Without Lifting A Finger

And morning had brought the common-sense idea that probably she wanted to do nothing more than pull the string of the shower-bath — which meant committing herself to the first extravagant action that came into her head — and exulting in the consequences.

Being near Tietjens she lifted her plate, which contained two cold cutlets in aspic and several leaves of salad: she wavered a little to one side and, with a circular motion of her hand, let the whole contents fly at Tietjens’ head. She placed the plate on the table and drifted slowly towards the enormous mirror over the fireplace. “I’m bored,” she said. “Bored! Bored!”

The girl said: “I’m coming up now! I’ve found out something....” He watched intently the place where she must appear; it would give him pointers about the impenetrability of mist to the eye. Her otter skin cap had beads of dew: beads of dew were on her hair beneath: she scrambled up, a little awkwardly: her eyes sparkled with fun: panting a little: her cheeks bright. Her hair was darkened by the wetness of the mist, but she appeared golden in the sudden moonlight. Before she was quite up, Tietjens almost kissed her. Almost. An all but irresistible impulse! He exclaimed: “Steady, the Buffs!” in his surprise. She said: “Well, you might as well have given me a hand.”

The girl said: “I’m coming up now! I’ve found out something....” He watched intently the place where she must appear; it would give him pointers about the impenetrability of mist to the eye. Her otter skin cap had beads of dew: beads of dew were on her hair beneath: she scrambled up, a little awkwardly: her eyes sparkled with fun: panting a little: her cheeks bright. Her hair was darkened by the wetness of the mist, but she appeared golden in the sudden moonlight. Before she was quite up, Tietjens almost kissed her. Almost. An all but irresistible impulse! He exclaimed: “Steady, the Buffs!” in his surprise. She said: “Well, you might as well have given me a hand.”

It was in that way his mind worked when he was fit: it picked up little pieces of definite, workmanlike information. When it had enough it classified them: not for any purpose, but because to know things was agreeable and gave a feeling of strength, of having in reserve something that the other fellow would not suspect.... He passed a long, quiet, abstracted afternoon.

From the first book of four in Parade's End: “You don’t want me to be a pure young girl,” Sylvia asked with lazy incredulity. “I do not!” the Father said, “but I’d wish that at times ye’d remember you once were.” “I don’t believe I ever was,” Sylvia said. “If the nuns had known, I’d have been expelled from the Holy Child.” “You would not,” the Father said. “Do stop your boasting. The nuns have too much sense.... Anyhow, it isn’t a pure young girl I’d have you or behaving like a Protestant deaconess for the craven fear of hell. I’d have ye be a physically healthy, decently honest-with-yourself young devil of a married woman. It’s them that are the plague and the salvation of the world.”

Haven't yet given up on FMF's Parade's End (good bits but it's not the poetry of Proust), but downloaded some Baudelaire while I was sitting at Bucks. Started rereading Paris Spleen . Two clips: The contemplation of Beauty is a duel where the artist screams with terror before being vanquished. * One of my friends, the most harmless dreamer that ever lived, at one time set fire to a forest, in order to ascertain, as he said, whether the flames take hold with the easiness that is commonly affirmed.

Currently reading: FMF: a bio + just started Parade's End (a somewhat garbled Kindle version -- we need a better buying option!). Currently watching: Early Tarkovsky. *