered grace had been
switched off owing to floods, so I cried again, weary of
misery, not reflecting for fear of terminal shame, yet knowing
I would burn up in the end, split open for faster cooking
that some kind of relief I think but why Louise? the bullet
creating hole in crown for a fountain of blood and brain, oh
dear, she keeling over into exploding car, fountain two feet
high spraying my cracked face, loving to the very very end
on the mundane level, then everything bubbling sizzling, and
we cook together at Gas Mark 45, rictus becoming sizzling
fat, gross mortality like streaky bacon: Now dad the Fisher
King (Martin Shaw again), furry fish, cat fish, he has portable
gas stove for frying, and I ask, Are you ill? Weeks growth
ageing his face, thin and pale, and he dismissed my worry,
saying Only my hip, Dick. Slipped in river. Is fish terminal
then? But they are safe from fire and they manage not to
drown. Thwarted again? I want wings to fly to the cosmic All
289

Sun and am I to get fins to swim the Deep instead: dont I get
to see, at least?
But I will try one more time, battling through flooded
streets, bodies floating now, water not fire, the womans
revenge: I know I know, but Ill get there. Slept at lodgings
until eleven and then bought fish and chips in place across the
road: food at last. Refugees in house, surprised to see they are
the group from parents new house (of course they are, allpurpose students from NJ School of Ritual got cheap) and
landladys husband (Martin Shaw again he insists on these
credits Im afraid) who has them perform a play about the
trial of the latest Devil, wanting me to play part of
mendacious barrister, the Devils Advocate, because we
have something in common, Mr Butler, but I refuse and in
revenge Shaw rewrote the scene so I was obliged to castrate
myself, using a dead eel (what else?) as prop. Dont we like
symmetry around here?
Reel two clattered then, screen white except for
projected dust on lens, and Tom undertook to change reels
this time, which he is used to, it being a family heirloom. I
fixed drinks now, gin fizzes for a change, and Miriam and
Louise got up some ham and mustard sandwiches all this
guff about hunger and Miriam said afterwards, working a
strand of meat into her mouth, licking mustard deliciously
from the corner of her lips, Lacks direction, no? Louise
leaned towards me, teasing, Fish, Dick. I mean, who ever
heard of an erect fish? And Tom chortled, back to us, voice
muffled: Fish dont fuck anyway, to which Miriam replied,
wondering at the wonder of it, Yet they are more fecund than
rabbits even. Then scratchy images:
290

I go back to lodgings to collect all my things, putting

my manuscripts in the old briefcase, but repulsed by my
clothes in the wardrobe, especially a pair of woollen trousers
with red stripes on dark grey, and a group of raw men come
into my room, sit down and speak together, ignoring me. I
went out and washed my hands in bathroom but when I came
back I couldnt find the briefcase, suspected men of hiding it.
A lot of briefcases down in the hallway, but none of them
mine. Went out, resigned at the loss of MSS, forestalling
regret for fear of shame (again), met up with four youths, all
very friendly, especially the youngest, who had fair hair.
They were planning to break out of city and invited me to go
with them. Transportation was an old brass bed on large
wheels driven by batteries of grace; slow but getting there,
until saw woman on motorised stretcher having trouble
negotiating the pavements. I helped her, avoiding her face,
ravaged by age and disease, one hole in her cheek an inch
deep; when another woman came to help I found that the bed
had disappeared, so I tried a short cut down a lane, but this
led into a covered yard with horses stomping nervously in
stalls. Tom came out and greeted me and we shook hands,
and he told me his brother had got out on last train down the
coast and that his step-mother Christabel had remained in
Sheba, and then I studied the script again and shouted at the
camera, Come on Simon get this fucking thing moving will
you! and slapped some horseshit over the lens: on the
291

screen: PLEASE CONSULT VIDEO 361 FOR

CONTINUATION, and the reel began to whirl, end of
celluloid obviously torn-ragged. Tom said, Strange. Though
its years since I watched this, and went and rooted in a large
sea-chest over by one of the bookcases. Miriam said, I
thought you would take a horse, Richard. I snorted, No.
Tom and I were to discuss the problem of Father and Son as
Interference Patterns, stomping horses in stalls in
background. That sort of cinematic junk, you know.
Tom said, Found it, studied plastic case closely, and
continued: Never noticed this before, bunged the tape into
the VCR, brought up the wall screen, and we rearranged the
chairs, chose whisky this time, and settled down again, my
head in Louises lap, Tom sitting on floor between Miriams
legs, she fondling his hair:

(Louise said, I dont remember this, to which I

replied, neither do I, if that is any help.)
View of flooding city and voice says over, Water is
anomalous. The military have been drafted in now, large
armoured carriers on the streets, soldiers in groups, heavily
armed, on street corners, stopping people, chatting up
women. One chopper down over Old Town, rotors thudding
the still air, grace engine whining, and I can hear radio voices
everywhere, reporting, acknowledging, giving instructions.
The word is pacification, quelling rising panic, but I think
292

someone is, characteristically, looking for scapegraces. I met

dad and an uncle years dead on a street, they are looking for
something in the flood water and merely nod to me: its like
that now time for departure from this city of the dead. A
meteor flashes in the blue sky confirmation? and
suddenly breaks up into a shower of lesser meteors, big bang
again, and I push on, wading through the muddy waters,
smell of stale brine everywhere, a warm wind from the south
suddenly embracing me. Then a group outside a hall, interval
of a concert, educated people, speaking in a lofty English
way, Sir Arthur Bliss being performed, and you know the
military are going to come and take them out. Then a large
red-haired man, eyes moist and red with pain, steps out of
nowhere and embraces me in a bear hug, saying Kar tesh
Min. But this is all wrong and I tell him, Youre not
supposed to speak, and I put my hands over his nose and
mouth to stop him and he is forced away, and I know I will
never see my father again, because the father, if nothing else,
protects you from your Shadow. The military stop me on a
corner, asking me where I am going, eyeing my scarlet shirt
with some unease I intuit it is a priestly colour here and I
flash my ID pass, telling them I am going to the Temple, and
they let me pass, but I hear them reporting over the radio and
know that a net is out for me and Louise. I push on, aiming
for the station up at Rockfort, and I hear someone say in
despair that the tide is out, ie the flood will not recede, and
they look west towards the Mount of Zion, fifteen thousand
feet high, and I know that they, and many others, are
contemplating crossing the mountain to the land of Noddy on
the other side, resurrecting the old belief that it is better
always on the other side of the mountain. Then on a street
293

corner, by a tributary of the Jordan, I am shocked, surprised,

dismayed to meet Jane, looking so much older, stouter, eyes
veiled with a dead-end burden, and she at least shakes my
hand and tells me that she does voluntary work at the local
hospital, but I know there was no longer time to meet her
some evening so I could cry again for the failure of love. She
gave me some nuts and I peeled one as we spoke and,
believing they were peanuts, I was surprised to taste hazel,
nut of wisdom, so I kissed her and told her that, yes, she had
inspired my work (hence unsatisfactory relations with women
before meeting Louise), and I kissed the brow of my muse,
patted her shoulder, and waded on, looking back once to
wave to her, glad as I could be under the circumstances,
feeling that NJ did perform a function in the general cosmic
scheme of things, and finally managed to make it to the
station.
Louise looked pale and tired, the effect too much water
can have, and I rubbed the grey bristle on my face, feeling my
age now, and we kissed and cuddled our clammy bodies
before getting tickets for Temple. No one on the platform, but
the indicator said a train due in five minutes. I like railway
tracks, better at delimiting the way the rails are fully
determinative than roads are. A line of armed police came
up the track from the direction of Old Town, searching the
slopes of the cutting. A large column of soldiers, mostly
conscripts judging from their bearing, followed along the
rails, pace broken and uncomfortable, and when the two men
who followed us on to the platform were hailed by the police
I realised why the platform was deserted, and looking
carefully, I saw people lurking in the ornamental bushes on
the slopes above the station. Then, when the flat car appeared
294

coming down the track from the west gate, troops kneeling
around perimeter, guns pointing out, I knew Louise and I
were targets, the dragnet closing. I grabbed her hand, and
together we leaped on to the trackway, jumping rails but
avoiding the live rail, and scrambled across the opposite
platform and up into the bushes. Mostly young men hid there,
pale with terror in a way that made you conscious of their
vulnerable orifices, and, strangely, many cats, young and old,
intermingled with them, more at ease. I heard choppers
approaching and Louise nodded to the top of the slope, and
we both knew it was useless but it was better to try, so we
scrambled up keeping low and at the brow we saw open
waste ground stretching flat across to the fortified bridge
leading to the Island Fortress. The choppers came in low,
thudding the air, and I said to Louise, The police, yes? and
she nodded and we ran along the brow towards the
approaching fan of police, hands up, not terrified yet because
we were working an angle, I driven by the need to protect
Louise from the soldiers and their institutionalised alienation
that made other bodies expressions of their self-loathing. Of
course the police were diffident, civil authority female when
the military is active, and they held us until the helicopters
came in on their skids and disgorged their high profile special
troops, doubly heavily armed and armoured, communications
men with bifocal screen glasses, absorbing status readouts
and watching their boots at the same time.
No ceremony, we were boxed in, red hands grasping
blackened steel, muzzle streaked clear, showing weapons had
been used today, and we were jammed, together at least, into
a helicopter, pilot and co-pilot blind behind screen spectacles,
heavy static over the radio, and up we went, tilting, swaying,
295

then turning as the screens picked up the Fortress beacon,

grids on the dashboard screens for interested onlookers, and
the craft thumped in a particular way to the thud of the rotors
above. The Fortress is too small, of course, courtyards
jammed with armoured vehicles, all the roofs with celtic
crosses in black and white, aerials, dishes, scanners bristling
from the towers, missile emplacement on the outer walls
and where is the enemy? The second copter circled us,
motorised cannon working their firing patterns, as we
dropped down to the cross on the Tower of Earth, and the
pilot and co-pilot twisted their heads continuously, reading
their goggle-screens, most dangerous moment during a flight
in wartime, and I felt the game being played but couldnt
laugh because the game included GBH for me and perhaps
worse for Louise if we didnt remember the instructions of all
those training videos that people believe are home
entertainment. Nice landing, chopper skidded only a foot or
so and then we are passed out to the other high profile
specials, soldiers in deeply pressed uniforms, unarmed except
for button-down holsters, and the atmosphere suddenly
meaner because these soldiers can concentrate on you, others
guarding them, like the anti-aircraft unit over by the parapet,
radar readouts prominent in the cabs of the high energy
lasers.
Again, like all military establishments, the tower is
cramped, personnel squeezing past one another on the stairs
and along the corridors, the military has a hive mentality,
body contact again, and we go down and down into the
cellars, and we hear the screams and smell the effluvia of
profound terror from the little cells down anonymous
corridors, and finally into a small interview room,
296

whitewashed walls, metal table with scarred plastic top, metal

chairs, all painted the national dark blue. We are invited to sit
and are left alone: obviously to sweat and worse, no toilet or
washing facilities pre-interrogation self-humiliation. But I
know this script, do you want an analogue? so I signal to
Louise that we need a record of the interview and she opens
her little shoulder bag, an innocent piece of young fashion
except that it had a military look inside, even a little gun of
sorts clipped to one side, and she hands me a small
camcorder with digital readouts that tells me it has graphic
and computing power. Her signal tells me I have three hours
recording time and 200MB spare for programs. I lay it on the
table, one lens for interviewer, one for us, and trust that it will
not excite his interest because these people use hi-tec but are
not hi-tec minded: a laser is a button in the way goats milk is
an udder, so a little black camcorder is a little black box.
The door opens and in walks a little darkling man in a
tight uniform, colonels bars on his shoulders: Colonel Shaw
(subtitle: ADNI HARTz). And I relax (subtitle: O PAIS) and
glance at Louise, who is skittering, poor girl (subtitle:
MONAS) and the colonel says: Hello, we meet again. I am
Colonel Shaw of the Special Investigation Unit. (Subtitle:
FILE 610 FOR CONTINUATION) and the screen blanks,
and Tom says knowingly, hugely enjoying himself, Miriams
fingers encoiled in his hair: The little black box? Louise
stretches, so I have to raise myself to let her get up, and
Miriam smiles, lolling back, You two had fun making this,
no? I suggest champagne, saying Think what the props
cost, Louise wiring her police box into the screen, and Tom
agrees emphatically and scrambles over to the little fridge
under the bar, Pink, Miriam calls after him, crossing her
297

legs tightly in her husbands absence. I warned: There may

be contamination, and Louise agreed.
Anyway, we settle down again, a bottle of champagne
in a bucket within easy reach, now Louise rests her head in
my lap and I stroke her soft hair, and Miriam lies on her belly
on the floor, Tom in lotus beside her, fingers splayed on the
smooth flesh at the back of her right knee, and Louise hits the
button and on the screen with appropriate highlights:
FILE 610: LEVEL QLIPHOTH OF GHAGIEL
DATE PISCES TERMINATE
MARTIN SHAW: An Outer Master of Philistinia
Teacher of the Inner Xylon
Claims title of JEShUA by virtue of his successful
Working of Reversal.
1. An infra-red reading of Shaw, which shows his
resultant impotence.
2. The aura reading, showing the Reversed Spirit
violet rays at solar plexus.
3. The spiritual reading, showing the husk containing
the foreign fruit, designated MULE.
Colonel Shaw laid two files on the desk, called an
orderly and gave orders in the city patois, and said to us,
smiling with mock grimness, We might as well be
comfortable, I suppose. A bottle of Gordons export, a local
tonic, ripe lemons and ice, glasses for three were brought. As
he poured generous measures, Shaw said, You see, Mr
Butler, it is as I said, we have something in common. We
tasted our drinks in silence, Louise and I wishing good health
298

in gesture, and I saw that Shaw could hold his silence within
him, looking down at the files before him, and I felt his
evacuation and channel-opening. I was surprised to discover
that I had no need to do this, I was already open, nor had
Louise, she took instead the opportunity to study Shaw, to
exercise her fear of him, a fear I suspect she did not
understand. Then like a priest prepared to perform the
sacrifice, Shaw took a deep breath, placed his glass carefully
to one side and opened the top file. It was your birthday
yesterday, Mr Butler. Fifty two. I started; I had completely
forgotten, and Shaw smiled affectionately and said: You are
completely involved in this Working. Very commendable.
You know, it is a pity you have never permitted recognition
of your efforts and achievements, Mr Butler. My Order is not
suitable, unfortunately, nor can I think of a suitable Order.
Perhaps you should institute an Order. Shaw paused,
studying me, then he pursed his lips and said sharply: Please
answer, Mr Butler. Need I remind you that this is an official
interrogation? My first response was anger, then I saw the
nice pointedness of the interrogation so-called and decided
that here for once at least was an opportunity for candour,
because I felt that I no longer had anything to lose: Two
reasons, Shaw. I am not a magician and I am not a believer.
Shaw nodded, pursing his lips again, and scanned a number
of sheets in the file, rifling through the file in a meticulous
way, fingernails very trim and clean. I see. You have said
that magic always involves the death of something. That is
so, yes? I nodded for him. You murdered me on Friday, Mr
Butler. My face obviously showed expression, because Shaw
nodded indulgently and explained: I was unprepared for
your dagger, Mr Butler, because in truth I believed you
299

abhorred vulgar magic. It took the Fire Service four hours to

remove my body from the wreckage, you know. Now that is
another thing we have in common, Mr Butler, we both die in
motor accidents, except, of course, that you burn and my
sister will bury my mangled remains against my explicit
instructions, moreover. He looked extremely frustrated, then
helpless, and continued: No matter. The point I want to
make, Mr Butler, is that with my death you began an
extremely powerful magical working, the consequences of
which are not yet clear. I raised an eyebrow to forestall him
and said: I cant agree with you, Shaw. Magic is primarily
intention and I have no magical intention. Also, in turning the
dagger against you, my intention was merely to remove you
from our company, for Louises sake, not to kill you. That
you died in such a horrific manner is, I suspect, the outcome
of someone elses intention, that is, you had already been
cursed. This genuinely surprised Shaw, and he looked from
me to Louise and back again, and then said involuntarily:
Who is working my death then, Mr Butler? I shrugged,
Perhaps whoever wished your death. Perhaps no one. Shaw
stared at the papers before him and emptied himself again,
showing signs of distress. (Aural reading of Shaw: minor
discontinuities of Will; minor distortions in Reversed Spirit.
Voice over: Shaw is grounded in belief. It is the momentary
belief in error that produces the perturbations you see here.
Incidentally, the reading confirms the connection between
Will and Reversed Spirit, and indicates the procedure to be
followed in liberating Shaw: deflection of Will.) Now Shaw
collected himself with some effort and consulted the papers
in the file again and said, somewhat harshly: This makes
your case very difficult, Mr Butler. You see, we had assumed
300

collusion in the Clifton Working and in the death of Rita

Grainger. I leaned forward and laid my hand on the desk
within his vision to stop him and said, You do not read very
closely, do you, Shaw? He was taken aback by my tone,
which did have an edge of anger and grief, and he said,
almost plaintively, But you worked Simon, Mr Butler. I was
surprised and I said involuntarily, feeling my suspicion at the
time surface, How? Shaw relaxed and leaned back, placing
both hands palms down on either side of the papers on the
desk: Quite simply, Mr Butler. You told him that Mrs
Grainger loved you. Now I leaned forward, fixing my eyes
on his, breaking his stereoscopic vision, so individual eye
locked on complementary eye, and said, Do you know why I
did that, you fool? I did it because I realised that I couldnt
tell him that Rita was dying. Shaws face creased in a pained
expression: But he was working her, Mr Butler. Now I
slapped the table, becoming frustrated in my anger with his
stupidity: He didnt believe she would die, Shaw. Yes, I
know it is obvious to us, and to Louise, that he was
murdering her, which I didnt know at the time, incidentally,
but Simon didnt want to know what he was doing. Do you
understand that, Shaw, I mean, not wanting to know? Shaw
seemed to skitter inside himself and he tapped his finger on
the table surface in a fretful way, thinking with a deep frown.
I, for my part, fought for candour in myself: did I know what
I was doing with Rita had my intention to teach her been
contaminated by the Clifton circle? Shaw suddenly stood up
and said emphatically, This is a test case, Mr Butler. I think
it should be investigated. Will you and Louise please come
with me.
301

