The Dwarfs by Harold Pinter Page A

good, he himself would have more to offer the church. If, on the other hand, she were doing him positive harm, he took it the others would fulfil their obligations towards him, by way of understanding. A case, of course, could be made for an outside influence acting, say, on Len in one way, and on Mark in another, so as to cause dissension between them and corrupt the fabric. But in that event it would be simply a matter of choice. They would have to consider which was of more value; the subject of their quarrel, or their alliance. In such a case, either the church would profit or they could all pack up and go home.
    The day becoming twilight, she eased herself in the chair, the room’s shades meeting, till now, words again, about her, from the bed, where he squatted, smoking.
    The empty and the quack, he had had his fill of them. His way of life had forced a crisis. His time spent, for instance, in theChurch of England, had been a waste and a delusion. It had been nothing but intellectual dishwashing, where he had deceived himself he was putting in spadework as a positive visionary. It had served only as a degradation of his powers. His potentialities were wearing thin, becoming stagnant, out of nothing but disaffection at continually remaining potential. Beyond his own resources, he would be frank, he had little. The time was to do. He was, however, condemned to a course, of that let there be no doubt. He must work his disease to the bone and so cure it. His condition could be destroyed only by fulfilling it, to that he was reconciled. But to remain a part of the Church of England required a kind of patience he no longer possessed. They were too far drowned in inanities. For instance, their idea of the nature of God was an impertinence. All they were in fact doing was patting themselves on the back. As for God, they had given him his hat and told him to wait. They looked upon him as their creation; a commodity. They were directing the firm and all he had to do was run the errands. God did the donkeywork; they reaped the profits. At the last meeting he had attended he had declared: Where is this God of yours? Put him down here on the table and let’s have a look at him. Let’s all have a butcher’s. They thought a bomb had burst. In reality, they were the kind of people, who, if the gates of heaven opened to them, all they would feel would be a draught.
    In the dusk she sat still. Now Pete drew near to her.
    The same thing applied to the poets. They were guilty of a criminal defection. He must impress upon her that the act of writing was the act of committing yourself to yourself. Consequently it was a moral question. The poets about them were signing their own death warrant each time they signed their name. Their work was not self expression so much as self-creation. And all that issued forth was a lie. Each poem they wrote was nothing more than a posthumous fart. The labour of dead men, who could only give birth to a corpse, in their own image. It was a debasement and sellout of the purpose of writing, active only in that it delighted in its own smell. It wasfatal for a work of art to be conceived and brought about in a vacuum. It had to be purposive in the same way as a piece of cooking. What did you make a plumpudding for if you weren’t going to eat it? For, besides being selfcommittal, writing was bound to inform, enlighten and perhaps transform. Man might be an error of judgement but as yet he remained a relevant factor. And these people were relevant only in that they were a constant reminder of the mental waxwork he was faced with. They committed a sin with every word they wrote.
    It was dark. Virginia rose and put the kettle on the gas. Later, they went for a walk across the Lea.

Nine
    Pete sauntered into Threadneedle Street, blinked the grey bending stone, stopped. He looked up.
Valparaiso Bank. Must be Valparaiso Bank. Building without bricks. Geometric, brickless. An act of faith. Straight as a dye. Up to