Reason has become reasonable again. That’s the supreme gift of technology. Myths have exploded, religious, political, ethical. Progress has become unprogressive. Cities have to be emptied out to make man survive. Earth has to be given back to itself, so that man can belong to himself again. The whale and the eagle will survive, and so too the lion. Our tiaras and swords once more will shine in the palace halls for there will be the bridegroom-choosing ceremony. The princess of reason stands behind the door, rose in hand. Who amongst the men will be shadowless—and so king?

He will certainly be there tomorrow, if we survive.

8

Forster, the Wise Man of England

To speak of Forster is, in a way, to speak of a saint. Not a saint of God, certainly, but an anthropocentric apostle—to whom the intellectual appetites of man, the obese vocabulary of boys, the indiscrete discretions of Indians, the violence of Italians, the passions of a maharaja, the awkward straightness of an Englishman, so many faces and despairs, are signs of an internal music, of a pure human truth, aspects of an earthly logos.

‘ . . . Have I quite followed you, sir, in that business of the brotherhood of man?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I thought love was to bring it about.’

‘Love of another man’s wife? Sensual love? You have understood nothing—nothing.’ Then he was ashamed, and cried, ‘I understand nothing myself.’ For he remembered that sensual and spiritual are not easy words to use . . .

‘Promise me just this, then—not to do anything crooked.’

‘I’m straight. No boasting, but I couldn’t do a crooked thing—no, not if I tried.’

And so appallingly straight was he in after years, that Mr Failing wished that he had phrased the promise differently.

(The Longest Journey)

The drama is always before us, in streets, in parks, in grottoes, in colleges, in piazzas, in palaces—if you like, in the courts of justice, in fields; it’s a delicate comedy even when it’s vulgar. The problem is simply to phrase it differently.

H.H. fancying he would sleep better in the state drawing room, we now repaired to that apartment. When he turned on the electric light a servant, stripped to the waist, was discovered slumbering. He was ejected and a vast mattress spread on the floor, over it a delicate sheet, a big pillow and a side pillow for each arm. But before he could lie down, more horses were heard in the courtyard, and his sister-in-law, with a train of handmaids, was reported approaching . . .

Cards were brought and we played patience all over the carpet . . . Then I rose and left the strange scene. Holy songs arose from the drawing room later. Sister-in-law had retired at last, and some of the court were chanting Marathi hymns to their sovereign while others massaged his calves. Amid their ministrations he fell into a doze.

(The Hill of Devi)