Rita sat alone in the kitchen of a mean flat listening to

Have you seen your mother on an old radio, looking pensive
but trusting, plain at thirteen. I could see that she didnt
believe she was dead. The roofs of Old Town were visible
from the small window, the wooded heights on the other side
of the river a refreshing backdrop. I sat on the other side of
the table and said, tender in our discarnations, Hello, Rita,
and Louise went to her and stroked her unruly hair and
smiled in a tight sad way at her. Shaw said without
ceremony: Mrs Grainger, I am conducting an official
investigation and I wish you to answer my questions directly.
Now, what did you want Mr Butler to do for you? You
remember that day on Glastonbury Tor, dont you? Rita
nodded, turning her luminous young eyes on to me, staring at
me with that old fascination, and she said forthrightly: You
mean then, or now? Shaw replied with the bureaucrats
perfunctory voice, Then, if you will. Rita stood up and
switched off the eternal Have you seen your mother, and I
saw how plain her body was then and wondered what her
mother was like; perhaps, I intuited, much like her. Well, I
did say I wanted it and he said he would beat me.
Shaw interrupted: Did you want him to do that?
Its what men do in the end. Rita looked thirty eight
now, in a black dress: I mean, before they let you go.
I balled my hands on the table and said involuntarily,
No, Rita. Grief caught my throat as I saw the real hell: the
hell of our imagination, deflected from vision. Shaw wanted
to rebuke me for interfering but he glanced at Louise, saw her
pain for me, and stayed silent. I asked Rita, Why do men do
that, Rita? Tears welled in my eyes and I felt a relief I had
302

not sought, to see something of myself, that I could not do

that.
Rita became younger, the age of realisation, about
twenty one or two, and said simply, knowing that this was the
point she exceeded: Its not enough.
Shaw asked immediately, What is not enough?
And I knew before she spoke, relief flooding me like
light, showing in relief my deep misery of the last week:
What we try to do for then, for men I mean.
I glared Shaw into silence and asked Rita gently, All
women, Rita?
When she glanced at Louise, I knew what she would
say and to forestall her I told her: No, Rita. Louise too, but
for different reasons. My mind leaped and I turned to Shaw
and said: No. Its not the womans fault. At least, not hers
alone.
Rita said to Louise, Simon? When Louise nodded,
Rita began to cry quietly with habituated misery, saying to
Shaw through the bubbles of tears in her throat: Men are
evil.
But I said to her firmly, No, Rita. Men are ignorant.
We are all ignorant. And I knew then once and for all that I
knew nothing at all, never had and never would, that all my
actions and satisfactions were superficial delusions of the
mirror, and I said to Shaw, How do you save people here?
And Shaw stared at me and echoed: Save people? So I
turned to Louise, reaching my hand towards her, knowing she
saved me, and said: Lets go, Louise. I cant see any point in
this.
In the interrogation room, Shaw steepled his hands and
said, Dont distress yourself, Mr Butler. We have not begun
303

the investigations yet. That was, as I said, simply a test case,

useful for elucidating the springs of your beliefs. I said with
conviction, which was wrong I knew even as I spoke: No.
Shaw. Ive had enough of this nonsense. And he took my
conviction out by saying, But, Mr Butler, we are concerned
here with fatherhood, remember? That is hardly nonsense.
And I saw my father searching for fish in the floodwaters,
and if I didnt understand anything at all, that did not stop me
from wanting to understand, and from being seduced over
and over by the temptation that I could understand this or
that. So I cut through more of this rigmarole: Why does my
father search for fish? Is that his soul? Hearing this, Shaw
smiled and relaxed back in his chair, and said, knowing he
would surprise me: Oh no, Mr Butler. His mother. And it
did surprise me, but I saw my father fade away, little boy
looking into the water, and I said: Then that doesnt concern
me, Shaw. For the first time, Shaw showed an edge of
cunning, which I did not like at all: Ah but it does, Mr
Butler. You are his son. Repercussions, if you like. Now I
stood up, feeling goaded by Shaw, and turned away towards
the wall: That is abstract, Shaw. I live the repercussions, as
you call them. I see no point in analysing them separately
from the rest of my life. Shaw gazed up at me, appearing
unmoved, and he spoke softly, and with what I took to be
finality: But your mother, Mr Butler, in that case. I swung
on him, deliberately theatrical now I knew Shaws
limitations: You confuse levels, Shaw. He studied me,
thinking, then shook his head and lowered his eyes: Perhaps
I do, Mr Butler. He sighed, looking suddenly very stupid and
complacent at the limits of his understanding: Then why
have you come here, Mr Butler, if it was not to see your
304

father? I sat down again, calmly candid again: I dont know,

Shaw. I was brought here, and to forestall his glance at
Louise, I said, We were brought here. And I decided to
amplify, now that I knew I was beyond him: I know I call
this the Father Run, Shaw. Perhaps I have made that Run and
have learned from it. But please believe me when I tell you
that I feel, thats the best word I have, that this is only a
preliminary for some other experience, and that the route, as
it were, to this experience is through this city of the dead. I
paused to get his attention. Why do you think the city is
drowning, Shaw?
He took a pen from the inside pocket of his tunic and
made a short note in the file. Then he raised his glass,
indicating we should do likewise, and sipped, patting his lips
afterwards with a neatly pressed handkerchief. Yes. But we
will come to that in a moment, Mr Butler. Now he closed the
file and put it carefully to one side, reinserting a page which
slid out, and opened the second file, reading, Miss Louise
Grainger, twenty four. He paused and Louise said coldly,
Im twenty two. And Shaw smiled indulgently and said,
knowing he had a great shock in store for her: No, Louise,
you are not. You were born the ninth of February twenty four
years ago at St Briavals, the offspring of Miriam Spencer and
Martin Shaw. Louise sat up and looked hard at Miriam,
some of her old rage in her voice: Is that true, mother?
Miriam put the best face on it and said: Im afraid it is, my
darling. I caught Louises wrist and steadied her, seeing the
implications running through her mind too quickly, becoming
confused, and I thinking with unexpected irony that I had
been instrumental in murdering her father, and I said to her,
Not yet, Louise, and to Shaw: This is the fatherhood we are
305

concerned with? and he said, getting everyones attention,

Not entirely, Mr Butler. First, you were ashamed of your
father, yes? There you confused levels. I was glad of the
diversion from Louise, and I answered without much thought:
No, Shaw. Youre wrong again. My father went the way of
all men, the way I have gone getting old, thats all. I agree
that fathers are either remote, kinds of gods that will in any
case decline into ageing humanity, or if too familiar, then
emasculated men who induce sexual guilt in their sons.
Shaw raised his hand and interjected, The third kind, Mr
Butler, the gods who succeed in remaining gods, even into
old age. I interrupted him now, disliking the abstraction of
the argument: Who do not have sons, Shaw, only clones,
and I turned to Miriam and asked, What happened?
Tom was sitting in the armchair, very pale and quiet,
while I still restrained Louises wrist. Miriam sighed, stopped
the computer, opened her mouth, looked at what had
happened, and reluctantly resurrected the event: I was very
young, Richard. She sat on the arm of the chair beside Tom
and touched his hair: Tom, I havent told you this. I didnt
see the point. Now she looked at Louise: I was ashamed of
my foolishness, gullibility really. She looked at me again:
Cats, Richard? You understand that, dont you? I nodded.
And you, Louise? Louise nodded, and I released her wrist.
Tom? Tom sighed and nodded. Miriam settled her hands
together in her lap and spoke pensively, obviously trying to
choose her words carefully: You notice that Martin is
incidentally, Richard, it was I who wished him dead, but we
can discuss that later if you wish. Yes, that was the working
here, though only I and Simon Owle knew that. Actually, we
must discuss it later. However, I was going to say that Martin
306

was impotent, the victim, as you grasped, of a domineering

father, a man with a secret he believed himself impotent, I
suspect for much the same reason that Martin himself did.
Now, my father had caused the death of his wife, my mother,
shortly after I was born, by exposing her, accidentally, to the
return-shock after an operation in which he had used her
feminine energies. This is what he meant, Richard, when he
told you he had done evil and why he had tried to create
beauty, mostly in art, afterwards by way of atonement. I was
suddenly impatient, seeing a muddle of idiotic proportions,
Yes, Miriam, but what has all this to do with you and Shaw?
Are you going to tell me that your father allowed him, for no
obvious reason, to father Louise on you when you were,
what? little more than a child? Tom leaned towards me and I
switched the computer on and asked Shaw what happened
between him and Miriam:
I became Nicholas Spencers assistant in order to do
what he had failed to do, that is to reverse a female spirit.
Which means?
To capture a womans soul, Mr Butler.
Why?
Why? Isnt that obvious? Men spend their lives
pursuing women, cajoling them, mollifying them. What a
waste of energy. Old Spencer believed it need be done but
once and I succeeded in proving it true.
Did you not think that was callous, Shaw?
No. And dont tell me that women are human beings,
Mr Butler. We were concerned with higher matters. Please
maintain a sense of proportion.
And Simon Grainger?
307

Oh, that clumsy fool. His father received some

training, which I undertook at Old Spencers request, though
with some misgivings, but he was impatient and caused the
death of his first wife through his carelessness. He obviously
incited his son to try his hand at it.
How many wives has Grainger had, then? I
understood that Simon caused the death of his mother.
Oh no. She collapsed crossing a street in Bristol. But
young Simon had a hand in it in so far as he preyed upon an
already gravely weakened woman. Old Spencer retrieved
Miriam from his clutches once he realised how ill-prepared
Grainger was. His last wife we didnt know.
And didnt concern yourselves with, I assume. Tell
me, what was the point in Grainger marrying Miriam if you
had, as you believe, already stolen her soul?
The daughter, Louise. An unexpected side-product, as
it were, of the operation. He kept Louise because he was her
legal father.
But never succeeded in performing the operation?
No. Simon interfered with it, In fact, father and son
acted to cancel out one anothers power.
You know about Simons girlfriend?
Yes. That interested me. She was the victim of much
persecution at the hand of her father, simple brutality, and he
helped her commit suicide, hoping no doubt to capture her
soul. It didnt work, as you guessed.
And his operation of Rita?
No. That failed, Mr Butler, mostly I think because of
your intervention. That is why I tested that incident, I wanted
to be sure of your motives, because I think it is possible to
intervene in anothers operation in that way and capture the
308

soul. Now I believe you motives were altogether different. As

they are with Louise, though to be frank I dont understand
you at all.
There is no need, on our part, for you to understand,
Shaw. But tell us, what is the rationale of this theft of a
womans soul, other than the convenience of an unloving
man.
Love? You use that word a lot, Mr Butler. Believe me,
it is a confusion of the will. But the rationale is simple. It is
an attempt to return to the pristine hermaphroditic state. It is
not possible on the material level, but we, myself and my
Order, believe that it is possible at the spiritual level.
You obviously see no evil in that, Shaw. I mean, that
the consequences are not destructive.
In my experience, no. You see for yourself my power
on the spiritual plane. I am the virtual ruler of this city. A
second Solomon, Mr Butler. But one who not only
understands man, but who also has command of the souls of
women.
Would you explain the operational principle, as a
matter of academic interest.
Of course. The principle is simply reversal of the
dedication of the soul, which was common in ancient
civilisations, and to some extent still is in Roman
Catholicism, as you should know. In previous centuries, my
predecessors made the mistake of assuming that only a god
could reverse dedication, which led to the destruction of both
the agent and patient. Old Spencers advance was to see that a
man, using the proper powers, could do it on the human level.
And I succeeded in showing that it is practicable.
And what of the woman?
309

All soul-less beings die. But in this case, Miriams

soul enhances mine and my soul enhances hers. But you must
understand, Mr Butler, that souls are not simply our
possessions. There is the matter of bringing your soul out, as
it were, of making it aware of you. Few men do this though
you have done it, I grant that and fewer women do it. I
suppose the position of women in our western bourgeois
societies has blame in this. But among primitive peoples, all
men and women were encouraged to have conversation with
their guardian angel, as Crowley so quaintly termed it. And
while we are on this subject, I will credit you with attempting
to bring Mrs Graingers soul out and with succeeding in the
case of Louise. Would you care to explain why you have
bothered to do this?
Christine Ruthven?
Ah yes. You two had a profound understanding. Did
she help you?
Not to have conversation with my soul, but to
recognise my spirit.
Spirit? I dont understand the distinction between
spirit and soul, Mr Butler.
Its really a question of modes, Shaw. There is a basic
being, lets call it It. Contracted, It is soul, and expanded It
is spirit. As a matter of interest, in other modes, such as
projection, It is Will or Self, but there It is forced into the
realm of reflection and made subject to fear. Again, in
creativity It is communication, so that we may perceive its
essence.
All this is metaphysics, Mr Butler. How, for instance,
are these modes, as you call them, chosen and activated?
310

It responds very sensitively to our dispositions, that is,

to our profound direction, for the want of a better word. Thus,
if we ignore the spiritual level, It languishes and its
incarnation is wasted. If we are wilful, then It is used to
create the phenomenal world and is contaminated with
matter. If we are creative, then It gladly speaks to us, but only
to the extent of its development, thus the distinction between
great art and the lesser. If we recognise It itself, then It
contracts as soul and becomes a channel.
And spirit, Mr Butler? I see you pause deliberately.
If we subject ourselves to soul, then It expands as
spirit, and we expand likewise, for we are now spirit.
I have two questions, Mr Butler. One, as a matter of
interest, if we are content with soul, then what is the
outcome?
Happiness, even joy. Many are content with that.
And spirit?
I dont know, Shaw. My only experience of spirit is of
its expansiveness.
Very well. My second question is this, though I
already see the logic of your thought, how do we achieve
spirit?
Spirit as expansion is the guide of the soul, but not her
master; spirit serves to draw It, as soul, away from material
beauty. The woman, as living beauty for man, draws the soul
away from the material and so begins the mode of
expansion.
Does the man do this for the woman, Mr Butler?
I dont know. Perhaps Christine Ruthven can answer
that. But I think she was concerned with trying to expand a
mans soul, and may have felt no need for the expansion of
311

her own soul, or felt that she was already spirit. As I say,
Shaw, I dont know.
Louise?
Dick is too modest. We released our souls for one
another. Dick?
Yes. We did. We did, Louise.
This is an entirely different path, Mr Butler. I have
never studied it.
You dont need to study it, Shaw. If you had let
yourself find direction, it would have become obvious. Now,
may I ask you a final question?
Certainly.
Why, if you stole Miriams soul, is Miriam still
alive?
I think it had to do with the conception of Louise.
May I tell you what I think, Shaw?
Do.
Some other soul entered you, Shaw. And I can guess
who. I do not think it is possible to steal a soul. You may
enslave the soul of another by giving it direction, that is more
common than most people believe, but you cannot actually
take anothers soul, nothing in all being can do that, because
the soul is free. But another soul could choose, if it is
sufficiently developed, to enter another person.
More metaphysics, Mr Butler?
That is for you to decide. This is not a matter of belief,
but a matter of seeing, Shaw. How do you explain your
impotence?
I switched off the computer before the scarifying scene
could begin and said, Deflection of Will. The animosity of
the woman is truly fearsome.
312

Louise was kneeling on the floor over by the sofa, very

pale, trembling ever so slightly, and she said, Is that what
you intend for Simon?
Which Simon?
Grainger.
Oh no, Louise. I wanted to understand what he was
doing and so stop him. Thats all.
Miriam walked around the room, looking at her hands:
So when you told me I had my soul, you spoke the truth,
Richard?
I nodded and poured partly deflated champagne for
everyone.
Tom stretched, checked his watch, and drew the drapes
on the beginning of the dawn: And thats it, then?
I drank half of the champagne, remembering Shaws
disintegration and the destruction of his NJ: No. But it is
here, Tom. I looked from him to Miriam, and he nodded at
once and went over to her and embraced her. He was safe
with her now.
I knelt in front of Louise: Hows it going,
sweetheart?
She was stretched by the agony of comprehension, and
as I thought how irrelevant her suffering was, I saw her
suddenly relax, look intently at me, eyeball to unwavering
eyeball, and nod in agreement. I checked up through the
levels and saw the lines intact, dancing with our union,
impervious to earthly pain and confusion. So I said,
Lets go, Louise.
She rose up and put her arms around my shoulders,
resting her temple against mine: Shall we walk, Dick?
Yes. Why not? As good as any way.
313

We said goodbye to Miriam and Tom and went out by

the French windows into the cool garden, and walked with
the sun at our back towards the Dark Wood.
Tony, can I point out, here at the end of the ninth
notebook, that the interpretative elements in my account are
not intellectual, that is, merely structural conveniences, nor
are they culled from an obscure grimoire found in an old
bookshop in Bath. Terms like level, screen of light;
definitions of soul and spirit and the like have been
provided by my experiences, the words and definitions
coming into my mind as adjuncts of these experiences, and
indicate transformations of being rather than simply serving
as metaphors or symbols of arcane objects and states. This is
to be borne in mind especially in the account of Simon
Graingers working and its sequel. The city of New
Jerusalem is as real as any city, and even you, if you wished,
could journey there as much as you would to New York or
Tokyo. Again, the helicopters and trains are as real as they
are here, as real as Chariots of Fire or angels created for
heavy haulage.
As for the existence of souls, I would suggest that the
scoffers sit down in a quiet room and tell themselves as
seriously and intently as they can that they have no souls, and
then wait and see what happens to them. Our souls are in
touch with us all the time, whether we acknowledge them or
not.

314

THE PARADISE TAPE

I remember we made our way through the cool dawn to
that pool, and I washed the tears dried on my face and
generally renewed myself. But Louise already had that
fugitive look, pale after the night, and I embraced her
shoulders and asked her gently: Your father? She eased
herself free, looking at me with her stark eyes once, out of
courtesy, I think, then went back to staring at some point
down to the left, at the edge of the dark pond: No, Dick. I
havent absorbed that yet. She shivered in her short green
dress, body solid and raw underneath: you could see the
striving in it, but also its capability. The way he went, Dick.
The way the whole city went.
I sat on a rock by the pond, where Louise could see
me, my trousers were creased and badly stained with brine:
we should have changed. He simply returned to his own
soul, Louise. I mean, once your grandmother left him.
Louise put her right hand flat across her stomach: Like
a bird, Dick. A big white bird.
A skua, rising out of Shaws solar plexus, embracing
him with its wide, strong wings, harsh beak picking his face,
It wasnt real, Louise.
She shot me another glance: But the pain was, Dick.
I bowed my head, unable to share her sympathy with
the awful event: Yes. But there has to be a balance, it would
seem, Louise.
You mean the kind of hell experienced by those who
inflict pain and suffering?
315

Yes. I gestured, and noticed with the gesture that a

dog sat on the bridle path, watching us. I mean, Louise, not
merely because they inflict pain, but because the effect of the
action upon themselves. To hurt another is to betray yourself,
and hell is return to yourself in the knowledge of that
betrayal. I pointed and Louise turned and saw the dog.
Recognise him?
But Louise was gnawing her forefinger, thinking, and
she asked me: What about the injured person?
I filliped my fingers but the dog didnt move, just
continued staring at us in a way that caused me to shiver
suddenly. He or she must return to the soul, too, of course.
How they do that will be a source of relief or pain, depending
upon their attitude to the action.
Louise stared at me again, head tilted, seeing me from
the outside: But the pain was inflicted on the person, Dick.
Can that cause a second pain?
Louises staring at me made me realise how strange my
argument was there was no Christian justice in it, but I
shrugged and turned and looked at the dark water: Violence
is a relation, Louise. Nothing contrary can pass between
souls. Souls are free. I dropped a pebble into the pool and
watched the ripple radiate with its smooth circularity, then
dropped a second pebble further back, and watched its ripple
spread and intersect the first. Interference pattern. Yet the two
pebbles were dropping steadily to the bottom of the pond, to
join my other pebbles. I felt ignorant again and rubbed my
forehead with the heel of my palm. Louise was looking at the
dog now, and the dog showed more interest in her than it had
in me. My mind suddenly kicked levels and I said to Louise:
The bird concealed Shaw, you know, Louise. I felt
316

meanings converge: the correction of the soul, ripples

interfering, and the bird concealing, and I felt a sudden agony
at my ignorance and behind that a muted rage that it was
possible to know the truth, that it was necessary to know the
truth. So I said to Louise, her back turned to me:
Whats going to happen to you, Louise?
I was suddenly afraid that there might actually be a god
or something behind it all, a being that did the correcting
according to its standards. That would mean that the soul was
not free, except...
Louise had gone over and was patting the dog, the
backs of her knees bluish where the flesh was thin against
bone.
The deeper fear came then: that I and my soul were
separate and distinct, and that I could actually lose my soul,
that when it became spirit and returned to its origin I would
simply die, extinguished. Eyes closed, face in palm, elbows
resting on knees, I thought deeply in the guise of a feeling of
utter uselessness, until the word intelligibility came into my
mind, when I raised my head and looked at the surface of the
pond and saw that a life is in some real way like the radiant
ripple resulting from a stone hitting the surface of water, so
that life is at right angles to the descending stone, and that
any interference with the life-ripple cannot have a material
effect on the stone, soul. But while the soul cannot be
affected materially, it knows the intention in the other soul,
and it has the possibility of one of two responses: one is to
revenge, which is a betrayal of itself because it has identified
with the ripple it has caused, the material life, and the second
is to pity the other soul the hell awaiting it for its ignorance,
for its lapse of knowledge. What does the bird conceal? Leda
317

was a disguise, but she laid two eggs, one of love and one of
death, the gift of Zeus lust: pity permits sight.
If the world suffers, does Solomon? Or does Jehovah
for his lapse of understanding?
In the pond I saw, in the dark water, birds flying in the
water, brilliantly coloured kingfishers; one breathing, beak
tipping surface like a fish feeding, and I saw that love was
necessary. And I said to Louise, my back to her, witnessing
the birds flying in water: Shaw screamed because the wings
that embraced him were joyful love, a soul recognising
another soul, Louise. He dedicated his soul, unbeknownst.
Louise said, standing immediately behind me,
Congratulations, Dick, and I swung around and she was
there, smiling down at me, the dog standing at her side, a
smile of compassion, and I said, still seated, the old fear
coming back:
Are you real, Louise?
I knew that if she was not, I would have to die at once,
so I could be with her always.
Shall we rest somewhere in the sun, darling? I
wouldnt mind a few hours sleep.
The dog led, keeping close to Louise, wanting its long
hair to graze her stark thigh, and I followed, too expanded on
knowledge to do more than follow. And the dog found us the
perfect spot, deep in the wood, a glade of tall grass backed by
dark sycamores, the buzz of wasps and bees already, the
scintillation of butterflies, but no birds as usual, and we lay
out in the dry warm grass, buttercups here and there, the early
sun on our faces, Louise to sleep, me to finish my account of
Shaws recognition of love, which for me put a value on his
death by magic.
318

