the Virgin again for the billionth time. Seven
scarves held him in position. Two fastened his
shins to the rockers, one his thighs to the seat,
two his breast and belly to the back, one his
wrists to the strut behind. Only the most local
movements were possible. Sweat poured off
him, tightened the thongs. The breath was not
perceptible. The eyes, cold and unwavering
as a gull's, stared up at an iridescence splashed
over the cornice moulding, shrinking and fad-
ing. Somewhere a cuckoo-clock, having struck
between twenty and thirty, became the echo
of a street-cry, which now entering the mew
gave Quid pro quo! Quid pro quo! directly.

These were sights and sounds that he did
not like. They detained him in the world to
which they belonged, but not he, as he fondly
hoped. He wondered dimly what was breaking
up his sunlight, what wares were being cried.
Dimly, very dimly.

He sat in his chair in this way because it gave
him pleasure! First it gave his body pleasure,
it appeased his body. Then it set him free in
his mind. For it was not until his body was
appeased that he could come alive in his mind,
as described in section six. And life in his mind
gave him pleasure, such pleasure that pleasure
was not the word.

-2-