Subject: homeroom

From: "Susannah Sinclair" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sat, 16 Sep 2006 16:27:21 +0100

I cannot be tossed about, or float gently, or mixwith other people. He talked as easilyto the horse-breeder or to the plumber as to us. Nevilleis repelled by the grossness of Trumble.
We approach a junction; at a junction I haveto change.
Here is the central rhythm; herethe common mainspring.
Yet even as I feelthis, I lash my frenzy higher and higher.
Look how the willow shoots itsfine sprays into the air! Where then is the break in this continuity?
I watch it expand, contract; and thenexpand again.
Precisely, opening a space in the bookcase, Iinsert Don Juan; there. It seems that a match is set to a fire; something burns. I seetrees specked and burnt in the autumn sunlight. I can sketchthe surroundings up to a point with extraordinary ease. In a world which contains the present moment, said Neville, whydiscriminate? In local societyhe is important; is already a councillor, and perhaps in time willbe mayor.
I want her to say as shebrushes her hair or puts out the candle, Where did I read that?
I can never reada book in a railway carriage without asking, Is he a builder? There are faded rugs in the hall; amilitary gentleman smokes a pipe as he paces the terrace.
Alone,over my dead fire, I tend to see the thin places in my own stories. He has shot like an arrow from the room, said Bernard. I am conscious offlux, of disorder; of annihilation and despair. I am theseasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, themist, the dawn.
I too snap my fingers in the face of destiny. Iwas Byron, and the tree was Byrons tree, lachrymose, down-showering, lamenting. The case is handsome; but it blocks up thehall. It is like a waltz tune, eddying in and out, round andround.
I do not impersonate Catullus, whom Iadore.
Yet I think it is likely that the best aremade in solitude.