I wish now that Ritas death could have been given

equal value, Tony, but perhaps because I am a man I did not
understand her condition as clearly as I did Shaws, and so
did not, do not, know how it is to be corrected. Perhaps I
failed her because I did not want to see her hurt.
I lay down then to rest for a while, I on one side of
Louise, the dog on the other, in the warming sun. I did not
sleep, over-tired, and instead slipped into a hypnogogic
trance, random images until I heard my fear on the outside,
screaming in confused voices to be let back in. Some grace
keeps my ego at bay for now, but I must watch for its return
and prevent it exacting revenge for its exclusion.
When Louise awoke, she rolled over to me and put her
palm on my cheek, whispering in a distant voice, Hello,
Dick, and I touched her shoulder, to feel her actuality, and
responded, Hello, Louise, and then she came on rolling to
me, and her body had a hard form, skin slick smooth from
exposure. Our passion was attenuated under the big blue sky,
compressed by the sun and its light, and my penis was cold
on the surface and too hot within, her vagina hot and cold in
the same way, but our arousal was all the more intense for
that, our hands clutching at hard flesh under our clothes, and I
knew without doubt that this was the last time.
Our poignancy afterwards proved this intuition, and we
were both dewy eyed and tender, feeling all the time the
intrusion of the world, the grass, the trees, sky and sun, the
dog watching us, muzzle resting on its forepaws. Then we
broke apart abruptly, standing to straighten our clothes,
brushing grass from one another, embracing even as we felt
something tug us apart. We stood apart then, aimless, both I
319

know thinking that getting the car and going back to Bristol
would make no difference now, and yet unsure what was to
be done next. So I asked her if she had retrieved the little
black box from Shaws interrogation room, Ive run out of
notebook. She produced it, put in a new disc, and gave it to
me to clip to my belt. Then she rummaged in her bag of tricks
and produced a tiny mic on a chain, which she placed around
my neck we both smiled at this and plugged it into the
box, running the thin lead down my chest and out between
buttons of my shirt at my waist. We tested it and I gave an
account of events since coming into the wood, and it was
during this that I noticed the oddity about Louises behaviour,
which I decided to broach:
Louise, why did you act as though you didnt
understand what happened to Shaw and then congratulate me
when I had thought it through?
She glanced at the dog and I said in reaction: Are you
working this, Louise?
She slumped and said in a tight defensive voice: No. I
said this is not magic, Dick. And I cut in again and repeated
an earlier question, Whats going to happen to you, Louise?
That fugitive look reappeared, somewhat to my satisfaction
because it showed me a base-line and she gestured vaguely
with her right hand: I dont know, Dick. Honest. But I feel as
you did, when you showed me that cliff in Ireland. She
looked at me with reaching affection, and I felt the bond
suddenly, I mean, as though Im going to jump into the
ocean. She paused to let that sink in and then asked me,
And you?
I frowned, searching in myself, and said, Mostly
bemused. I cant think, for some reason, Louise. I smiled,
320

trying to get some of my old speed up: Im trying very hard

to be ready.
With that, we both started walking, the dog between
us, sometimes grazing my leg, sometimes Louises. Both of
us were waiting for something to happen, both reluctant to
jump levels, to pre-empt what was going to be done to us.
The wood was not dark, given the bright sun, and we seem to
weave between stands of trees, through irregular meadows of
deep tawny grass, land undulating and not at all demanding.
We walked in silence, in a kind of daze in fact, with no sense
of time or distance. I became hungry, but water from a stream
assuaged this. Then we sighted Tom and Miriam, Tom
leading a mare upon which Miriam rode naked, her flanks
and thighs smooth and bright in the sun, and we watched
them thread their way down the centre of a long meadow
between stands of oak and beech. I said to Louise in a low
voice, as though not to disturb the scene: Miriam is as
beautiful as I thought, and Louise nodded pensively and
replied:
Too beautiful, for some reason, Dick.
I remembered Miriam saying that the circumstances of
her birth, which I now suspect she misunderstands, had given
her some powers, powers she never specified, and in
remembering this, I realised that Louise had been born in
similar circumstances. I looked at her, my eyes hard in the
way I had seen both Louises and Miriams, and wondered
what powers she had. And I wondered about the
circumstances of my own birth, the love child, and wondered
what disposition I had received. Louise returned my look at
first quizzically and then the hard look came, and I felt the
frisson, as though something solid passed between us.
321

I said across the stare: But you are perfect, Louise.

And she dropped levels, smiling decently, and said
disarmingly, Only to you, darling. So I nodded to convey
significance, and asked, As a matter of curiosity, Louise,
what am I to you? At the same time I realised that we had
not really dropped out of last nights events, the evening with
Tom and Miriam notwithstanding, and I hunted back for the
point of entry, seeing Louise in her black police jump-suit at
this level, and everything then in my life took on a curious
clarity, my whole life lived in some way I had access to now
at the level of meaning equal to New Jerusalem and the
strange morality of souls, my whole life of ignorant fumbling
self-restraint suddenly a steady expansion of inclusion, places
visited for grace or to place a marker in a complex tapestry,
people encountered as souls seeking or giving charge, or
assisting or being assisted in the fulfilment of occult tasks,
my whole life a diligent preparation for some moment or
purpose. Then I saw that pain is ignorance, a not-knowing
for when you know, pain has purpose, a particular mode of
learning and that we do have the choice to stop learning if
the lesson is too hard, to return and start again at some other
point; that it was that choice that made great suffering
possible, that made great learning possible, because we were
always above the pain, holding the power of choice and at the
same time learning.
Louise smiled warmly for the first time in days and
said simply, Love, darling. Love and courage. And I saw
that our choice of suicide was also a lesson in our greatest
fear, our greatest test when the moment came. So I nodded
and said, Youre right, Louise, over the cliff and into the
sea. And Louise relaxed visibly and held her arms open and
322

I saw us, I think metaphorically, embraced and plunging one

hundred feet into the boiling Atlantic Ocean under Mount
Brandon.
When you allow the possibility of doing it, then you
are ready for the test. To surrender your life is to say you
have learned what you came to learn and are ready to go on
to the next stage.
We went on, through meadows, sometimes along
woodland paths, sunlight in shafts and bursts among the trees,
and the dog walked between us, seemingly proud to be in our
company, one of the gang. And nothing happened. And we
walked on, not tiring, the landscape changing all the time, but
the sun seemed to remain at about three oclock in the
afternoon, heat pleasantly brazen, but not cooling. Louise
didnt seem to notice; she walked with face upraised to the
sun, sometimes stroking the dogs mane, sometimes trailing
her hand in the nodding grassheads. But I began to deflate, a
suspicion slipping in across the lowering boom of intensity,
and the suspicion whispered: Who wants you dead, Butler?
I let the suspicion in and I saw some program running: I was
being keyed for something I might hopefully misread when it
came. Anger rose in reflex, but another part of me, eternally
cool, whispered: Now you see why theres always a serpent
in the garden? Anger produced impatience which in turn
triggered habitual self-restraint, and suddenly I wondered if
these thoughts were mine at all, and I feared especially deep
interference this time. But there was not sufficient business
afoot to discern inconsistency, the trees and meadows were
both same and different without however any anomaly.
The only new thing was the dog, which had shied away
from me in the beginning and which I suspected suffered my
323

presence only on account of Louise, and which had effected a

significant change in Louises disposition that morning. So I
asked Louise, Do we have a name for the dog?, realising at
the same time that we had saved it from the mire, from
drowning. I was beginning to skitter, having to work all this
out discursively, that plain of reflection with its shifting
horizons, where and and is dont necessarily make real
connections. Louise looked at our companion, who seemed
not to know we were speaking about him, and answered: Do
we need one, darling? And I looked at her closely, sensing
the distance in her, which I thought at first was
uncharacteristic of her but which I at once realised I simply
had not attended to before. I said, trailing my skittering
suspicion before her, We saved it from drowning, you
know. I bit down on the utterance, hoping to force an insight
from it, but only achieved the discursive analysis that
suggested some kind of inverted symmetry: we save the dog
from drowning, now it guides us to our cosmic drowning, or
else will save Louise, it being closer to her, and leave me to
go down the cosmic drain, and so replace me at her side. The
idea threatened to continue growing and I wondered just who
or what the dog was, knowing that in the cosmic narrative the
dog guards secrets and protects hell. When Louise didnt
answer, I thought it best to expose more of my suspicion:
Someone is working this, Louise. Who do you think it
is?
This time Louise didnt simply assure me it wasnt
magic; she stopped and turned to me: Why do you think that,
Dick? Louise wasnt afraid, she seemed to be exercising
patience with me, so I tried to jump levels, to find leverage
somewhere. Nothing happened. I remained standing facing
324

Louise, the dog a few yards further along our route, looking
back at us. But, and this I found significant, my mind wasnt
doing its usual floating about either, running images in
speculation; my mind, I felt, simply was not there; someone
or something else was playing this suspicion through me. The
only movement in me was my anger; the only volition, my
self-restraint: so I nulled my volition, and immediately rage
swamped me, the voices I had heard earlier from afar now
exploded in my head, incoherent but loud and urgent.
I sat down in the grass, head in hands, listening closely.
The voices were demented, but I think only appeared so; in
detail it seemed as though a number of voices, each
compressed until only the higher pitches were audible and
these tones then run together, the whole ensemble a
cacophony of confused phasing rather than confused tones. I
was so taken by this that I forgot why they had broken in; in
other words, my anger was deflected once again, I realised
into a search for truth. Even so, the voices raged on,
sometimes threatening to overwhelm me so that I might break
into an incoherent babble myself, yet this never happened:
they would gang up on me and I would tell them to come on
then, and they would babble but retreat again. Then I realised
that they were terrified; the voices were driven insane by a
terror that caused the compression. I found, when I looked up
at Louise, that if I shifted my attention from them they
disappeared, lost in the bright interference of my sight.
I got to my feet, bemused again, feeling now the
emptiness in my head and, when I looked around, the
vacancy in the so-called Dark Wood. So I said to Louise,
Im sure there are better things to do, Louise. Lets go back
to Bristol. Louise simply nodded, and as I turned, to retrace
325

our path, of course, she receded from me, light flaring from
behind the trees, and it struck me that I didnt know how to
get out of the wood. I lost my temper then and shouted at
Louise for the first time, How do we get back to the car?
She shrugged and said, I dont know, Dick. Honest. I got
more angry, not afraid, as I would have expected, and wanted
to do something, to create some business in Eden, so I picked
on the dog, and went over to it, hunkered down and asked it
for its name. The word Galileo popped into my mind, and I
swung and asked Louise if she had heard it. When she shook
her head, I told her: Says its name is Galileo. What sort of
name is that, Louise? She came over, interested now, and
asked, The scientist? I gave the dog a hard look and it
returned the look in the way a dog ordinarily would not, and
it said in my mind, What the name means, which is of
Galilee, of course, who is Jesus, and I said, Christ? and
Louise said, alarmed, What?, so I said to the dog, Who is
working you, Galileo? and in response I saw Jason talking to
Shaw in the pub. I said to Louise, Do you ever confuse
Jonas name, Louise? I mean call him by some other name at
times? But my mind jumped and I remembered why Jonas
was swallowed by the whale and what Jason did: Jason was
the active form of Jonas, and I called Jonas Jason when he
was actively working. Louise said, No, really puzzled now,
and I said Jonas is working this. He was with Shaw in that
pub, remember. They worked together on this New Jerusalem
thing. I paused, remembering something else now and
added: Remember how this trip started, Louise? We played
Jonas game and drove into the well in the Temple. You
remember that?
326

It was Louises turn to sit down in the grass. I was

happier now that I had broken into the working, so I asked
Galileo where he was taking us; but he replied that he didnt
know, so I lost my temper again and shouted at him: Then
what the hell are you doing here? And Louise told me not to
shout at the dog, that he was only a dumb animal. So I asked
the dog more gently who had placed him in the wood, and it
was silent, nothing but darkness in my mind. So I leaned
forward, giving him another hard look and repeated my
question, and still no answer. I said to Louise, He wont tell
me who placed him here. Obviously, Jonas didnt and I dont
think this was Shaws area of operation.
Louise got up and came over and stroked the dogs
head, saying soothing things to it. To me she said in an overly
casual voice: Perhaps if we just go on, Dick. I frowned,
thinking we could go on for ever, and retorted: Why,
Louise? She sat down beside the dog and the dog said in my
mind, I must protect this one, and he looked at Louise.
From whom? From me? I asked it, and the word came
Yes. That shocked me and gave me a clue what I was in for.
Louise said, Its the best thing, Dick.
So I said, getting annoyed again, the whole social
fabric I had constructed over thirty years going to pieces,
Why, Louise? I mean if this is just another working?
Perhaps you are analysing too much, Dick.
Louise was trying not to hurt my feelings, but of course
that is precisely what she did: My analysing, as you call it,
got us through the other working, didnt it?
And she said gently: Did it? Did it make much
difference, Dick?
327

I twisted my mouth wryly and slumped, thinking hard,

of course, so I said: But Jonas doesnt know enough, Louise.
How can I trust him?
In answer, Louise touched the dogs head, for it to go
with her, and in reaction I saw Rita and Simon playing
mother and son, and I remembered Rita saying that she would
kill any woman who came near him, and of course sought the
symmetry with Simon and jumped to a conclusion that was
false: Simon would kill any man who came near his mother.
No, he would kill the woman if any man came near her:
dancing with Sarah in the club; dancing with Rita too.
I danced with Louise, too. So I said telepathically to
the dog, Simon? and I saw Simon driving with his father
through a suburb of west London, to judge by the architecture
and general flatness, each with murder in his heart. Then,
once again, I didnt understand anything, and I got up and
followed Louise and Galileo. I was tempted to ask her for the
truth about her and Simon, but I knew I had pushed my luck
as far as I could go there, so I kept my mouth shut and
followed them down the meadow, oak and beech trees edging
the grass, sun shining from upper left, sky blue to the
horizon. I was completely at a loss.
We walked for I dont know how long, sometimes
along wooded paths, sometimes in the open, and I suspect my
consciousness dropped out for long periods, certainly I
thought of little or nothing, the odd wisp of my earlier
suspicion, the odd attempt at appreciating the woodland. I
tried to get bedlam up again at one point, but silence, even
my anger seemed to have evaporated.
Then a new suspicion: perhaps this was all my own
working. Happy to have something to think about, I dived on
328

the suspicion and worked through it. It looks as though I had

worked on Simon, and perhaps on Rita. Why? Louise, of
course. I had even worked on Grainger, using Miriams
drawing. And I had worked, beneficially it seems, on Miriam.
So far so good, except when I trace the chain of events back,
I saw Louise reading that Greek magical incantation, and my
theory collapsed into the more concrete suspicion that Louise
had been working me all along. The dog protecting her: the
denouement approaching. She had no more use for me, for
my love and courage her words.
So there we were, at last. It looks as though I was
instrumental in solving a lot of problems for her, including
her own. Actually, I didnt mind too much. Ive always
nursed the feeling that I was too old for her: when she is only
forty one, Miriams age, I will be sixty nine, as old as Simon
Owle seems to be. I became practical then, having no choice,
and realised there was the makings of an interesting novel in
the notebooks, with some decent dialogue. I could rework the
more hocus-pocus elements, they would easily translate into
more acceptable conceptual terms, and the trips could be
placed in other countries or worked as straight fantasy. That
mollified me, especially my experiences with Louise, which
would transcend the usual romantic/sexual guff of the
modern novel, and then Louise broke my thought by asking
me if I had any money. I grabbed in my back pocket and
pulled out an assortment of Toytown notes and counters that
pass nowadays for money and showed her, and saw beyond
her shoulder a neat little English village, the usual brittle
redbricked council houses, one or two older stone houses, and
a pub partly hidden by a huge oak tree.
329

