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There was a warmth to the man, an outgoingness, which was real; but it had got plasticoated with professional mannerisms, distorted by the doctor’s unspontaneous use of himself.
He arrived at ideas the slow way, never skating over the clear, hard ice of logic, nor soaring on the slipstreams of imagination, but slogging, plodding along on the heavy ground of existence.
He had grown up in a country run by politicians who sent the pilots to man the bombers to kill the babies to make the world safe for children to grow up in.
On top of pique, umbrage, and ennui. Oh, the French diseases of the soul.
because it was so large, so useless, and so ugly as to be, to the American eye, invisible.
all, it is on my side. That is, I’m a part of it. Not separate from it. I walk on the ground and the ground’s walked on by me, I breathe the air and change it, I am entirely interconnected with the world.
He stood looking at her and smiling, a broad, radiant smile of pure joy. She had never received so great a compliment in her life; she was abashed by that joy, which she had caused.
When it was made, they lay in each other’s arms, holding love, asleep.
There is a bird in a poem by T. S. Eliot who says that mankind cannot bear very much reality; but the bird is mistaken. A man can endure the entire weight of the universe for eighty years. It is unreality that he cannot bear.
