But not coolly, not analytically; for here, where analysis of his situation would have been deceptively easy, and would probably have led to a weary, half-cynical recapitulation, a decision to go back, to adapt himself, to take up the broken threads of his cocoon and glue them together again, his new clarity came to him as a series of cleanly etched visions and a rapid re-living of all the major emotions of his life in a series of sharp bursts. It was very simple: he saw himself bowed over books, listening to instruc­tion, submitting to correction, being endlessly moulded and shaped; edging his way for years between the delicate areas of other people’s sensibilities. One step too far in any direction and some one or other of them will be ‘hurt’, offended, disappointed. His schoolmasters shaking their heads, his father perplexed and angry, his mother wheedling or sulking, down to Mrs. Smythe’s leading questions and Edith’s yapping reproach—how they had all trampled over him! His mind accelerated still more; he rolled over on his back, so that he could see the moon-silvered spire of the village church waving like a reed in the quiet sky, and the images crowded in faster and faster. Sheila leaned towards him, her eyes tenderly seeking his, but her hairline suddenly slumped down to within half an inch of her eyebrows and her face became that of the landlord, coarse and domineering. A line from a modern poem he had recently read fell like a pebble into his mind;

And I a twister love what I abhor.

George Hutchins appeared, kicking savagely at a football: it sailed away towards the goal, where Lockwood stood wearing a green jersey and cap; as it revolved Charles suddenly saw that it was no ordinary football, but the head of Mr. Hutchins, senior. ‘Don’t mind me, Mr. Lumley,’ it said deprecatingly in a Black Country accent, ‘our George has worked so hard for his success.’ The line of verse boomed out again, but this time in an altered form: it was, with him, one of the usual features of intoxication.

And I a lover twist what I abhor.

Charles jerked himself upright, and forced himself to walk on. It was easier to think when one was covering ground. Think of what? There was only one question: how to use the first twenty-two years of his life as a foundation for the next fifty. If, indeed, there was to be a next fifty; and the mushroom-shaped cloud that lived perpetually in a cave at the back of his mind moved forward for a moment to blot out everything else.

And twister I, abhorring what I love.

Still, one must behave as if there was going to be. Any other assumption led only to suicide.