Tea? I asked her. I wasnt hungry but a jolt of

caffeine would work wonders. Louise raised her brows and
said, Tea? Oh we can have that when we get in. We need
bread and I didnt bring any money with me.
I left Louise to go to the little village shop, on the other
side of the pub and even more hidden by the great oak. There
is a village story about a hero or prince who hid in the oak to
avoid capture by his enemies, with enough magic and
enchantments in the story to make me wonder how old it is. I
went into our landlords garden, and as usual I stopped to
examine his pond, especially the curious slabs of mud that
float on the water and the, rather indistinct, creatures that
produce these slabs as a side product of their burrowing in the
bottom of the pond. I noticed the landlord in his bedroom,
sitting in front of a vanity mirror in his knickers, so I asked
him about the creatures, and he answered by asking me if I
could see his shark, which is four feet long. I studied the
pond for a few minutes and I was rewarded with a view of a
large pinkish fish swimming away from me. Are sharks pink?
Anyway, I told him I had seen it and he was very pleased.
The cottage we rent from him is partly stone, very old,
with an extension made of what looks like packing cases.
Comfortable enough in the summer, but I never plan to stay
long in these places so I can tolerate the imperfections.
Mother was there, on a short visit, and she told me she had
been given a present of a cat; sure enough, a beautiful goldenfurred cat sat nobly in front of the fireplace. Apparently only
three years old, so mother will have it as a companion for a
long time. Then she introduced me to the donors, three
teenage girls, who sat side by side on the settee, each with
bright red hair and very white skin, but each also remarkably
330

plain, which I think I reacted to in too obvious a way. The

cats name, mother told me then, is Pussins, though one of
the girls called it Poussins as though to correct mother. I
said it was an original name, which seems to be part of the
fetish about cats, and the youngest of the girls got up and
came over to me, an attractive aura to compensate for her
features, and she smiled, perhaps because I appreciated their
gesture to mother, and I saw that she had fish-like teeth,
many narrow pointed teeth, all crowded together. Naturally, I
was repulsed by this, a bit shocked really, but not frightened,
though perhaps apprehensive, and in reaction I told mother
about the shark in the landlords pond. That frightened her
more than the oddity of the girls teeth did me, and all three
girls smiled at the mention of the shark, and I saw that the
other girls also had fish teeth.
I excused myself then, I was smelling fairly strongly
after our adventures, and ran a bath and soaked for ages,
mind drifting in the heavy silence, a bit of a headache over
my eyes, perhaps because of the strong sunlight that day.
Mother had taken the cat for a walk down the little lane that
passes the side of the cottage and so I invited the girls to have
tea with me. It started with tea and some scones; I found then
we had bread, so I opened a tin of salmon and they fixed a
salad, made more tea, and the four of us got tucked into the
food. They were very quiet, which I liked in them, with a
curious flat intent, friendly but not outgoing, and I wondered
just where they fitted into the cosmical scheme, three graces?
I couldnt remember anything about a trio of fish girls, least
of all a fish trio bearing a golden cat. Anyway, I soon gave up
on that, perhaps Louise is right, I analyse too much, and I
331

limited myself to noises appreciating the food to keep things

going.
It was only after they had gone, disappearing like a
flash out the door once the food had gone, that I realised I
was naked. The girls hadnt minded, and as it was still warm
in the room, I didnt bother dressing and wondered around for
a while, looking at book titles and testing to see if I wanted
some music. I found something I hadnt seen before, a book
of cartoons, brightly coloured, the sort of thing evangelical
societies produces to preach the word to semi-literates. So I
took that to my desk and read it, relieved to be back on
station, yellow roses nodding out in my garden. The book
told the story of a good man, and his goodness was heavily
emphasised, and his travels in what was called the Warm
Lands, represented by deserts, scrublands, and the gleaming
buildings of India. The goodman was dressed in nineteenth
century style, heavy clothes in the tropics, and he seemed to
have been one of those evangelical English clergymen who
preached Christianity around the middle east and the orient.
Curious book in some ways: the goodman did little more than
preach in these warm lands, and a good deal of his balloon
talk and the commentary was concerned with the book of
Tobit, how old Tobit was blinded by sparrow droppings and
his sight restored by fishgall, and how his son, Tobias,
married Sarah, whose previous seven husbands had been
murdered by a demon who loved her, and whom Tobias
chases off with the smoke of the heart and liver of the same
fish. This part interested me, symmetries again, bird-fish and
demon-fish, and especially when I noticed that Tobias is
always accompanied by a dog in the cartoons, a dog
moreover that does nothing but accompany him. That of
332

course set me thinking and pretty soon I was bogged down in

contradictions, Galileo is with Louise, for one thing, and had
to accept with the best grace that the message of this cosmic
comic eluded me too.
Louise still hadnt come from the shop, so to pass the
time I replayed part of the tape, if only to get a flavour of
what is going on. Synchronicity, no doubt, but I started the
tape at the point where I cautioned myself about the return of
the ego, and I realised I had promptly forgotten that caution,
because the ego had returned in no uncertain manner and as a
result I had been short with Louise and extremely
domineering with the wretched dog. I wasnt much good at
controlling myself, was I, and I made that fatuous claim for
the power of my analysis. I suppose the point here is that this
is what I am, proud and angry, not spoiled though, as some
have said, or selfish, or at least I hope not. The way I see it is
this: I dont know myself, I am to myself an abyss I try not to
fear, and so I do not expect anyone else to know me either,
nor do I expect to know anyone else. Attractions and
antipathies among people come from this depth, and the most
we can do is conduct our relationships in ways best suited to
enhancing ourselves and those we are drawn to, without ever
fully knowing all that is communicated or achieved. We can
only strive for this enhancement, which may have something
to do with either giving this abyss in us expression and so
perhaps helping to fill it, or else it learns something vital
from these relationships.
The business with Rita began to bother me again, and
in the knowledge that I could do nothing else but pray for her,
I decided I would dress and go down to the pub, Ye Olde
Oak, of course, and have a drink and a chat. Our local GP
333

was out in his garden and I paused to compliment him on his

roses. This pleased him very much, and when I told him
about the roses in my garden in Epsom, he invited me in and
gave me a detailed account of his various specimens. At one
point, I was becoming overwhelmed with facts, I had to
confess that I knew very little about rose varieties and their
characteristics, which surprised him very much, and he stared
at me with a kind of ambiguous wonder that I should love
something so much and yet not trouble myself to study the
subject. His wife came out then and joined us in the garden
and he told her about my peculiarity. I felt obliged to defend
myself and told them that the colour, scent and form of the
flower were significant for me, and that I bought plants,
which I do very rarely, in order to satisfy a desire for a colour
or a scent and never bothered with Latin names or
derivations. His wife was delighted by this, the husband still
dubious, and as she had come out to bring her husband in for
tea, she invited me to join them.
Their house is a large pre-war bungalow, a lot of
brown-wood finish, standing opposite to the pub, and shaded
in the morning by the oak tree. They have two daughters,
aged about nineteen and seventeen, and a son aged about
fifteen or so. All are plump, fair haired, plain but very hearty,
and we were all at ease with one another very quickly, I
striving to charm to overcome the tendency of their plainness
and the flatness of the decor to deflate me. We had tea and
fruit cake, which I ate though I was not very hungry, and they
were a surprisingly warm people and very tactile, which was
a relief. We chatted easily, much joking and laughter, and
after we had eaten, the husband produced a bottle of gin and
gave each of us a measure in our teacups, which they all think
334

is a great joke. It was their cheeriness I liked most, for their

continuous up and up allowed me to forget what appeared in
me a sadness or, better still, a poignancy, a feeling that I
would never now be blessed with their innocence.
Afterwards, the son invited me to climb the hill behind
the village, and going out I noticed with relief that the sun
was setting. The slope was sandy, very tricky at times, I
slipped a lot, though the gradient was easy. Near the top,
however, the slope became steeper and I floundered, though
the son seemed to have no trouble, and I feared I would not
be able to climb to the crest, but the sand was unaccountable
frozen at the top and so solid enough to climb. I was relieved
to have managed it and I began talking, until shushed by a
couple already sitting side by side on the crest. Looking up I
saw why: below us was a broad lake bounded by a conical
hill which was connected by a col to a high mountain on my
right. The mountain I knew at once to be Mount Zion, which
the sheer slopes rising from the north end of the lake
confirmed for me. Therefore the conical hill was the Temple
Mount, the Temple itself visible at its foot, to the left, with
the Observatory on its summit distinctive even from here, the
central squared tower with lesser squared towers abutting
each face and surmounted by a copper pinnacle. The sun
itself was coppery now, and this enhanced the pinnacle, a
gleam of gold at its peak glinting brilliantly, and the Temple
below was agleam with a variety of colours, ruby and
turquoise most prominent from where were we stood. The
slopes of the hill were in shadow, excepting the most
prominent ridges, the trees a very deep green against the buff
stone, a pleasant combination reminding me of cool water on
a very hot day. But Zion was brightly lit, with all the
335

aloofness of high peaks, the sun brilliant on the reddish stone

of its flanks, the snow at the peak scintillating. The mountain
looked inviting, but its approached appeared arduous and
barren, and would require a lot of exploration first. The lake
was pure aquamarine in the shadow of the hill, flecked
copper and white elsewhere, all smooth, serene in the still
warm evening. I could see where it narrowed to the head of
the River Jordan, a long boat entering the river even as we
looked, oars gleaming rhythmically as it clipped along.
Below us, many of the villagers were relaxing on a
little sandy beach by the lake, and we could hear their
laughter and shouting, children charging about among the
adults. A number of boats were being sailed off the shore,
one in particular had a fine sail of red and skimmed along
with its prow cutting the glassy water into abrupt white foam.
I could see one person swimming frog-like deep in the water.
We sat there for a long time in the setting sun, silent, gazing
at the view. The great bell of the Temple sounded across the
lake, perhaps to mark the advent of night, and we heard the
broad boom of echoes from various parts of the slopes of
both of the hill and the mountain. Strangely, what struck me
strongly this evening was the absence of birds; it would have
delighted me to see swallows chasing flies in the evening, or
see patterns of birds high up making their way back to their
nests, and I missed birdsong in the grass, the sudden darts
that used to fill the air in the summer. We went down to the
lakeside then, most of the villagers had left, except for the
young couples, and we walked along the beach, again in
silence, taking the cool ozone-rich air. I spent a while looking
into the water, then studying the patterns the dancing lights of
the red sun made on the surface, patterns Im afraid I could
336

not read as they were not intended for me. Once again, I
experienced that poignancy, as though the door to this world
would soon be closed for me, for much as I hated the material
world for its pain and confusion, I deeply loved it for its
beauty, especially such beauty as this, a serene lake at the
foot of a proud mountain, one enhancing the other.
Leaving the beach we heard music from the Temple
down the lake, brazen wind music, a celebratory anthem of
sorts, and as we looked a fire sprang up, lighting the Temple
walls and throwing long scarlet rays across the water towards
us. The son said, The Vigil of the Emperor, smiling happily,
light from the water reflecting on his face, and then he led me
into the lane that runs around the ridge we had climbed and
up to the village. The evening meal was almost ready, and the
oldest daughter indicated the place set for me at the table. I
thanked her for the courtesy and after washing up sat with the
father in the front room drinking dry sherry until the meal
was announced. It was a full-scale Sunday dinner, soup first,
then roast lamb, roast potatoes, three vegetables, and a rich
thick gravy made from the meat juices and fats. Everyone ate
with intent gusto at first, but the fullbodied wine, local
vineyard, soon loosened us up and the meal became a jolly
extended affair, seconds and then third helping, and enough
meat and wine remaining to keep us at the table for a further
hour or so, chatting, chewing meat with contentment, and the
ease to savour the intricate flavours of the wine. Afterwards
we had fruit, pears for me, and strong coffee, which we all
took into the front room when the younger daughter reminded
her parents of a film about to be shown on television.
Coincidentally, it was a documentary about the goodman
whose life I had read that afternoon in the cartoon book. He
337

had come from this village, a relation of the family I was

with, and the opening sequences of the film showed the
village, a shot of the cottage I was renting he had some kind
of connection with it and then we all cheered when the
family bungalow appeared on the screen, looking very pretty
surrounded by roses. An actor played the goodman, and there
were many sequences of him preaching in his heavy clothes
in the Warm Lands, but what surprised me was that the
Biblical thread of his sermons differed completely from that
in the book. Instead of Tobit, most of the quotations came
from Ecclesiastes, which the family attended to with pious
respect, though the book is repetitious, and were very cheered
when the goodman told a group of Indian villagers that bread
is made for laughter, wine gladdens life, and money answers
everything, and I was dismayed by old Solomons
observations, especially what seems his fatalism in one who
was promised so much by his God: He has made everything
beautiful in its time, also he has put eternity into mans mind,
yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from
beginning to end.
We had more tea and gin, which is a combination the
whole family enjoys, rather than it being a way of taking their
spirits surreptitiously, and I found myself in a deep sofa
between the mother and the son, telling them about an
amusing seminar I was persuaded to attend in the English
department of the University of Sussex, when Louise came
in. I was momentarily apprehensive in case she went stiff in
the face of our mellow jolliness, but she sat with the older
sister and pretty soon they were lost in an animated
conversation. I was relieved to see that she too could forget
our condition for this one evening at least. We walked back
338

to the cottage afterwards side by side, silent in the dark, and I

felt I ought to resist saying anything to her about how much I
had enjoyed the evening with the family, I think because,
unlike me, Louise had never experienced that kind of close
family intimacy. We crashed out on the big bed, splayed
everyway, and slept until well into the dawn.
We were groggy next morning, both a bit irritable,
though my affection for her soared behind my crabbiness,
knowing this was the first time we had slept together and
shared the privacies of the morning. I tried to show this
affection in little ways, touching her, caring for what she did,
catching her eye, and I felt affection return from her in the
form of a soft warm wind that caressed me and made me very
happy, so that we began to snigger at our grumpiness, yet
without fully breaking from the mood. The GP came with his
horse and trap soon after breakfast, and I dressed in a clean
scarlet shirt and white trousers and Louise in a clean green
minidress, and after I had wired myself up, we set off in the
trap away from the village northeast up a track towards a
ridge extending from the eastern hills. We were glad of the
lift, because the slope was long though not steep, wearying
rather than tiring to climb, and he brought us up to the ridge,
the trees giving way to a small moor. He got down with us,
looking very solemn this morning, and shook our hands with
ceremony, and I saw the look on his face that one contented
to believe will give to one who has to know, for good or ill,
that mixture of contempt, respect, and outright fear that
perhaps belief is not enough after all. But we were kind to
him and shared a last chat, complimenting him on his family
and home, assuring him we had enjoyed his hospitality the
previous evening. We stood watching him as he set off down
339

the track, waving when he looked back, feeling sorry in some

way for him, that he was willing to be content with the
compensations of good living.
It was only when the good doctor had gone that I
realised that Galileo was missing. I said to Louise, The
dog?
Gone. When we reached the village. She was trying
to reduce the significance of this: It did that before, Dick.
Remember?
I nodded, and seeing that she was measuring my
response, I decided that this was a good time to have a talk.
So I settled into the bracken, wrapped my arms about my
knees to brace myself and began: Louise, we must discuss
this now. I dont think well have another chance. I didnt
know what lay over the ridge yet, but all I could see was
Mount Zion raised directly in front of us. We could go no
further than the sheer wall at the end of the lake, a few miles
away. Louise obligingly sat down opposite me, and I
continued once she had settled herself: This is not analysis,
but questions I cant help raising in me. Louise, what are we
doing? You say it is not magic, and Ive gone along with that,
now tell me what it is, will you.
Louise adopted a serious-talk face and stared at the
ground between us, as though thinking out her answer: All I
can say, Dick, is that I feel that it is not magic, that is, in my
experience of magic. Whatever is driving us along, it is not
coming from outside us.
I nodded, but felt little wiser who says feelings cant
be deluded? Louise spoke again before I had a chance to
reply: Dick, may I say this? What bothers you, it seems to
me, is that you cant see the outcome of this. Am I right? I
340

think you said something about context once; well, you cant
find a context for whats happening, and you have been
searching around for one. Can you see that? I nodded,
feeling the abstraction of her argument distracting me. Ill
tell you how I see it, and I mean see. That night we danced,
remember? I felt myself to be all alone in an immense void. I
was very frightened, I mean, really frightened. But I let it
happen because I love you, trust you. Then the next night you
took me to bed and made love to me. Remember? When you
did that, I saw a little light away off in the darkness, and the
instant I saw that light, I knew I was shooting towards it.
Thats how I feel, darling, except now I feel that light is very
close.
I was shaken by how close this was to my own
experience that night. (I am very vulnerable to this kind of
shock because I am not a believer.) I answered candidly: I
had a similar vision that night, in fact the same vision. But,
Louise, and I emphasise this, I dont feel it now. Now I feel
an approaching darkness, that is going to engulf me. Do you
understand that, its important? I waited until she nodded,
then continued: I feel that everything, that includes you and
my love for you, is becoming meaningless, a kind of
mockery. I feel that the more deeply I enter whatever this is
the more sceptical I become of it. I stopped then, because I
had said far more than I had expected to say. And Louise
waited, sitting patiently gazing at me. I decided to go on
speaking, rather than trying to think it out first: Because of
this scepticism, Louise, I feel a growing temptation to act
wilfully, to do something to totally destroy what is going on.
Yes, I know that I would destroy whatever is good in me by
doing so, and yes, I know this is my ego or everyday self
341

trying to save itself, but with this increasing emptiness in me,

in my feeling and, well, imagination, I have less and less
reason to resist the desire of my ego. You see, Louise, Im
losing control of myself in one way or another. On one side
my intuition, which I have used to protect and enhance my
for the want of a better word being for over thirty years, is
failing, and on the other my ego, my self-indulgence, is
pressing to fill the vacuum in me. My fear is that I will end
up with no way of resisting my ego. I gave Louise the hard
look, Now, Louise, I dont mind too much for my part, I
suppose Im about ready for trying this, but you, you are only
twenty four, and Im afraid that I might damage you. There.
I think I managed to say it: I could try for a self-destruct kick,
all my work done, but Louise was only starting out in life,
plenty of time for her to choose a similar track without being
dragged into one by me. So I concluded, perhaps sounding a
much deeper desire, born of disposition or habit, to go it
alone: If this must be done, Louise, I mean if we have set
this working going ourselves, then I will do it alone and take
my chances with it. But you should pull out now, the risk is
too great.
Louise eyes went hard at that and she said decisively:
No, Dick. This cant be done alone. Havent you realised
that? She let that sink in, and I smiled, suddenly very
relieved and happy, glad behind all conscience that we were
going down together, that Louise thought I was worthy of her
life. She enhances me immeasurably, and I doted on her in a
shameless way. She began to smile, and I saw the same
doting, fascinated, look come into her eyes, but she shook her
head and said in a practical voice, You see, Dick, why you
are in no danger of being wilful? She raised her hand to
342

forestall my reply and continued in a deliberate tone: I know

you well enough by now to know that you are going to ask
why our experiences of this are so different. Im not worried
by that, but you will use it to keep that head of yours
working. So Ill tell you what I think is happening. You think
you are tempted solely by your will, yes? Well, I think there
are deeper temptations, the temptations of the ideal, as you
would call it, or better still, and I think this is a better way of
putting it in your case, the temptation of vision. I can see
clearly what I want: I want to escape the loneliness of myself,
I want a man, you, to embrace me, as it were, and give me all
your attention all the time. Thats what the whole business of
the light approaching means. But you, from what you say
about emptiness, want escape from your mind and all your
thoughts, impressions and the like, literally a total escape
from this world, from reality. You want a totally different
world, which is why you are a writer, but most of all you
want to escape from the demands of this world, which to you
are senseless and painful. She slumped, looking at her bare
knees reflecting sunlight. But there is something more than
that in you, Dick, I admit that, but I cant see it. And Ill
assume from that, that there is more in me too, which I cant
see either. I would trust that level, Dick. I mean, I trust what
is happening, both because of you and because I cant quite
see what is moving in me. You see, trusting you has
permitted me, for the first time in my life, to trust myself
also. She gave a radiant smile then and relaxed, leaning
back, supporting herself by back-thrust arms.
Escape. Nutshell word. But I said, OK. One thing,
Louise. I didnt write in order to create another and more
acceptable world, I wrote to resist the rubbish of this world,
343

to keep me from succumbing to some other persons beliefs. I

did that to protect something in me. And I will gladly admit
that there is nothing unique in this, though I once thought
there was, that everyone does it. But what I have always
wanted to do is bring out that part of me I have worked hard,
and sacrificed, to protect. I think what we are doing is an
attempt to let that go free now. I felt weary then and began to
pluck at the fern beside me, and I heard Louise sigh as my
switch-off cut across her exaltation and she deflated too.
Switched-off, I remembered the important thing and I said to
Louise, Remember what you asked me to do for you,
Louise? Louise was candid: Yes, Dick. I do. I cocked my
eye at her, fond of her suddenly, the two of us in this
together: This is it? She nodded, and I saw her body lose all
significance, to become for her, and therefore for me, an
irrelevance, and beyond that I saw nothing, absolutely
nothing. And you let me do what I want to do, Louise? She
smiled broadly, nodding her head, sending her bright hair
flying. And I lowered my eyes, feeling ironic, Until theres
nothing I want to do? And she flung herself on me and we
rolled about joyous, and contrary to my profound intuition of
the previous day, we thrashed about in the coarse bracken
making love in an abandoned whimsical way, joking about
our bodies and what we were doing, wild with merriment.
Afterwards, lolling side by side in the sun, we agreed
we would try simply to be ourselves, and a wild look crossed
Louises face, and I felt let go in me some last band of
restraint, and instead of wildness, I felt a quietness, almost a
docility, in me. I smiled at that, Id always suspected I was a
bit like that, except I suppose the world has never let me be
so. Louise sat up and looked about her with tigerish eyes, and
344

