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Reality is water-soluble. What we could see, the rocks, the shore, the trees, the boats on the lake, had lost their usual definition and blurred into the long grey of a week’s rain. Even the house, that we fancied was made of stone, wavered inside a heavy mist and through that mist, sometimes, a door or a window appeared like an image in a dream. Every solid thing had dissolved into its watery equivalent.
London is perpetual; a constant streaming present hurrying towards a receding future.
Shelley adores towers, woods, ruins, graveyards, any part of Man or Nature that broods.
Why are you so easy in your body? he said. Because it really is my body. I had it made for me.
Isn’t it the seat of love? So they say … So they do. They never say, I love you with all my kidneys. I love you with my liver. They never say, my gall bladder is yours and yours alone. No one says, she broke my appendix.
Jesus is not related to Wonder Woman! said Claire.
