Most of my time I spent writing; but it was a pretence at best, and
rather a dangerous one besides. For it stirred the mind to production,
with the result that other things came pouring in as well. With
reading it was the same. In the end I found an aggressive, deliberate
resistance to be the only way of feasible defence. To walk far afield
was out of the question, for it meant leaving my sister too long alone,
so that my exercise was confined to nearer home. My saunters in the
grounds, however, never surprised the goblin garden again. It was close
at hand, but I seemed unable to get wholly into it. Too many things
assailed my mind for any one to hold exclusive possession, perhaps.
Indeed, all the interpretations, all the ‘layers,’ to use my sister’s
phrase, slipped in by turns and lodged there for a time. They came day
and night, and though my reason denied them entrance they held their
own as by a kind of squatters’ right. They stirred moods already in
me, that is, and did not introduce entirely new ones; for every mind
conceals ancestral deposits that have been cultivated in turn along the
whole line of its descent. Any day a chance shower may cause this one
or that to blossom. Thus it came to me, at any rate. After darkness the
Inquisition paced the empty corridors and set up ghastly apparatus in
the dismal halls; and once, in the library, there swept over me that
easy and delicious conviction that by confessing my wickedness I could
resume it later, since Confession is expression, and expression brings
relief and leaves one ready to accumulate again. And in such mood I
felt bitter and unforgiving towards all others who thought differently.
Another time it was a Pagan thing that assaulted me--so trivial yet
oh, so significant at the time--when I dreamed that a herd of centaurs
rolled up with a great stamping of hoofs round the house to destroy it,
and then woke to hear the horses tramping across the field below the
lawns; they neighed ominously and their noisy panting was audible as if
it were just outside my windows.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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