I realised that she had far greater energy and confidence than
I had, less a worrier, less apprehensive.
Then we finally went up to the crest of the ridge and
looked north. The entire area was wooded, from high on the
slopes down to the shore of the lake, the cover broken twice
ahead by ridges similar to the one we stood on, and we could
see the track etched as a lighter strip winding up and over
these ridges. The outer walls of Mount Zion rose about six or
seven thousand feet sheer from the head of the lake, a number
of sizeable waterfalls bringing replenishment to the lake, and
we could see something of the fissured bare upper reaches of
the mountain, all utterly still. The only sign of our destination
was a small tower jutting from trees beside the lake almost
directly underneath the cliff. I said, Maybe we should walk
along the lake shore, Louise. I couldnt see a track down
there, but in any case it would be hidden by trees from our
perspective. Louise said in a hesitant way, Look, Dick. She
was looking behind, so I turned, and caught my breath.
This NJ was on a low plateau to the right of the river.
The whole structure sparkled in the morning sunlight, a
perfectly laid out square, majestic towers at the correct points
of the encircling walls, which looked wide enough for
roadways. Within the city, the thoroughfares fanned out from
the towers at the angles required for triangles, squares,
hexagons, dodecagons, all intersecting precisely. The
buildings of the city varied as to height and plan, but from
here the variations were harmonious, obviously reflecting
some deep tonality, though I couldnt read it. Within the
pattern of thoroughfares was an expansive park, rich green of
well-watered vegetation, the balance of woodland and open
grass again harmonious, I suspect best appreciated from the
345

air above. Then, within the parkland, at the centre of the city,
was the Temple or Keep, an immense cubical building faced
with brilliant blue stone, possibly semiprecious. In fact, it
seemed as though all the structures of the city were faced
with brilliantly coloured stone: most of the dwellings were
either yellow or pale green, the wall was crimson, ranging
from ruby to lustrous red, and the towers were sapphire,
ranging from deep indigo to pale opalesque blue.
The city had a curious still quality. The only
thoroughfare we could see into clearly was deserted, and no
smoke rose from the houses. It was like an immense jewel.
Remind you of anything? I asked. She nodded, Jonass
game? The temple at the mouth of the lake had an equally
model-like quality, despite the previous nights ceremony,
and it too sparkled in the light, laid out it seemed to me
according to Solomons plan, courtyards, towers, auxiliary
buildings. The vicinity of the Temple was deserted.
I said, They probably return them to default when no
one is around. Louise laughed at this, but she agreed.
We started across the moor, holding hands on the way
down into the wood, the path of embedded stone even and
clear of obstruction. It was dark in this wood, and the light
remained subdued even when our eyes adjusted. The silence
was intense, and again I became aware of the absence of
birdlife. We walked in silence, our earlier conversation
having satisfied us, and I as least drifted inside myself,
images and memories floating by in broken light, so I
couldnt tell what was in my mind. We crossed a small
stream at the bottom and then separated to make the climb up
to the next ridge. The track was of a frustrating kind,
twisting, now level, now steep, dipping and rising in a
346

senseless way, which soon irritated me, though Louise

seemed to adjust her pace as required without discomfort.
The air, confined by the trees, was heavy and overwarm, a
haven for flies. The irritation tried various tricks: self-pity,
but there was nothing to pity; my situation, deaths and magic
imposed on me, homeless erstwhile writer, but the presence
of Louise made nonsense of that; so ego grabbed its chance
and bitched about the lack of action in Paradise, jewel city,
model mountain, some other egos projection, and I let that
ride in me, because the irritation was there anyway. At last on
the top, and seeing Christine sitting on a tuft of bog, outdoor
tweeds, brogues and service weight stockings, limp knapsack
on her back, interest kicked in, and I waved spontaneously,
action in Paradise now. She stood up to shake our hands, shy
with the modesty of a spinster, and took a bar of Bournville
from her pocket and shared it out. We sat in a circle back
from the track, NJ glimpsed beyond the first ridge, Temple
hidden, ridges of the Temple Hill etched by the rising sun,
rougher terrain than apparent last night. It was real chocolate,
all the way from Birmingham, and we licked our fingers
afterwards, content with the bitterness, heavy oil in our
throats, and Christine finally spoke:
Blake called the imagination Christ, you know.
Louise and I crossed glances, hearing the final briefing
before going in: Christine sighed, looking around her, the sun
catching the face powder on the light hair of her upper lip,
and let go at last.
How often I sit here, Richard, Louise, smiling wryly
at us, but Paradise is only another signpost.
Louise made a move towards her, but Christine raised
her hand.
347

Where are you, Christine? I asked, curious as a

fellow hill-walker.
Bodmin, Richard. Have you been there?
No. Very little walking, after all.
Have you, Louise?
Louise looked surprised, perhaps that Christine should
think she would do that: Oh no.
Christine breathed deeply, looking at us both again:
Im near a little chapel, terribly isolated, dedicated to Saint
Catherine. A sort of Gretna Green centuries ago, you know. I
bent forward, afraid I wasnt catching the significance I knew
was there. Ive often wondered about that. Christine looked
closely at Louise: There was an authority here once, as you
can see. She breathed now as though in relief, swept the
tweed stretched across her lap out of habit and stood up,
hitching the straps of her knapsack. We stood up with her.
She threw us a last shy smile and said in a vague, poignant
way:
Christ is the light within, the dog howling in the night.
May He bless you both. Goodbye.
She actually disappeared before our eyes, which no one
else had been so careless to do, and Louise looked at me with
a momentary serious expression, and I saw a wheel turning,
all afire, so I took her hand and off we went down, the last
ridge blocking our view except for the upper reaches of
Mount Zion. The track ran aslant the slope to the right, a
steady gradient, and we strode in silence, hand in hand, Jack
and Jill now, then into the wood, a powerful condensation of
knowledge in me, seeing the wheel again, six spokes, pain
implicit from the beginning. Louise was staring ahead of her,
and I wondered how she saw it, and how she understood the
348

authority Christine referred to, so I said to her, in the quiet

under the trees, no birdsong: Were not the only ones,
sweetheart, as much as to say we are not alone in choosing
love. Louise looked at me, a buoyancy in her eyes, and I saw
her thrust forward in herself, fatalistic but joyous, No,
darling, were not. We loosened our clasp of one anothers
hand and she fell behind, pensive, face vacant, arms hanging
by her side, and I drifted in myself, becoming intensely aware
of the trees, conscious of where we were. There was a glade
at the bottom of the slope, the stream transparent in a broad
bed, tinkling over stones, the light green under the ash trees.
At last there were fairies, what I had secretly sought in place
of the absent birds, and they flitted about at the edge of
vision, brightly coloured, singing in some old language,
piercing harmonies like, I realised, the voices in my head, and
I called out, Who are you? and I knew as I spoke that they
were, as I had written years ago in another context, the dead,
but the happy dead or dead happy people, deluded in their
own way in believing in harmony and an eternal high.
I crossed the stream, not waiting for Louise, and the
slope began at the edge of the glade, slanting up to the left
this time, and I climbed with a will, so glad to leave the fairy
folk behind, glad to have understood at last that happiness
was not enough either. I became eager, knowing I was
forgetting something, but knowing also that this was
unavoidable because I always think that realisation takes me
a step forward towards the truth, that is how our
consciousness is structured, on tracks going to God. The
slope was not steep but I soon became breathless, and I felt
not gravity but the tug of the sheath of happiness surrounding
the glade below, and I wondered fleetingly how Louise
349

would manage, knowing that it was beyond my control how

she managed to negotiate happiness, if, that is, she could see
anything beyond it.
At last I came out of the trees and the drag weakened,
but there was no one at the summit this time, which I secretly
expected. Louise was not in view, so I started down the final
slope alone, drawn by the now unaccountable eagerness, the
stone tower in sight jutting above the trees, the nether cliffs
of Mount Zion brooding in the sunlight, sheer bare rock. The
track dropped straight down, very steep, entering the wood,
very dark now because it was mature oak with broad staunch
crowns, the track discernible as a sheen against matt earth.
This is it, I thought, my stride bordering on a run, my whole
life at last coming to some identifiable convergence, but the
track plunged on down through the trees into greater and
greater darkness, until there seemed to be nothing except the
corded trunks and boles of great trees, foliage dark in
shadow, total silence except for the slap of my soles on stone.
Worse, I didnt want to stop my stiff-legged descent, because
I might discover I could not stop, which would mean I could
not turn and ascend out again into the sunlight. The track
turned to the left then, still steep, and I caught a glimpse of
stone off to the right, the tower I assumed, and when the track
straightened and I saw that it ran down to the left away from
the tower, I decided to cut through the trees, little or no
ground vegetation. That was fine for a hundred yards or so,
until I came to a steep ravine, walls of dry stony clay, and I
ran impatiently along its rim looking for means of descent,
finding it at last in the form of the large twisted roots of an
old monster oak. Descent was to plan to the last root, then I
had twenty feet of loose slope ending in a deep stream, a
350

jumble of boulders strewn along the bed. Nothing for it but to

slip and slide down, stones in my shoes, dust in my face, and
then I tripped, fell sideways but carried forward by
momentum, and then I was tumbling, axis of turn diagonal to
my torso, arm over my face, scream caught in my throat, until
I crashed back-first in the angle between two boulders, and I
rebounded on to the bank and then skittered, limbs jerking
with shock into the cold water.
The worst scenario for a walker: stupid avoidable fall,
incapacitated in a concealed spot, locality deserted. The worst
nightmare of my imagination is to lie dead on the floor of an
ocean, fishfood; the worst nightmare of my life is to lie
injured in the middle of nowhere, dying slowly with full
consciousness of the circumstances. The attempted shout told
me my throat was frozen because of the blow to my spine,
breath coming in terminal spasms, the cold water
traumatising my shock-hot body, my head, small mercy,
lying above water on the clay bank, water gurgling by,
sluicing among the rocks, a sliver of blue sky directly above.
I ran the scenario in all its possibilities, beginning with slow
death, of course, and when I came to the version where I drag
myself from the stream, I floundered for purchase in the
stream, finding submerged rock, and rolled and pushed
myself up out of the water, and lay face down on the earth,
feeling the pain in my back now, but managing to breath
more deeply, keeping my nose and mouth out of the dry clay.
Then the scenario moved to the next scene where I prayed to
ease the panic of deliverance from that particular death,
broken-backed in the stream, while at the same time
attempting to get up off the ground. My legs quivered when I
stood up, so I sat back on to the slope behind me, rested my
351

elbows on my knees, and longed for the first time in years for
a cigarette. My spine ached, hot against the wet shirt, my legs
continued to tremble, hot against the wet trousers, and I
studied the flow of the water among the rocks with the kind
of intense concentration that is intended to distract from
appalling physical circumstance, why the prospect of death
always makes our vision beautiful. I waited until most of the
shock had worked its way through, and then got down to the
business of getting out of the ravine. The opposing slope was
nothing but clay, so I worked out which direction I had come
along the ravine to find the root system behind me, crossed
the stream carefully, stepping the boulders, and began back to
the right up the stream in search of some means of climbing
out. The walk was uncomfortable, slipping in the clay, jolting
my ankles among submerged stones, scrambling awkwardly
over obstructing boulders, which being granite tended to be
rounded and smooth. It took an hour at least to find the roots
I needed, and another half-hour to negotiate the lower slope
up to the first root, which I finally managed to do by working
my way up across the slope at a shallow angle. The roots
themselves presented no problem and in minutes I was up on
the rim, looking at the trunks of oaks receding into
murkiness. No tower of course, so I had the choice of cutting
diagonally to the left through the trees or working my way
back along the edge of the ravine until I found the base of the
tower among the trees.
I walked along the edge of the ravine I dreaded
getting lost in the wood. Walking, searching among the trees,
I ran scenarios, the worst being in this case having to follow
the stream down to the lake and then along the lake to a point
near the tower and so back through the trees, though a path
352

was a possibility there. Not too bad, a matter of time and

physical effort only, except that my dread of being lost in the
wood contaminated my practical reason and I began to think
that this stream didnt necessarily run down to the lake, that
the fact that the tower had seemed close to the track did mean
that it was closer to the ravine, or even close to it at all.
Its obvious now, isnt it? I had forgotten I was inside
someones Work, someones Imagination. I found a
comfortable seat at the foot of an oak, prepared to think
through the implications. The desire for a cigarette came back
and with it, pushing my luck here, a wish also for a pot of tea
and even a scone or two with soft butter and apricot preserve.
It worked, and I made a note to the black box to consider the
implications of that too: I can Operate within this Work. A
small cafe, the kind of dilapidated pavilion found in many
urban parks, cheap metal tables and chairs under a sagging
canopy beside the entrance. No Churchmans anymore, no
Gold Flake either, so I settled for twenty Senior Service, a
box of matches, a pot of tannin tea, two dry scones, white
butter and a small plastic tub of strawberry jam. Luckily I had
some money, King Noddy prominent on the note, and I was
given some play money in exchange. I took the lot on a tray
back to my tree, did up one of the scones, poured tea, added
whitewash, and enjoyed myself, getting through the scones
pretty rapidly so I would have plenty of tea remaining for the
cigarette. Lit up then and lay back, clothes filthy, back sore,
and let nicotine spread through my system, head light,
thinking that cigarettes are like sex, you might give them up
for one reason or another, but you never forget the pleasure
they give.
353

I lingered over the cigarette and the tea, though the

latter was tarry and no longer hot, realising suddenly that I
was enjoying myself hugely, that if this is how it all ends up
in Paradise, then I might as well have fun, especially if the
alternative script is called Unrelieved Hell. Then to some
practical thought. Who gave me the line on the Dark Wood?
John, of course: Hansel and Gretel. So Ive crossed the
stream on my own, despite the fact that Louise had put a
chain around my neck. In what guise? King? No, Jack fell
down and broke his crown. So I am the Wolf. Next I search
through the memories of Louises black box and sure enough
I found the game, so I keyed in Wolf to start with, chose lost,
and was offered choice of Son or Daughter. I didnt want
Simon around, so I keyed for Daughter and waited. I
expected Louise, of course, but who should come along the
edge of the ravine, honey hair in waves, glasses glinting,
Jewish-American hips swinging the brightly plaided kilt, but
Liz Hungen, giving me her bright smile, saying, Hows it
cutting, Dick? and I gestured in depreciation, to explain the
situation, Better for seeing you, Lizzy. So she came and
stood over me, breasts still jouncy, arms on her hips,
projecting to protect the fugitive Princess I had always
sympathised with: So whats it to be, Dick? Prudence or
guidance, and I said, Guidance, Lizzy. She compressed her
lips and nodded in a businesslike way, and I got up and we
set off through the trees. What are you doing in Paradise,
Lizzy? I asked at her back, enjoying the roll of her hips, her
legs seeming thin under the heavy wool of the skirt. She
waved her hand, disparaging, Oh you know, Dick.
Polysyllabic front for this corporation.
Not an academic, Lizzy?
354

Talking is easier than writing, Dick. Anyway, what

next? Lets see. She had a sheet of A4 in her hand. King or
partner?
Louise, of course, Lizzy.
Liz dipped a little, the American desire to impress
everyone balked, and she said with professional grace, Sure.
Got that. OK. So Cottage or Cave, Dick?
Cave, of course, Lizzy, having had the cottage.
And she stopped and waited for me. Youre taking the
complete service? I nodded. She made a moue, shrugged,
Princess trying to get out of how many generations of
reinforcement, and said, Me? Im a career girl, Dick. So I
said, Not everyone looks for it, Lizzy, and some of the glow
induced by caffeine, sugar and nicotine faded, and we walked
on until the base of the tower appeared among the dark trees,
the bright grass of the clearing a relief. Liz consulted her
sheet again, but I had already keyed the black box, and she
glanced at me sharply and said, Youre doing this the hard
way, Dick. And I said, Its the full run, Lizzy. All the way
in. She nodded, Yeah, guess so. looked at her watch, I
better get back to the office. Nice seeing you again. She
waved towards the tower, Its straight forward from here on
in. Good luck. We shook hands and she went off, down
towards the lake I assume, and I decided to have one more
cigarette before going in, not knowing when I would get a
chance again.
The second cigarette made me dizzy too and the tower
was wavering, but I dont think there was a connection, the
terrain shifting in ways that suggested a choice between the
Lonely Tower and the Enchanted Castle, and I settled on a
compromise a tower on a small promontory in the lake,
355

three stories above stepped foundations, four fluted pilasters

rising from staunch pediments through two orders, divided at
the first floor, worked stone casements in between, the
pilasters continued as low spines above the heavily
ornamented parapet and united by a low balustrade, so twelve
pilasters around the tower and nine windows per face, thirty
six openings in all, one of them deepened to take the heavy
bronze door. I was pleased by this, though I dont take the
credit, and of course there was a small herd of deer grazing
the grass below the tower, one fawn detached from the group
and looking over towards me, all the signs coming into place
now, confirmatory not revelatory. I enjoyed the cigarette,
though the smoke cut my throat, and ground the butt out in
the grass, and at last moved in, hitching my stained trousers,
as though that improved matters.
The bronze door swung open silently at my touch.
There was only one chamber within, and dark except where
thick guttering candles threw yellow light. The room was
circular, the walls rough unmortared stone, and bare except
for the candles. Stone steps followed the curve of the wall up
to a small opening in the ceiling over to the left. It was
distinctly chilly and I shivered, becoming aware again of the
ache in my spine. The stairs invited, and on my way I
stumbled over what I discovered to be a large red cloak made
of coarse wool, with metal, possibly gold, clasps at the neck,
and caught up in it, a heavy sword with a large grip integral
to it, the pommel a hemisphere with unfamiliar characters
etched all over its surface. The frisson told me I knew these
things, though I couldnt remember then, so I stepped over
the garment and climbed the steps, the treads higher than
usual, and issued into a second chamber, this one in darkness,
356

a heavy curtain across the only window, but I could see the
winding stairway continued up to an illuminated chamber
above. I climbed on up, gonads shrinking, bowels moving,
knowing what was to come but knowing also that it wasnt
going to be what I expected. There was a large couch in the
centre of the chamber, piled high with furs. On the wall hung
weapons: swords, spears, axes; shields, both rectangular and
round, brightly patterned with metal strips, the patterns again
unfamiliar though I knew they should not be.
Before going to the couch, I checked the black box to
see what choices I had: Death or pain. I could see now why
Lizzy had been aghast and I keyed for pain, and still knew I
couldnt see what was coming. Next thing was to start lifting
the furs off the bed, one at a time, and carefully, until I found
my mother lying on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly
open, lower lip collapsed, which told me she was dead. I bent
down and kissed her forehead above her nose, on her pineal
gland, and smoothed back the few strands of grey hair that
lay out of line over her left ear. Right, I thought, my heart
starting up, and saw the coffin on a low trestle over under the
window. Luckily the coffin was already dressed, cream silks
and wine red velvets on top, and I decided to drag the whole
lot, coffin and trestle, over to the couch. Halfway through this
operation, which required me to lift one trestle leg, swing it
forward, and then go around and move the other leg forward,
my hands, then my arms, began to tremble violently. This
didnt help what was a fairly delicate procedure, so I sat on
the end of the couch, caressed the fur at my thigh, and gazed
at the familiar face, until I felt a movement in my chest as the
first pulse of grief surged up. My hands steadied then, so I
resumed moving the coffin across, though this time my legs
357

