Brideshead Revisited

by Evelyn Waugh

“I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.”

‘Ned,’ he said, ‘there’s one thing I must beg of you. Always wear a tall hat on Sundays during term.

Let me not forget my big hat

It seems to me that I grew younger daily with each adult habit that I acquired.

“Ought we to be drunk every night?” Sebastian asked one morning. “Yes, I think so.” “I think so too.”

and that’s all I want…. I wish I liked Catholics more.”

We both knew that this was a crisis. I had no love for Sebastian that morning; he needed it, but I had none to give. “Really,” I said, “if you are going to embark on a solitary bout of drinking every time you see a member of your family, it’s perfectly hopeless.” “Oh, yes,” said Sebastian with great sadness. “I know. It’s hopeless.”

“No, Charles, not yet. Perhaps never. I don’t know. I don’t know if I want love.” Then something, some surviving ghost from those dead ten years—for one cannot die, even for a little, without some loss—made me say, “Love? I’m not asking for love.” “Oh yes, Charles, you are,” she said, and putting up her hand gently stroked my cheek; then shut her door.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” “Oh yes. He was the forerunner.”

“Sometimes,” said Julia, “I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.”

“Mummy dying with it; Christ dying with it, nailed hand and foot; hanging over the bed in the night-nursery; hanging year after year in the dark little study at Farm Street with the shining oilcloth; hanging in the dark church where only the old charwoman raises the dust and one candle burns; hanging at noon, high among the crowds and the soldiers; no comfort except a sponge of vinegar and the kind words of a thief; hanging for ever; never the cool sepulcher and the grave clothes spread on the stone slab, never the oil and spices in the dark cave; always the midday sun and the dice clicking for the seamless coat.

“So tired,” she repeated, taking off her gold tunic and letting it fall to the floor, “tired and crazy and good for nothing.”

You know the whole of me. You know I’m not one for a life of mourning. I’ve always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can’t shut myself out from his mercy. That is what it would mean; starting a life with you, without him. One can only hope to see one step ahead.

OWEN 😖😖😖😖😖😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔💔