You ought to be glad
someone did it. Christ, you ought to be glad your friend did it. But I've
suffered. . . . Maybe he suffered -- maybe he suffers all the time like me
-- you never can tell. He hasn't done anything. Those were just flashy
tourist gimmicks. I'm so despicable. You've no control over yourself.
All this self-recrimination is itself just a cover-up. And beneath that
and beneath that -- go on peeling the layers away and you'll see they
always come alternate, self-love and self-hate, right down to the rotten
core. It's my parents' fault . . . incest motif again. God, I'm so sick
of myself! Let me out!
He saw how he had wasted himself. Five years before, he had been doing
good work. Now he was just a spineless mind-travel addict.
One of the ways of escape from himself was at hand. A man and a girl
were walking in front of him, so unshadowed that Bush knew they had
come back from the same year as he. He hardly glanced at the man. The
girl was terrific, with beautiful legs and a sort of high-stepping walk
that suited her trim ankles. Her bottom was good and did not slop too
much. Her hair was short. Bush could see nothing of her face, but to
look at it immediately became his obsession.
It was a gambler's urge of which he had long been victim -- and now he no
longer had the excuse that he needed a model. The odds were stacked high
against any girl being a beauty. A thousand girls had pretty posteriors --
one in a thousand had a tolerable face. The fever died in him directly
he found one that did not match up to his standards. He was a face fetishist.
Even as he fell into pursuit, Bush realized -- it was an aside -- Ann had
a pretty face.
He followed the couple carefully, moving from side to side behind the girl,
so that by this libration he could see the maximum amount of her profile.
There were tents pitched here, and ragged individuals standing about,
wondering what the devil to do with the past now they had it. Bush
avoided them.
His quarry disappeared round the corner of a tent. Quickening his pace,
Bush followed. He saw the girl was standing alone just ahead. She had
turned to look at him. She was a cow. Almost at the same moment, Bush
scented danger. He whirled about, but the blow was already descending.
The girl's escort had jumped out of the tent doorway, and was bringing a
cosh down over his shoulder, hard.
The moment stretched into a whole season, as if the panic in Bush's mind
had flushed it of the man-made idea of passing time. He had more than enough
leisure to read the fear and madness -- as hateful as the dreaded blow
itself -- in the man's face, and to perform a whole series of connected
observations: I should have looked at the man, or at least have spared
him a glance: I recognized him: he was that odd fellow with Lenny and
Ann, blast her: dyed hair: his name was . . . but Roger mentioned the
name too . . . why didn't I take it in? why am I always so involved in
something else? always sometimes egotistic, of course . . . now I'm in
for trouble . . . Stone -- no, Stein, Stein, Stein!
The cosh landed, clumsily but hard, half across his face and half across
his neck. He went down. Anger came to him too late (again because he
was too self-involved to react quickly to the external situation?) and
as he fell he grappled for Stein's legs. His fingers clutched trousers.
Stein kicked him in the chest and pulled away. Sprawling on the soggy
generalized floor, Bush saw the man run away, past the girl, not bothering
about her.
The whole incident had not raised even one grain of Jurassic dust.
It remained alien, unstirrable.
Two men came over and helped Bush up. They said something about getting
him over to The Amniote Egg. That was the last thing he wanted. Still
in a daze, he snatched himself away from them and staggered off, moving
out of the tented area, clutching his neck, all his emotions jarring and
churning inside him. He remembered the girl's
someone did it. Christ, you ought to be glad your friend did it. But I've
suffered. . . . Maybe he suffered -- maybe he suffers all the time like me
-- you never can tell. He hasn't done anything. Those were just flashy
tourist gimmicks. I'm so despicable. You've no control over yourself.
All this self-recrimination is itself just a cover-up. And beneath that
and beneath that -- go on peeling the layers away and you'll see they
always come alternate, self-love and self-hate, right down to the rotten
core. It's my parents' fault . . . incest motif again. God, I'm so sick
of myself! Let me out!
He saw how he had wasted himself. Five years before, he had been doing
good work. Now he was just a spineless mind-travel addict.
One of the ways of escape from himself was at hand. A man and a girl
were walking in front of him, so unshadowed that Bush knew they had
come back from the same year as he. He hardly glanced at the man. The
girl was terrific, with beautiful legs and a sort of high-stepping walk
that suited her trim ankles. Her bottom was good and did not slop too
much. Her hair was short. Bush could see nothing of her face, but to
look at it immediately became his obsession.
It was a gambler's urge of which he had long been victim -- and now he no
longer had the excuse that he needed a model. The odds were stacked high
against any girl being a beauty. A thousand girls had pretty posteriors --
one in a thousand had a tolerable face. The fever died in him directly
he found one that did not match up to his standards. He was a face fetishist.
Even as he fell into pursuit, Bush realized -- it was an aside -- Ann had
a pretty face.
He followed the couple carefully, moving from side to side behind the girl,
so that by this libration he could see the maximum amount of her profile.
There were tents pitched here, and ragged individuals standing about,
wondering what the devil to do with the past now they had it. Bush
avoided them.
His quarry disappeared round the corner of a tent. Quickening his pace,
Bush followed. He saw the girl was standing alone just ahead. She had
turned to look at him. She was a cow. Almost at the same moment, Bush
scented danger. He whirled about, but the blow was already descending.
The girl's escort had jumped out of the tent doorway, and was bringing a
cosh down over his shoulder, hard.
The moment stretched into a whole season, as if the panic in Bush's mind
had flushed it of the man-made idea of passing time. He had more than enough
leisure to read the fear and madness -- as hateful as the dreaded blow
itself -- in the man's face, and to perform a whole series of connected
observations: I should have looked at the man, or at least have spared
him a glance: I recognized him: he was that odd fellow with Lenny and
Ann, blast her: dyed hair: his name was . . . but Roger mentioned the
name too . . . why didn't I take it in? why am I always so involved in
something else? always sometimes egotistic, of course . . . now I'm in
for trouble . . . Stone -- no, Stein, Stein, Stein!
The cosh landed, clumsily but hard, half across his face and half across
his neck. He went down. Anger came to him too late (again because he
was too self-involved to react quickly to the external situation?) and
as he fell he grappled for Stein's legs. His fingers clutched trousers.
Stein kicked him in the chest and pulled away. Sprawling on the soggy
generalized floor, Bush saw the man run away, past the girl, not bothering
about her.
The whole incident had not raised even one grain of Jurassic dust.
It remained alien, unstirrable.
Two men came over and helped Bush up. They said something about getting
him over to The Amniote Egg. That was the last thing he wanted. Still
in a daze, he snatched himself away from them and staggered off, moving
out of the tented area, clutching his neck, all his emotions jarring and
churning inside him. He remembered the girl's
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