threatened to go, the strong muscles in my thighs quivering

out of my control. I got the coffin in place anyway, and I sat
down again, this time closer to her, and let the trembling
spread, as it wanted to, through my whole body. But I could
not cry yet, and the need to cry tightened my sinuses until
pain radiated from there to my eyes and down to my throat. It
was hard to stop the scene from appearing real, and I think
the prospect of such an inevitable moment as this in any case
undermined any reminder I gave myself that this was
someone elses trip, that my mother was alive and as well as
could be expected in Dublin.
This was the Pain then, but I wondered if there was
more. The scene was not changing, my mother still lay with
mouth collapsed on her lower toothless gums, and I knew the
next thing was the preparation of the body, that is, the
washing of the corpse and the donning of the shroud. I
explored the chamber, but could find neither washing
materials not a garment that would serve as a shroud. I could
see the pain coming now, and I went back to the couch and
started lifting the remainder of the furs covering my mother.
No doubt highly symbolic for the son to discover that his
dead mother has no body, but it hurt me in a way I still
cannot comprehend. I was prepared to do what needed doing
and I cant see the oedipal angle on dead mothers, but all I
could do anyway was to lift the head, as heavy as her head
would be, the neck sutured in a neat way, and place it on the
pillow in the coffin, knowing that at least there was a place
for her body below. I brushed her hair back some more with
my fingers, and smoothed the silk away from around her ears
and down the line of her jaw. Sadness was my strongest
feeling now, I think for her more than for me, because this is
358

a terminal trip and she gets such a small part in it, not my
doing I hope. I stood back and surveyed my mickey-mouse
efforts, and there she was, looking peaceful in her coffin,
head above an obvious vacancy, and perhaps I was being told
something after all.
I leaned over to kiss her again, but her head wavered
and either split in two or my eyes disfocused under stress, but
I saw two heads side by side in the coffin, both exactly
similar, and the shock turned me away and a voice said
loudly existentialist! and personalist! and my old chum,
the Shadow, came up the stairs, hair red, eyes red, looking as
earnest as he could, and I knew that he might be an archangel
somewhere but that he was a bloody intellectual here and
working something too arid and self-referential for my taste.
He came over, about a foot taller and wider than me this time,
dressed in a coarse tunic, hair greying at the temples, and he
spoke a language I could not understand, and twisting his
head in a violent kind of pity, as though he would tear me to
pieces if I didnt respond appropriately. The grief surged in
me then, truly wild, and he leaned around me to look into the
coffin, one head again, and he touched it, murmuring
something consoling in his savage way, and the coffin
slipped towards us off the nearest trestle, and my mothers
head fell out, clunked on the stone floor and rolled over to
rest against the couch. I shouted at him, grabbing his thick
forearm too late of course, and, as he turned to me, stunned
and beginning to experience the truly appalling, for him,
thing he had done, I felt the grief finally surface, wild and
desolate, the world clicking into the flat appearance it always
really was, and I raised my hands to tear his face, screaming
359

in agony because I felt that my mother had died and left me

here on my own.
But this time I couldnt break his hug, and really I did
not want to, and he took me up into his arms and pressed me
to him, his temple grinding my temple as I cried shamelessly,
and he crooned softly until he too shed tears, and I finally
embraced him, pressing my face into his neck, crying
inconsolably, knowing all the time that I had invented this
shadow for such an eventuality as this and glad at the same
time that I had held him in reserve for the moment I needed
his savage emotion, the truth of his heart, and the illusion of
his physical strength, but most of all for his capacity to
sympathise with my pain so I would not be utterly bereft.
Afterwards, when we had calmed, he carried me down
the stairs and out into the sunlight, and lay me beside where
Louise was sitting, working her way around a rapidly melting
ice-cream cone. I lay on my back, drained with relief, and
watched Korkungal shamble back to his tower to collect his
gear and push off to wherever our creations go when we have
done with them, and then I said to Louise:
Is there one of those for me?
She gave her cone an extra long lick, eyes cocked at
me, then smiled and went away, coming back in a moment
with a large 99 complete with raspberry ripple. I sat up beside
her and got stuck in, ice cream more fruity than is usual in
England, and asked if she had any problem getting here. She
shook her head, so I told her of my adventures. She smirked,
sensing I think my thorough relief, and said: Just like you,
darling. Have to do it your own way, mm?
I chuckled, nodding happily in the sunlight, glad we
were together again, and concentrated on the cone, allowing
360

my body to slump until my arm rested against Louises. After

I had nipped the end of the cone away and had managed to
draw ice cream down so I could suck it out as was my wont, I
waved my free hand towards the tower, which now looked
more like a Norman bailey, and asked Louise:
Your turn now?
She had finished her cone and was digging the
handkerchief out of my trouser pocket: Nope. Not my scene,
darling.
So what now, do you think? The possibility that it
was all over was rising in my mind, but that did not make
sense for some reason: I mean, terminal events ought to be
grand, and anyway, Louise hadnt had her big scene yet.
She looked about, face more rounded now than usual,
perhaps the break from her police work was doing her good,
and she had a kind of fleeting smile on her lips, as though she
was truly content with her life, wheel of fire notwithstanding.
Wait, I suppose, darling. She looked at me, eyes huge at
close range, Do you have anything in mind? I knew I went
foxy at once, but I was candid: Well, I would love a really
good cuddle. Too bolloxed for anything else at the moment.
She smiled in recognition and lay back, extending her arms
out on the ground beyond her head, so that the green dress
flattened against the contours of her body, and I finished off
the cone, looking at the prospect of her with fond warmth,
then I lay beside her, caressing her for her sake, and of course
bolloxed or not it was not long before we were clutching and
rolling in the grass, good steady arousal, happy leisurely
consummation.
Afterwards, we did cuddle, in a mildly ecstatic, mildly
desperate way that bodies try to cling to each other as
361

consciousness returns, and later I searched for and found the

cigarette and matches I had left behind me. I suppose I
hunger for transcendence, but at each stage of the Work I
expect to cross over to an utterly new level and leave all this
physicality of up and down, now you want now you have,
behind once and for all as though there is a real Paradise
somewhere, where everything just stops and eternity is an
expanded instant of joyous terminal recognition. Thats what
closure means to us, the final effort. I lit another cigarette and
inhaled deeply, and sat on my own for a while facing one of
the oaks, smoking steadily, less dizzy now, and for once took
the time to observe my mentation. There was something
familiar going on in me, but I couldnt pin it down: I mean,
the state of mind struck a chord, but I couldnt turn it up as a
memory. Louise came over, moving loosely, and I saw a
melancholy in her that was familiar too: perhaps melancholy
is too strong a word, more an agreeable attenuation, a wistful
happiness. She sat cross-legged before me and I had that
awareness of her as meat and bones, blood and organs,
knowing her brain was working, and I liked all of that, down
to the veining visible on her skin. I thought if we spoke I
might get a handle on the familiarity in me and in her, so I
said:
Thinking about afterwards, Louise. You know, how
will it be when we get back down?
She nodded in a just-there way, the action its own
significance, and I saw a cloudy afternoon, a vacancy of
repletion bordering on boredom but drifting as a profound
acceptance of the moment and the state of feeling: We might
forget all this, Dick.
362

I nodded too, drifting in that rainy mood: It will leave

its mark, though. I breathed deeply to raise myself for the
effort of communication with her: No, Louise. There must
be someone way we can leave a marker. Say, I searched her
face, so conscious of her now and yet aware that
consciousness is no guarantee of memory, you can forget the
important things if your memory is programmed for security
or misery or the like. Say we agree on a date and a place,
Louise.
Louise nodded again, and then seemed to surrender all
resistance, letting herself tilt over sideways until she was
lying on her back again, eyes closed against the glare of the
sky. The rainy mood was very strong now, in both of us, and
I could see everything converge on us, and Louise and I were
like parallel lines going off to meet at infinity, showing us
both the awful depths within us, the distance we need to
travel in order to arrive, and I took all my clothes off and
helped her undress, she was helpless, moaning to herself, and
for once I forgot all about records and accounts, and lay with
her, going with her as far towards that horizon as we could,
drowned in the melancholy of our separateness, that delicate
balance between hope of joy and despairing knowledge. Love
is always longing.
The strange thing, as I remember still now as the
darkness surely approaches, is that we lived our future too in
that embrace, and I saw, and I write this now as an addendum
to the tape I am transcribing, that we had already laid the
marker, yet I could not then, nor can I now, say just where
that marker is, just how we will find each other again after
that terrible agony of knowledge, after discovering just what
we do to each other all the time. Having said this, I might as
363

well note that as Louise and I surfaced from our struggle with
infinity I had a disquieting insight into the meaning of the
event in the tower. Put these elements into a single context:
my mothers head; the words I heard existentialist and
personalist; the incongruous description of my shadow as
aridly intellectual, when he is a being of savage feeling; and
my own dismay when I discovered that my mothers body
was missing. You see how much I influence this Working:
who is aridly intellectual, and, as a concomitant, whose
feelings are shallow?
Anyway, that insight quietened me, which was just as
well, for we had the next scene then, in the form of a superfuturistic craft skimming the lake surface towards us, a silent
craft, glowing brilliantly, the only sound a soft whoosh of
displaced air. It came straight in at us, no window for the
driver/pilot that I could see, only incandescent mesh, rising
suddenly as it reached the shore, and then turning neatly on
its own length and settling on four little telescopic pads on
the grass about ten feet away from us. It was about the size of
a small van, aerodynamic, with sheer surfaces, coloured a
pale blue, tightly inset door just behind where the pilot should
be, and a tinted window down its length from the door. The
head and tail lights were flush with the surface, and other
than the fine mesh, now unlit, which stretched all over the
surface of the craft, there was no other raised feature and no
clue as to its mode of propulsion. Some markings, in green
and gold, along the lower side, may have been an abstract
pattern or lettering in a language unknown to me.
Opening, the door jerked out and then slid back flush
with the side of the craft, and a young man in a bright red zipup one piece suit jumped down, waving to us in a friendly
364

way. He had a flat piece of hitec in his hand, black and

roughly A5, which he consulted before asking:
Rishard Bussler, Luis Granzher?
We both nodded and stepped forward, and he came to
meet us, a thoroughly disarming smile on his face. Ash blond
hair, sallow but tanned skin except for a red flush or rash
around his nostrils, the bones of his face thin with notable
lateral emphasis, which made his face appear compressed,
bones jutting at his brows, cheeks, and especially at his chin,
a slightly disturbing effect, though it was apparent he was not
simply disfigured. His eye sockets had the same lateral
emphasis, eyes tawny to red, pupils very small; and his lips
were thin, the edges rising into his cheeks. He came right up
to us, eyes shifting from one of us to the other all the time,
his curiosity obviously as great as ours, and he consulted his
electronic pad again and said:
Late, so? Glancing towards the tower as much as to
say his bosses may have miscalculated the time my business
there may have taken, but I raised my hand to forestall him
and said, friendly as I could: No. We are almost ready. I
pointed to the craft and, abashed a little, he seemed to
understand that he should go and wait for us there.
As we dressed, Louise said, Is this yours, Dick? I
glanced at the craft, the pilot sitting in the doorway looking at
us, No. Fraid not. I had never seen the likes of it, or of the
pilot, in all my reading of science fiction, so I added: Might
actually be real, Louise. She looked really excited for once
and she hurried her dressing: Wonder where its taking us?
Dressed, we walked hand in hand towards the craft,
and I whispered, But why use a physical means, Louise?
The pilot stood up as we approached and stared at our
365

clothes, presumably trying to remember what we looked like

naked. But we couldnt differ from him too much, for he had
not stared at us naked. I told him we were ready, as much as
to say get on with it, and he climbed in before us, backing left
towards the front of the craft. Inside was arranged like a
minibus, muted white decor, seating for about eleven, thirteen
including the seat beside the pilot, the seats contoured
individually in a rich cream material, row of buttons on the
left armrest, and judging from the two seats across from the
door, small screens that could be raised in an arc from the
armrest to a position in front of the passengers eyes.
The pilot sat in his seat and waited for us, and sensing
that he was now shy of us, for whatever reason, I asked him if
we could sit up beside him in the front. That pleased him and
he closed the door, raised some kind of pressure within the
cabin, as we seated ourselves, Louise in the middle. The
controls were simple, a slim joystick jutting from the
dashboard, two red buttons one above the other in the knob.
The instrument display was simple too, all except one digital,
the exception a graphics screen showing four vertical bands
of colour, yellow, blue, red and green. He inserted what
looked like a lollipop stick into a slot at the bottom of the
dashboard, depressed the upper button on the joystick, and a
screen came up before us, just like a windscreen, showing the
shore and the lake in perfect detail. We were about two feet
off the ground, and absolutely no noise or vibration in the
craft.
I had to ask him how it worked. He gave us that big
smile again, favouring Louise this time, and he touched the
screen before us. A readout in the strange script appeared at
his finger, and he moved along the readout and pressed a
366

character. Immediately a window appeared in the screen with

a diagnostic cut-out of the craft, and he pointed towards the
surface of the craft and said:
Here, so? Inter-ference, pattern, so? Vacuum, so? He
gave us the depth of the vacuum by placing his thumb and
forefinger almost together. He used his extended palm to
illustrate forward motion: Fall into vacuum, so? I pointed to
the mesh and he said, To keep away stars and other things,
so? Louise said, ejaculating in her English way: Stars? And
he nodded emphatically and pressed both buttons firmly.
The screen said we were moving at a speed that caused
stars to wink past us at various distances until one star came
in our path and there was a flash and open space again. We
both nodded our understanding of the function of the mesh,
and he pressed both buttons lightly and the screen said we
were drifting slowly somewhere surrounded by many stars,
again at various distances, with some fairly close, and Louise
asked in an absent voice, Are we really in space? The pilot
paused to interpret her and then he nodded, touching one of
the digital displays, which brought up another window inset
in the larger one, this one showing a star map, red pulsing dot
here, yellow pulsing dot there. I said, Very good, and he
touched another of the digital displays and the windows
vanished and we were skimming at a good speed across the
lake towards the cliffs of Mount Zion. Louise looked at me
and whispered, Do you think that was real? I shrugged and
our pilot grinned again, touched the buttons in a complex
series and we were hovering over NJ, and I saw that the
pattern of trees and open park formed Jonass geometric plan
of NJ, which seemed a bit precious of him. I nudged Louise
in the flank and she started and said to the pilot: I believe
367

you. Then we were back on the lake and I saw that there was
an opening before us in the cliff at the level of the lake, and
that we were heading for it.
This is it, I whispered to Louise, drawing her
attention to the tunnel, and she shook my hand and squeezed
it, believing me. Then we were in the tunnel, and headlights
cut into the dark, the tunnel apparently natural, if that is the
word, and the light mirrored the surface of the dark water. It
was a longish tunnel, if the speed of the craft was judged
accurately, curving at times right or left, and then we saw
daylight again, expanding as though towards us at a steady
rate, until we shot out into the open again.
This is it indeed. What I thought at first was a perfectly
circular lake surrounded by a sheer wall rising several
thousand feet, though the cliffs were higher in some places
than in others, sunlight on those facing us, red-tinged rock, a
white structure lakeside down there. The pilot pointed to the
screen, in case we had missed it, and increased speed till we
were shooting down the centre of the lake. Midway down, I
realised that the lake was oval-shaped, but it was hard to
judge the exact shape because the lake was big enough to
have some curvature and the cliffs so fissured in places as to
offer conflicting perspectives. The cliffs themselves were
quite bare, except for the odd waterfall of, from here, smoky
spume caught by eddying air currents, sublime in the shade
and imposing in sunlight. There was no vegetation that I
could see; the cliffs seemed to rise sheer from the water. The
white structure became an enormous gothic cathedral-like
pile, of white stone, more like something by Pugin than the
Children of Solomon: the building itself an intense aspiration
of spires rather than simply a container of inner flight. Other
368

buildings became visible as we approached, partly obscured

by a high wall that ran along the edge of the platform. We
landed on a small ledge below the wall, our pilot executing
one of his deft swings to bring the craft down nose facing the
lake, and without any ceremony shut off the pressure, opened
the door, and pointed out. He lifted away once we had cleared
the craft and shot out over the lake, the great roll of disturbed
air rumbling in echoes from the cliffs.
A narrow track ran from the ledge to follow the wall
away to the right. I said, Well now, in anticlimax, and
Louise nodded patiently, patience with me again rather than
with our situation I suspect, so I pointed to the track and
Louise set off ahead of me. The lake was about twenty feet
below, the track at times so narrow that we took care not to
stumble against the wall in case we rebound off into the
water. The sun shone on us, hard to believe that this sun
shone also on the wood beyond the wall, and it became a
Sunday afternoon when dozing in a cool room is preferable to
a long walk in the dry heat. My head buzzed unpleasantly, I
think the glare from the water affected my eyes, and the
continual grazing of the rough stone of the wall irritated me
in the way a bores poking would. I knew I was being
deflated again, but I was not trained to a reserve of cheer, and
I went down in myself, refusing to divert myself by means of
thought, memory or will, a kind of graceless submission I
have found more useful than negative feedback. I suppose our
surroundings should have interested me, the idea of the
enclosed lake and its immense enclosing wall in the bosom of
Mount Zion. Yes, I saw it as a womb, this ledge as an egg or
the like, place of rebirth, but then our introduction should
369

have been more in the spirit of such a process, not this

stumbling between wall and deep water.
After an hour of this or so it seemed, I hadnt thought
the whole platform was more than a halfmile across the
wall curved away from the rim of the platform, the track
following, and we walked with more ease until the cathedral
came into view and the track joined a paved roadway which
seemed to cut straight across to the building. Once again, I
should have been impressed, or at least interested, in the
dazzling cluster of spires well over five hundred feet high,
but the whole thing had an insistent there-ness that was
boring in the way any close conformity to an idea is: you
grasp the idea and the representation disappears into the
abstraction, detail irrelevant to the simplicity of form. The
road continued on towards the cathedral until we were quite
close, when it veered off to the left towards a line of three
low buildings. I suggested to Louise that we take a quick look
inside the cathedral. She wasnt too keen, perhaps wanting
the ordeal over quickly, but nodded at my insistence, so we
set off across the bare rock towards the large doors of the
narthex. The interior was not as I expected. The porch itself
was sectioned in a complicated way and I found that doors
didnt lead where I judged they led, and the result was that
Louise and I became separated. The rule in such cases is to
go out again to the common point of entry and wait. I saw
someone in a long white robe, the first person I had seen on
the platform, going down a short passage towards what
looked like a side entrance, so I followed him. The passage in
fact was a cloister, circular pond outside the pillars, and the
man, or woman, kicked the gate open and I hurried across to
get through before it swung closed again. The size of the hall
370

suggested the nave of the church, and I was surprised to see

the person I had followed toss cans, of what seemed like gas,
among a large number of white robed people assembled
there. I turned back immediately of course, ducked through
the gate, and ran to the right along the cloister, and burst
through the gate at the end. This time I was confronted by a
flat-topped mound rising away from me towards a very
ornate altar. This must be the chancel, and sure enough
behind me were the stalls of the choir, separated by a massive
screen of white stone from the nave beyond. The people
gathered here were in conversation, about twenty in all, some
I noticed with glasses in their hands. A middle-aged man, a
dignitary of the cathedral, came running through a break in
the screen, calling out an alarm in a hoarse voice. I turned
again, but the young person came through and tossed cans,
one of which landed at my feet.
I was more at a loss, because all this was unexpected,
than frightened, and my head goes click and I am surrounded
by a different kind of people, younger, defensively tough. A
man in a blue suit comes round pulling paint-stained clothes
from peoples pockets, and pulls one from mine, which
surprises me a lot, if only because I hadnt considered myself
part of the events in the cathedral. I checked my clothes then
and I found paint stains on my trousers, and discover that my
shirt is torn and dirty. We are apprentice painters, though
why we are milling around in this chancel I dont know. Then
two of the apprentices tried to get their hands into the right
pocket of my trousers, shouting that I have jelly babies there.
I managed to push them away and I find that I do have a bag
of jelly babies there, and when the youths rush to grab them
from me, I hastily shove the bag back in my pocket, seize the
371

youths by the scruff of their shirts, lift them up and bang their
heads together with a resounding thunk.
I was left alone after that, and I sauntered about,
studying the architecture, which is again too insistent to be
enjoyable, eating jelly babies, until I come to a group of
older, and more respectable, men and women. I could
understand what he said, but I couldnt follow his argument,
getting only strong images of seas and ships, but he seemed
to be talking about an instrument he had invented which
allows him to listen to something. I was frustrated that I
couldnt understand him, and that made me feel like an
outsider again, so I lit a cigarette and went up to the altar,
studying the soaring arches above simply to occupy myself.
The nicotine made me dizzy, but I found that in any case the
whole building was rocking, that I was on a huge stone ship,
a high prow beyond the altar, noises coming from a speaker
on the altar. I concentrate and the noises become clicks and
whistles, and what seem like snatches of frenetic
conversation, then, clearly, a beautiful wistful song. I
understand now the inventors talk; by means of his
instrument, we can hear all the whales, dolphins and
porpoises of the sea, and because of this, we can learn about
everything that happens under the sea. Amazed by this, I turn
back and see an elderly man approaching me, holding a small
card towards me, his eyes full of admiration. I take the card
and he shakes my hand, and stands to one side while I read
what is written on the card:

