So presently to bed and to sleep, but not at once to sleep. At first my brain, like a dog in unfamiliar¹ quarters, must turn itself round for a time or so before it lies down. This strange mystery of a world of which I have seen so little as yet — a mountain slope, a twilit road, a traffic of ambiguous vehicles and dim shapes, the window lights of many homes — fills me with curiosities. Figures and incidents come and go, the people we have passed, our landlord, quietly attentive² and yet, I feel, with the keenest curiosity peeping from his eyes, the unfamiliar forms of the house parts and furnishings, the unfamiliar courses of the meal. Outside this little bedroom is a world, a whole unimagined world. A thousand million things lie outside in the darkness beyond this lit inn of ours, unthought-of possibilities, overlooked considerations, surprises, riddles³, incommensurables, a whole monstrous⁴ intricate universe of consequences that I have to do my best to unravel⁵. I attempt impossible recapitulations and mingle⁶ the weird⁷ quality of dream stuff with my thoughts.

Athwart all this tumult⁸ of my memory goes this queer figure of my unanticipated companion, so obsessed⁹ by himself and his own egotistical love that this sudden change to another world seems only a change of scene for his gnawing¹⁰, uninvigorating passion. It occurs to me that she also must have an equivalent in Utopia, and then that idea and all ideas grow thin and vague, and are dissolved at last in the rising tide of sleep. . . .

下一页  尾页