372

On the reverse there is a list of nine conditions, the

sense of which eluded me. The elderly man is still admiring
me, so I waved the card under his nose and shout at him, truly
furious, I dont want any of this!, but the old lad simply
smiled, humouring me, and called over a younger man, with
the disciplined face of a priest, to take charge of me.
This young priest is going to take no nonsense from
me, and I know that my ordeal has finally begun, and I kick
myself for letting it sneak up on me; I can get no attitude on
the situation, and realise that the effect of our long walk here
has been to break down my habituated disposition, and my
ego is not liking this, wanting to strut its stuff as usual,
making the most of the mess it and all the other egos have
made. Well, the priest fixes his eye on me, beckons me to
follow him, and off we go, along another cloister, more
circular ponds set in the bare rock, little white fish cruising
leisurely, and we turn now right then left then right again, and
go through a door into a perfectly cubical hall, about thirty
feet on a side, what looks like a double cube of dressed red
stone, from the enclosing cliff no doubt, in the centre, one
candle on a blue cloth in the centre of the stone, candle lit
though light streams from small windows. He tells me to
kneel before this stone, and he kneels beside me and prays in
what sounds like Hebrew, though extremely guttural, raising
his hands from time to time as though in emphasis. Then he
points that I am to kiss the stone as a gesture of supplication,
but I balk at this whats in a piece of rock and he gets
fierce and looks as though he is going to force me to do it, so
I get up and walk away, seeing a door in each wall and
feeling for the choice of which door to take: not to fuck up
the ordeal, you understand, only to break this youngsters
373

ritual mind-set. He has got to understand that this is not his

Work, and that I am not going to indulge in some kind of
Play School symbolic activity at my age. I have nothing to
lose here; I know that and I want him, and anyone else
involved in this run, to know that. He is very angry with me
and stands beside the rock bunching his hands repeatedly,
and I decide that if he uses force, I will simply fall down and
go doggo; the first lesson. He must have picked up my
determination, because he whirled, bent over and kissed the
rock, and strode past me going towards the door opposite the
one we came in, and I follow, realising at once that I have
made it much worse for myself, that I, or my ego or
whatever, am in for a nasty time with these people.
More cloisters, more ponds with bleached fish, sun
shining here on the water, and I see that an enclosed passage
runs from the chamber we have just left over to the high wall,
and only now do I wonder what is in there, knowing I am
going to end up there, with something absolutely devastating
happening. This time we go into a less austere building, a
corridor running left and right, a door at either end, and a
door, very old and ornate, facing us. Naturally, I head for the
central door, but this time the priest grabs my arm, swings me
about to face him, and he has such a murderous look in his
eyes that I quail, so I sneer in defence, and he nods, and tows
me down to the left, opens the door there and pushes me in,
closing and locking the door behind me.
It is a beautiful room, and I mean beautiful. I have been
here about four hours, and I want to take time to describe it as
best I can before getting on with the narrative. It is a small
room, cubical, about twelve feet on a side (of course), and
374

darkish because there is only one small window to provide

light. It is also somewhat cramped because of the disposition
of the furnishings. The walls are papered, a maroon field with
small crosses about two inches long, of violet outlined with
indigo, in a close pattern. The crosses are not apparent in the
gloom, but one can sense the higher frequency of the violet as
a kind of network overlaying the rich bass of the maroon, so
that the walls seem to vibrate at varying rates depending upon
the amount of light striking the paper. The ceiling is painted a
soft red, a hint of yellow lifting it, thus relieving the strong
presence of the walls. The floor is tiled, a full lustrous blue
around the window, shading off through indigos to near black
in the darkest parts of the room. Standing at the door, the
layout of the room is as follows: to the left, in that corner, is a
desk and a chair, further along, at right angles to the door, is
the window, a small table under it, a crimson rose in a slim
glass vase on the table; in the corner of the left and facing
walls is a small altar, one red candle before a painting of a
six-spoked wheel, axis vertical, pattern in yellow,
background in pure cobalt; the sectioned-off area of the toilet
facilities occupies two thirds of the facing wall, running into
the corner opposite the altar; the bed juts into the room from
the middle of the wall to the right, directly facing the
window, a coverlet of detailed pattern in bright red and black,
the headboard painted a full scarlet; then in the corner to my
right is a small chest of drawers. There are two carpets, the
one beside the bed a shag of low orange with a lot of shadow,
the other between the window and the bed, about six feet by
three, a full yellow with tan shadows. The crimson of the rose
catches the eye and points to the play of blue and yellow on
the floor, but losses force against the sombre-rich walls, and
375

is overwhelmed by the ceiling. But once the scarlet is seen, a

new scale is established, which intensifies the ascension of
the ceiling and encourages the red in the wallpaper, which
enflames the red in the bed-covering and stimulated the
orange in the bedside carpet; but it clashes with the yellow,
so that the eye is drawn again towards the crimson rose,
which in turn brings you back to the yellow and blue, from
which this time you notice the violet in the wallpaper, so that
you realise the interplay of blue and red, all shadow siding
with the cool, and see that light then seems to heat up in the
room, so that the bright is cool and the dark hot, the light
seeking the room for presence.
I had found the bed awkward and tried to turn it so it
ran along the wall, but it is bolted to the floor. It is only now,
having described the room, that I realise that the presence, as
I call it, is focused on the bed, on the pillow (pale cream) in
fact, where my head will lie in rest. The atmosphere is
obviously oppressive, which forces you to attend to the light,
which in turn, as I have described, takes you back into the
oppression you sought relief from, only to find that what was
an oppression is now a presence that draws you.
Lying on the bed now; you are drawn to do just this, to
lie on the bed, light pouring in nakedly at you you can see
out the window to the bright blue sky the ceiling radiating
as though a sheet of flame, the walls like glowing coals, the
scarlet behind you calling for your attention.
Now I feel as though the light pours up me, as though
it is I who inflame the scarlet and so set the whole room
alight. Ive noticed the wheel in the corner: incandescent, it
will turn slowly if you stare at it.
376

The effect is overwhelming. I am burning up. I

screamed long and loud.
When the power ran down, I pushed myself off the bed
and tottered over to the desk and sat down, safely in deep
shadow in that corner, intense crosses winking at me.
Something or someone inside me was exulting, shouting
emphatically, OH YEAH!, like a black six hours into a
good party, stoned out on ganja, dancing and fucking the
same thing. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, hands shaking,
head bouncing, body on fire.
The thing to do, of course, is to get out of here. I have
tried shifting levels, with no success. I rebel against this; I
dont like the idea of being locked in my imagination, and it
makes me long for the actual world of the senses. I must do
something anyway; I can feel the room behind me, I can feel
the radiation.
Just remembered Louises question about why actual
transport was needed to bring us here and I have the sinking
feeling that I am in some kind of real world, that my
experiences here are real and not simply mental rehearsals.
Strangely, I am not frightened by this, I think mainly because
I dont believe it.
I got the idea of covering the window. They are clever:
the towels are bright red, the shirts scarlet, but I did find a
pair of white trousers. Cant find any way of hanging them
over the window and they slide off the headboard. Also,
everything, including the carpets, is stuck to the floor.
Had a long shower, put on clean clothes, theres even a
decent pair of shoes, and the moisturiser is my favourite.
They took care in preparing this place for me. I longed for a
drink afterwards, and found a bottle of Dutch gin and a tiny
377

glass. Had a few shots and now I feel much worse. The light
has drained me.
Its another of Paradises long days. I need to rest.
Cant lie on the carpets, they vibrate under me, and I cannot
balance the chair on the tiled floor.
Is Louise in the room at the other end of the corridor?
What is she experiencing? Cant contact her.
I must rest. Ive decided to lie under the coverlet.
The light has no effect. Perhaps whatever it was is
exhausted. Eyes closed, there is just a faint glow of daylight,
and I think I can sleep if I forget where I am.
Seeing my childhood, very vivid, especially the lilac in
the back garden, sun streaming down on it. The mood is very
sweet, the kind I remember on a sunny August day. Oh, I see
the point of this now. The story about the apple I didnt stay
in the garden to eat it. Oh, I was already in the world by then.
It had to be overcome, even if it meant losing.
I think I can sleep. Good.
Ive had a dream. (Keeping my eyes closed.) I am
threatened by my brother, who is in his teens, and I escape
him by flying away. Then he is his present age, and he and I
are part of a group of gentle people, gathered in a roof garden
near the sea, a mixture of Dun Laoghaire and Brighton, with
a magical light and atmosphere. We are threatened by a group
of rougher people, large, noisy and bearded, and knowing I
can fly, I take command and lead our group out to sea. The
struggle lasts a long time, and I came to understand that both
groups, both types, were necessary to each other, the main
difference being that we could fly and they could not. After
this, I found that while I could fly, I could not soar as I had
formerly done. Then we were in a large hall, both groups
378

present, though not mixing. I had a wife, tall, slender and

gracious, wearing a long dress, with whom I danced. Later I
danced with a younger woman, really a girl, not quite so tall,
though slim, whose shirt was cut away in a V at front. While
dancing, I rogered her brutally with my finger, both vagina
and anus. She was very upset and my wife came to console
her. I called everyone to gather around me, announcing I had
something important to tell them, a tale or history or a
philosophy, which must be related at intervals of every third
generation. I then turned to the tearful girl and explained with
sudden passion that the younger generation must be treated in
this way so they could understand or experience what the two
older generations had come to understand through their lives,
and that such experience was necessary so they could
understand the significance of what I was going to recite.
I wake up then, feeling very agitated, but luckily had
the presence of mind to remember where I am. Very vivid
dream, my mistreatment of the girl was quite deliberate. Now
I feel a useless curiosity about the tale I was about to tell.
The moon is shining on me. I opened my eyes
inadvertently, in an instant of forgetfulness. It is night, at last.
Very thirsty, though not hungry. Sitting now on the toilet,
smoking, a low power electric bulb for illumination. Im
intrigued by the situation, by its apparent reality. The space
flight yesterday: I had accepted it as imaginary Louise had
asked me where I had got the craft and pilot from but now I
think it was real. But how is it possible? The best answer I
have at the moment is this: I think some part or level of me
experiences its reality in this way. In other words, I assumed
my life and experiences were the only reality for me, now it
seems possible that another part of me, perhaps more then
379

one, has all the time lived in another reality. I suspect also
that it is a higher, as it were, part of me, because all my
experiences in this reality have had a strong cognitive
element, so that this universe has an intelligibility that seems
to approach identity. I mean, that I have some degree of
control over its reality. My only reservation, if this is true, is
about the motivation of that control; it might be serving
wishes I have excluded from my consciousness: not that such
wishes might be horrific or brutish on some evolutionary
model, but that I may have excluded them because they are
impossible to realise.
Back in the bed. The moon is setting, light becoming
gold, a weak burnish in the room. Despite the disturbing
effects, I still think the room is very beautiful. At the moment
the walls are quite dark, the ceiling above me is glowing
softly, and I can see the smoulder of the scarlet headboard at
the edge of my vision. Im feeling very peaceful, and I have
the idea that this world is a jewel, yet I am unmoved by this
sense of beauty, I think because this world is too close to me.
Slept again. Now very dark, only a soft light from
somewhere reflecting on the ceiling above me. Deeply
relaxed. I have a vivid awareness of my body stretched out on
the bed, as though I am experiencing it directly. I seem to
know what my left toe is seeing, a kind of seeing anyway.
The toe seems to be very busy, completely engrossed in its
task, or whatever. The same is true for every other part of my
body, internal as well as external. What an idea, that every
part of me has a life of its own.
My arm is glowing in the dark. My whole body glows.
In the glass of the window, I can see myself radiant, a white
light streaming out of every part of me. I can illuminate
380

objects up to five feet away. Very pleasant feeling. In my

everyday world no doubt I would have the feeling, but not the
perception. Not a bit frightened now: I am seeing myself
from another perspective.
Back at the window. Ive noticed variations in the light
about my body. Im experimenting and find I can influence
these variations. I can make the glow brighter merely by
exhaling slowly. Now I pulse in accordance with my
breathing, and I can make the light shoot up above me to the
ceiling. Im going to see how bright I can make it. Im
pumping it up: exhaling to increase the light, then hold that
level while I inhale, then increase the light again on the next
exhalation. Slow work, but already the room is illuminated by
the equivalent of about sixty watts. How bright can I be? If
hh...
Keep my nerve. Everything is gone. There is only
light. My light. It is like a universe of light. No. Someone is
telling me that it is the universe. Someone is coming. No,
already here. I dont understand this. As though there is no
difference. Someone unknown to me, yet as familiar as
myself. I feel apprehensive now, but in a very strange way.
Its like greeting the return of something long lost. This is the
crux. Im draining away like water. Just draining and
draining. And yet I am expanding yes reaching for the
light I bear.
The light. Oh the light.
I AM LIGHT!
Daylight again. Eyes closed. I feel Ive been cleansed
through and through.
Will I ever experience that again?
381

Eyes open. Feeling of relief, because at least I was able

to fulfil the experience. I am grateful because I could do that.
Im very lucid. For the record, I see imagination as a
path. It must be followed without distraction. The dangers on
the path are: curiosity, wanting to know everything; memory,
confusing dead perception and vision; belief, prescribing the
way; anticipation, guaranteeing destination; will (magic),
seeking short cuts. The important thing is to recognise when
the path ends: imagination merely trains us. Keep moving
and be expectant always.
The effect of the light in the room is pleasant, but I feel
sleepy again.
Awake. Light stronger, sun coming round. A small
basket of food inside the door: bread, cheese, apples.
Suddenly very hungry. What am I doing in my everyday
world? Are we still in the wood at St Briavels or am I out in
Kingswood? Am I behaving normally? Bread and cheese
very good.
No power, try as I might. Perhaps I dont need it again.
Will I ever experience that again?
Strong sense of emptiness, everything perfectly open to
me. How can I start again from here? Perhaps I wont
remember.
But the change in me. Yes, but it doesnt seem
important. For some reason, it doesnt seem possible that
anything can change.
Yes, only we need to be changed.
Slept again. Its dark. No moon. Im not glowing now.
Feeling over-rested. Ah, the door is open.
On we go.
382

Door at far end of corridor is open. Perhaps Louise.

Low light. Room seems bigger, less furniture, I think. A
semicircular couch in the centre of the room, high backed. A
small woman sitting there, broad shoulders and broad face,
neither beautiful nor plain. She invites me into the couch. I
undressed and sat beside her, and she embraced me,
apparently consoling me. She wears a gauzy wrap, which is
open down the front, so I can see her body clearly, small
breasts, swelling stomach, round thighs, and what seem like
long labia. No sexual response to her. When she seemed
finished, I got up to dress and discovered a black stain on my
shirt. Saw that a black liquid was oozing through the
floorboards. A handbasin or toilet nearby suggested a blocked
drain. I told the woman, showing her the shirt. She got up and
pulled a small triangular piece of board back and signalled
that I was to look down. It was dark but I can see that the
cavity under the floor is full of liquid. At her invitation, I
lowered myself into the hole and dropped into the liquid. It is
black because it is dark down here, but looking back up
towards the hole and the weak illumination there, I see that
the liquid is composed in part of thin struts, whether long or
short is not clear. I seem to float about three of four feet
below the surface, breathing and speaking without any
trouble, and I know that the pool is really bottomless. I am
not afraid here, because I know I have no reason to sink
down. The woman fussed a bit when I came up again and she
led me to the couch, where this time I did feel the
consolation, but without knowing why I needed consoling,
though I was grateful for her attention in any case.
I thanked her before leaving. The ornate door in the
centre of the corridor was locked, so I went out of the
383

building into the cloister and retraced the route to the

building with the stone altar. The candle was alight, useful
this time in the dark, and I tried each door, finding only the
door leading into the walled area open. The next stage,
obviously. There was a small door at the end of the corridor
and it opened easily for me.
Inside is what I judge to be an elaborate rose garden,
much larger than the one we played Babes in the Wood in.
Scents very strong, yet I feel it has been superseded, and I
was disappointed by the familiarity of the setting. Only one
pathway, so I set out along it, and it twists and turns, taking
me all around the garden. The disappointment deepens, but I
notice I dont react to this, knowing I must start back by this
serpentine route now. I also knows that what lies at the heart
of the garden is the Image of what they have all been striving
for.
I was right. It wasnt there until I approached the
centre, then there was this golden wheel, Louise clutching it,
her head and hair, arms and legs five spokes, the sixth spoke
as you may imagine was driven up into her. The wheel turned
slowly and each time Louise righted, she went down on the
sixth spoke and screamed with a scandalised agony, lit by the
blood streaming over her body, and I knew what the veiled
woman had offered me and why I had been glad of her
consolation after I had declined her gift: so I shouted out in
the garden,
Ill remember, Louise! I promise you that Ill
remember it!

384

20 July
Must make this note before everything goes dark.
I made a great mistake years ago and what I always
feared has occurred. Luckily I got down the steps of the
Miner before the panic took me over. I rang Jim but I
couldnt get him to understand. He thought it was the Paris
thing again and offered to send me the fare. What does he
know of these things, I suppose. Tony understood at once and
is flying over tonight. Loading the car will keep me busy.
But I want to record here the incident that triggered the
panic. I went down to the Miner to have a drink and some
company before turning in. Noticed a stir up at the bar, which
had the barmaid agog. Perhaps he was a television
personality, certainly had the charisma, and his girlfriend had
the beauty. I was more disturbed by them than I should have
been: I was aware at the time that my resentment was
unreasonable. I was drawn to them nonetheless, which
deepened my resentment. They were radiant with vitality, a
marvellous bloom on the girls skin, and I was stunned by the
aptness of their bright clothes: he wore a scarlet shirt and
white trousers and her green dress enhanced her long red hair
and perfect figure. What hurt me most, though, was the fact
that they obviously like one another very much and had no
interest at all in their surroundings.
It was the feeling of being excluded from them that
finally broke me: I had believed that such love was
impossible.
Well, now I know.

385

DUBLIN DIARY

11 Sept
Orla has been at me to write something in this diary
every day, as a kind of therapy, I presume. But I am well,
have been too morose to trust myself to write. I hate
confessional writing: it too easily becomes an end in itself.
However, I will do as she asks.
I am sitting at a little table in a small white room. I
have placed the table in the centre of the room, facing the
window, so I can look out. The view: I am on the top floor of
an old three storied house, at the back, away from the noise
of the traffic. The only sound at the moment is the wind, mild
south-westerly, in the trees at the end of the garden, and the
occasional girls voice from the school beyond the trees. Of
the trees, the most conspicuous is a glorious elder. Glorious?
Yes, glorious. It is drying out now, but when I came here in
July it was a riot of white flowers and yellow-green leaves,
and it did seem to me in my lower moods to shine just for me,
to cheer me. The room is north facing, and the elder often
seemed to me to be the suns representative in the north.
12 Sept
I thought at first it was Tonys wry sense of humour
that prompted him to bring me here. I had not wanted mother
to see me so crashed and staying with Tony would have been
too cramping. Orla had stopped writing a few years ago, final
386

year at university, boyfriend(s) I assumed, but she and Grace

welcomed me more as a friend than as a paying guest.
Their patience is a great temptation.
Revenge? Try to think about this.
13 Sept
Perhaps because of the absence of an immediate
audience, writing is always tendentious, that is, narration:
from the first word, lines are thrown forward in order that
sentences are to some effect in excess of their actual
meaning. This is not done merely to compensate for the
absent audience (as I thought) but to cover up the fact that
sentences do not necessarily imply preceding or succeeding
sentences: a sentence can always be inserted between any two
sentences in a narrative.
The writer dupes the reader into surrendering value to
the sentence, so that affect takes precedence over meaning,
and it is the affect that creates the illusion of connection
between successive sentences.
Call this the musical condition of narrative: see that
language is thus in some important ways meaningless. Any
sentence can be different: readers cannot know what changes
have been made in the process of composition.
See that the writer is compromised from the beginning:
surrendering also to value.
Where is the enemy, then?
14 Sept

387

DESOLATION: Something has been withdrawn from

me? Despair if I let myself believe this: no hope either unless
I do.
I saw what it was while we sat beside the canal at
Baggot Street. I cant remember it now: I couldnt remember
it then either. I saw it and then it was gone.
15 Sept
Lunch with Tony turned into an extended pub crawl, as
of old Grafton Street area, then Merrion Row, then the
hotels, eating fish and chips on the bank of the canal at nine,
not drunk but desolate as above. Tony hunting for a snug I
think, but there is no sentiment in me now. City a refurbished
cemetery. City of the dead.
Writing this strikes a chord in me of what?
The city is an absence. As a gesture it is empty. Thus
desolation. Now see the desolation as positive what is
there? Nothing. But what is there?
Yes. What has emptied the world for me.
See? There is something there in that darkness.
Something whole, a complete presence I cannot grasp.
This presence no longer speaks through the world.
16 Sept
This morning, after rain from the north-west, the
wood-pigeons sway on the branches of the elder, eating its
berries. Clear island air.
The trees of London are sad in comparison with those
here, as though they were fenced in.

388

17 Sept
Orla and I walked down to Ranelagh for a pizza. Im
benign in her company and self-possessed, which she accepts
without feeling patronised. She speculated about the effects
ETs would have on mankind, using three historical examples;
the Spaniards in Mexico and Peru, the English in India, and
Christianity in Europe. I was haunted all evening and into the
night by the irretrievability of what is lost. I saw change at
every second, the new utterly replacing the superseded. Our
ignorance is profound; as ignorant as clouds.

18 Sept
The main thing in Dublin now is not to be caught
looking. Attention is a grace and so powerful to receive. I
look closely, perhaps too closely at everyone, which produces
surprise, annoyance, sometimes curiosity. Intellectually, I do
not understand what I see I scrutinise because I dont
understand, trying to break a surface yet I see clearly and it
eases me. I must know in some way what I see.
The best response to attention is to bask in it, to know
you are being known. To respond otherwise is to betray a
consciousness of unworthiness. The true sign of regard,
love, must be mutuality of attention, where eyes read eyes
reciprocally.
Orla avoids my eye if she can manage it, and flushes
out of modesty if she cannot. Tony reads my eyes as he
would a book, attention flitting about my face as though
reading, or imposing, discursively. I suspect he reads the
same experience each time, and that this experience is the
basis of his friendship with me.
389

Grace returns my attention as a middle-aged

respectable housewife would, naively, all unknowing until
later reflection.
Having written this (after a walk into town), I feel for
the first time an opening in me and now this question rises:
What am I looking for?
I feel joy now: a conviction that I know what I am
looking for.

19 Sept
The above kept me awake for hours. I wrote the last
sentence on impulse (as though this was a novel and needed
momentum), knowing as I did that the feeling and the
conviction expressed were derived from the burden of the
entry and not from within myself. How do I know this? Such
a conviction in my experience always accompanies an
activity, and so is not in itself arresting because the activity is
the focus and it is leading on to further insight. Nothing
attracts me strongly enough to arouse this conviction. That it
arose out of something I wrote confirms my reluctance to
write in my present condition. The result was a state of
nervous excitation that condemned me to lie in the dark
fending off hypnogogic monsters. Then I had another attack
of panic today. I refused to take one of the tranks prescribed
for me (Ive only taken one and that was on the day I arrived
here), and fought the attack with anger at my helplessness
instead.
Ive tried to discover the cause of this panic. Tony, and
I think Grace and Orla agree with him, believes it is my
response to the break up with Angie, a kind of life-crisis,
390

compounded by my isolation in Bristol afterwards. The

assumption here of course is that as an artist, I am more
imaginative, highly strung than normal people, and therefore
prone to fits of madness. I told him the other night that its
not simply a dysfunction, a collapse of order; it has a positive
element, which I experience as a kind of soaring (because I
can only bear its inception) fear. My condition frightens him,
as it does Grace, because it is infectious; it finds an echo in
them. Orla on the other hand can bear it with a kind of bland
control I dont understand. She has sat through two attacks.
The first time she tended to fuss, but once she realised that
made matters worse, she sat beside me and allowed me to
stabilise myself with reference to her presence.
Tony thinks he will get the solution or cure in my
notebooks, but I have forestalled him there. The notebooks
are an account of an experience only, not the experience itself
they are not fiction (which he doesnt like to hear). I want
him to read the notebooks so as to know what happened to
me during the summer, not what is happening now.
I think, though, I have understood one important
feature of this panic: there is something about it that attracts
me.
Ill write through this now:
From the beginning I was determined not to treat
myself as ill and so in need of a cure; rather, I would rest I
was exhausted after writing so much and then get on to the
next novel. I deliberately signed the contract and returned it
to my agent against Tonys advice, as a kind of leverage on
myself, knowing I would have to finish the novel by next
summer at latest. I must therefore go to California soon,
certainly by the end of the month. I am prepared to use the
391

tranks to calm me if required, and I am prepared to let the

panic contaminate the novel, but the point is that I am going
to write it regardless of what evasions or props I need to use
to do it. To this end I have applied for a visa and arranged
finance for the trip.
However (writing this I feel a movement in me, as
though a screen has been drawn back to reveal a dark
unknown territory backlit by moonlight), the word is
fascination: I feel suspended here in this room, caught up by
fascination at what is going on in me.
(Writing taking over again.)
Try this: the truth is that I am profoundly bored, and I
have repressed something in me for so long that it is finally
breaking out. Novel-writing no longer satisfies it. Nothing I
know could satisfy it.
Im not sure I can any longer deflect it.
Insight: death could satisfy it not necessarily suicide.
(Is this writing taking over?)
I see it now: murder would drive me beyond the pale of
this dead world. But only to drive me deeper into my
moroseness.
All this figuration: driving, pale, deeper, my: how the
word fascinate fascinated me; how the word murder kills
me.
(I dont seem to be able to avoid this rhetoric.)
Theres something in this though. Look at the word
that started this narrative: attraction. Thats followed by a
bullish statement of intent: will. But its only a front for
fascination with fascination, which in turn leads to murder,
which in turn permits me to write kills me.
What kills me? And who is to be killed?
392

Sinking feeling again: nothing is enough.

Whats new about that?
I dont believe the notebooks; they are so many words.
Do I believe the experience? No. You dont believe
experiences; you experience experiences.
I want to have that experience again? My first response
is yes, but I see at once that I would merely end up like this
again, wanting to have the experience again.
Thats not the point either. I repeat many experiences.
Something in the experience has spoiled me: I want to
have the same experience again, which is impossible.
Nothing will do otherwise.
OK, but that is not the panic, is it?
No, the panic is terror. Some part of me ego? pride
vanity is terrified that the experience could destroy it.
Is destroying it.(?)
(This is more like it.)
Who is to be murdered?
Image: She who is murderable.
Louise on her wheel.
No: too far gone for that. (I understand this: and in
realising that, I see the Rose Chamber again, and I see the
panic as a falling-away from that room.
Two elements then.
1. A fierce regret for an impossibility: that room is not
real; it cannot be achieved in the world of sense.
2. A terror at what would be lost if the desire for that
room became overwhelming my everyday consciousness.
I have been spoiled for the world of sense, and my
everyday consciousness has therefore lost value.
393

Is there a real difference between secular

consciousness and imagination? No: it is not a question of
difference, but of separation, of splitting.
Think about it.

20 Sept
Sentimentality is the remorse of the callous. Our world
is a project of the Imagination; that is, the world, the universe
we know, is organised on principles derived from our
Imagination, and language is the instrument of this
organisation. Motion is derived from Imagination: motion is a
narration. The project is proper when the resistance of matter
defines the limit of the project; it is improper, and dangerous,
when we are seduced into letting Imagination set the limit.
Another danger, more grievous, is allowing our project
determine the Imagination, that is, turning the Imagination
into a mirror of its own activities. The dangers are egoinflation and enchantment: you can see how they complement
each other.
The light is very clear this evening; sky colours pastel
and very pure.

21 Sept
No one notices that I am smoking again. Actually, no
one knows me well enough here to notice. Started again that
last weekend with Louise.
I can see why: nicotine turns thought into a fog. I get
the impulse to smoke when my thinking reaches a particular
394

point, when it penetrates beyond my habitual reflection. The

introduction of tobacco coincided with the decline of religion,
and was followed soon after by tea and coffee. None
stimulates the imagination; in fact, I suspect they run
interference across it. The same is true of alcohol, which
stimulates memory only.
Are they drugs of enchantment then?
22 Sept
Surprise last night. Orla took me to a house party, out
in Dalkey. We were among the after dinner guests. Mostly
her college friends, content to natter together for the rest of
their lives. Then Maire McMahon appeared, obviously
expecting me, and I learned pretty quickly that Orla had been
to Trinity, was involved in postgraduate research, all at the
behest of Tony and, latterly, Maire. She looked prosperous,
still witty, though her body is a burden to her. Shes very
good at lionising, she drew in about half a dozen others, and
it bucked me up no end, almost my usual self except the
speed, party too sedate. I made sure not to drink much, I
feared it would kick me down again, but we chatted away, a
lot to tell my very tactful admirers.
Then Dan White, portly now, greying, but a firm warm
handshake. Orlas supervisor. They are sweet to one another,
and Maire linking Dan, same old flame, which all pleased
and sweetened me. More chat, rest of party very discrete
about our racket, and I basked in the warmth of their
company, content most of the time to listen to them and laugh
and smile. Considering I met Dan and Maire only once or
twice twelve years ago, they were all extraordinarily kind,
395

and I suspect it was done on Orlas behalf she is very

popular with them.
Then there were cues, Orla and Maire drawing off the
others, and Dan began to prompt me in a deliberate way, not
brusque, and I think again that this was on behalf of Orla, not
Tony or I. (Tony, according to Dan, is now regarded as
something of a recluse, and can be eccentric in a compulsive
way which I hadnt noticed.) It took me a few minutes to
grasp it wasnt an intellectual conversation. Dan has a
spiritual quality, which became clearer later, and he seemed
to want to surround me with this aura. I was surprised,
actually more shocked, by his seriousness, by the strength of
his conviction, and I recoiled, seeing something so familiar in
what he was doing that my response was reflexive. But in
recoiling, I found myself tottering (figuratively, but I felt it
vividly) as though at a cross-roads. The anguish must have
been clear in my face, because he took my elbow and guided
me out of the room into the garden. It was a fine cool
evening, gentle Indian Summer weather, which consoled me,
and he walked beside me, his head inclined towards me, no
doubt waiting for the word. The cross-roads was familiar too:
I had lived with it all my life. One way to darkness, death,
latterly suicide. The other way held a promise, the certitude
of the final place, truth and light, peace, everything; but
though I recognised the promise and felt the deep echo in me,
I was strangely unmoved by it, knowing it was within my
power to accept or reject it, and that it was the fact of the
choice that made me perverse, because like all of us I wanted
to be elected, to be the chosen of that grace. Yes, I know the
promised thing is inside me, I have merely to open to it and
then endure the process of unfolding but I hunger for a
396

greater end, not just myself blissed in my own little Eden: I

want others there, I want us all there, joyful, loving, all
together, all of mankind, that ever was, is, and will be, united
in that spirit. No one could be happy in heaven if even one
recalcitrant soul remained in hell.
That is the third way, and on that road last night stood
Louise, at least: the one with whom I had finally made a
beginning. It was only then that I became conscious of how
profoundly I missed her, that my panic grew out of a fear that
I had harmed her irretrievably, that I had hurt her to death
murdered her. I asked Dan then giving him the word he
could work on if as an historian he had a sense of
irretrievable loss. That question surprised him and in his
confusion I felt my grief run, no tears but swollen adenoids
hurting my face.
Dan got so grave then, the child in him apparent
around his eyes, and I remembered the deaths of his parents,
but he said, shaken: God has called me twice, Richard,
which shook me, seeing how he had in desperation boxed
himself in. So I said, seeing the situation, using my hands to
illustrate: It is impossible to state what is the case. Its like
trying to push the north poles of two magnets together. The
only way an instance can be expressed is through the
articulation of another instance or series of instances. He
went down on that, giving it all his attention, so I continued:
We know instantaneously, all parts present and complete in
that instant. Communication of our knowledge requires false
articulation, false motion, of what we know. What we grasp
in a communication is merely the communication, not the act
of knowing itself that is the motive of the communication.
397

I felt better then, the world around me more alive than

it had been recently, and Dan stood on the lawn nodding his
head slowly, rubbing his chin with the fingers of his right
hand, and I felt a deep gratitude for what he had done, to act
as a catalyst despite the danger to himself.
Afterwards we walked around the garden in the cool
misty air, admiring the glistening flowers, especially the huge
hybrid marigolds of a deep rich orange, the merest hint of
scarlet here and there in the shadows. Orla and Maire came
out to join us after a while, and we walked about as two
couples, my arm around Orlas shoulders to protect her from
the chill, but also to express the emotion I felt towards her
consideration for me.
23 Sept
Resting during a walk in the Phoenix Park, I was struck
again by the clarity of the light here. How pervasive light is;
it doesnt roll and surge like water, light and dark
intermixing. Yet what we call sunlight is in fact local light.
The rays of the sun are not the light itself; light only appears
when these rays strike some surface and stimulate that
surface to shine. And what you see as light is not directly the
shining from the surface, but the result of a transmutation
within you. Thus the light you see originates, as the light you
see, within you. So where does the evenness and brightness
of light reside, in the sun, in the reflecting surface, or in you?
And yet, beautiful as light is, it is not essential. It
represents a narrow band of the radiation spectrum. Some
animals decipher their world by means of sound, and some
even generate the sound they use to decipher their world. Are
398

they more free with reference to their world than we are, who
must depend upon outside sources for our means of
decipherment?
And yet we have light within us, how else do we
illuminate our dreams, memories and reveries? But dont we
provide such illumination only on analogy with our
experience of the world of sense? Does our inner imaging
require illumination for us to know what is there? Isnt the
distinction between image and thought false? And the
distinction between seeing and knowing? I think so. And in
the case of external perception then: is the distinction
between seeing, sensing generally, and knowing also false?
I am perplexed by what I said to Dan White the other
night. I suspect I may have simply repeated something he told
me twelve years ago. The utterance was spontaneous and I
said it as much to relieve my feelings about Louise as to reply
to his confidence about the voice of God (which, and his
seriousness, I find absurd and risible, and that despite the
affect it generates in me). The curious thing, though, is that
writing about it reminds me that I had an image as I spoke,
which I cannot remember now but which has left me with a
sense of completeness, a kind of fatalistic completeness that
may have prompted my reflections of the cross-roads. If this
is the case, then the perversity I referred to might indicate
something more like identity than free choice, in the sense
that choice is not involved. We may already be there (where
it is we want to be), and it is simply a matter of recognising
this.
(Very late-nightish. Why do I gloss over differences
and reduce everything to sameness?)
399

26 Sept
Accepting the dark makes life more bearable because
instead of seeking an external cause of hurt, you see instead
how the soul is expanding you. Enter the pain and see what is
being reached for: what has always awaited you.
Writing this, I see again the Wheel of Fire and know,
as I knew then, that is it an illusion of light. Man is the rack
upon which woman is stretched, yes? But man must also
stretch in order to accommodate the woman. Whatever else,
man and woman are together here, soul to soul.
Does it matter whether Louise exists or not? I carry her
with me always now, and she shows me so much. If she
exists, then I do that service for her now, even as I sit here in
the dark writing this.
The only injunction is that I do not lose my nerve: that
I am not tempted to deflect the agony within me.
27 Sept
Sort of incipient panic attack after writing above. Its
as though such insights have no context and I am left
teetering on the verge of an emptiness. I can understand why
those who fear insanity exercise so much mental control. But
I knew this diary would be like this. I should give it up, but I
wont, not only because I promised Orla, I cannot break the
habit of writing.
The incipient attack was interesting, though. Like
feeling a sneeze coming on, and on and on. I lay in bed,
uncomfortably tense, deliberately avoiding reflection. I felt
the panic would come if I moved suddenly or allowed a stray
400

thought, yet I couldnt believe it would happen, yet I didnt

move in case it would.
Ill chase the embassy about the visa and then book a
flight for early October. I should settle down once I get to
work again.
Evening:
Flight to Los Angeles on 3 October. I feel better now
its arranged.
Curious afternoon. Coming back from airline office I
bumped into Tony outside Trinity, then who should come out
of the college but Orla, lugging monstrous briefcase, finished
for the day Saturday. We decided to have lunch, then a
drink, then we went out to Sandymount and walked the
beach.
I was abstracted on the beach at first, mild attack of
agoraphobia after spending so much time in this room, and I
left Orla and Tony to chat together. I studied the tidal marks
on the sand, to concentrate myself, and I was taken by their
complexity, like a cursive script that tends always to become
intelligible. Orla began to paddle, so I took my shoes and
socks off (Indian Summer still) and joined her, Tony on the
dry sand, he staring now at the sand. The wavelets were more
interesting, not only were they in motion but the sunlight kept
catching them, shooting off sharp rays.
(I know what I am writing about now, I didnt today.)
Walking behind Orla, looking at the lines on the sea, I
decided I would get out of Dublin and do some climbing.
Tony cant come, he has gone to England (to find Louise?),
and Orla has to prepare some tutorials. Tony offered me the
use of the cottage in Renvyle, but on the point of accepting, it
401

came to me that I should go to Kerry and climb Brandon

again.
I am happy.
28 Sept
Self-subsisting: can the eye seeing, see itself seeing?
Or the mind thinking, think itself thinking? Is this necessary?
Do we live our living? Reflection is nowhere needed the
presence is always there, an echo behind consciousness.
Know that the echo is you.
Likewise, the voice you cannot possibly hear, but the
sense of which is known to you; the light you cannot possibly
see, the vision of which is known to you in the silent
darkness all things can be known: and the secret is that
Nothing can be known heaven is the instant of recognition:
the always occurring grasp of presence.
Goodbye now.

October 1991
402