perceive it lay in him. He looked at Gummi with the delight of a scientist after a successful laboratory experiment: such a capacity for love he had never witnessed before in anyone.
“Heavens!” the doctor said to himself. “What kind of sin could a person like this possibly have on his soul? None, except, perhaps…” But even that sin, of such an innocent variety, was out of the question, he realized at once.
He stood there in rapt admiration of Gummi’s purity and beauty. The elderly boy grew younger by the minute, illumined by the beauty his eyes feasted on. Gummi lingered for a long time over one portrait. It was by far the least provocative image of all those he had examined: a homely face, plain and not too bright, seemingly unsuited for the stage—mediocrity not cut out for theatrical wickedness. Gummi sighed rapturously. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Very much,” said the doctor in all sincerity. His heart sang. He loved Joy again. He was seized with a feeling of exhilaration. He noticed that the air around him had become more transparent, revealing cleaner lines and more vibrant colors. Of course, it’s autumn again, Davin realized. The world rushed along, rapid and precise, like an image, and again ended up in the same place. The world returned again and again, without ceasing, and escaped the notice of awareness for only a fraction of a second, so that it could be itself, unburdened by cognition and drab egotistical reflections. Davin drank it in like the rarest, most ineffable, water—like water that was more than water.
Most likely Paradise, too, is blessed with no special marvels other than streams, groves, and skies, he thought. But what streams, groves, and skies! My God! And the town—the town! For the first time he became aware of the town’s layout and situation, and realized, too, that they were very pleasing.
They walked out together from under the overhang. Standing on the little promontory of the railroad platform, they saw the town wreathed and whorled in mist, still chilly and not quite awake yet; they saw how it curled itself up into a ball in the bend of Cool Palm River. There were clouds floating in the water, as though they were running away from a laundress who had dropped them into the river. Way over there, on that little bridge … She really is rinsing laundry … My God, how clear it all is! Even the train that had just left, way off in the distance. And, closer, the throng of red brick, becalmed by green crowns of trees just starting to turn pale, dust at the end of the road, cowbells modestly ringing out the good news. With what equanimity, what elegant simplicity, everything has settled down and arranged itself; it has no need to conceal, to hide, to muffle itself up. Suddenly it seemed to Davin that he had to hurry to love, because … such love … soon … would never again … be.
He took out a cigarette case, his fingers trembling. Gummi was reflected in the polished lid, and Davin, recollecting himself, offered him a cigarette.
While Gummi, touched and flattered, kneaded the cigarette with an unpracticed hand, strewing tobacco around, Davin came to his senses abruptly. The town had lost its radiance and was overlaid with a dull gray film. It was a different train, because it was going in the other direction; a garbage can, tipped over on its side, disgorged its abundance … Damnation, I forgot!… Davin tried to recall that cardinal thought that had dawned on him when he was seeing off his departing betrothed. It seemed the idea had followed Joy into the distance, leaving no trace. What was it again? Feeling, thought … no, no connection … Drat! It was imperative that he remember it—without it, he couldn’t continue his work.
Mental activity is nothing other, and cannot be anything other, than the distribution of movement, originating in external impressions, between the cells of the cerebral cortex. The words “soul,” “spirit,”
“Heavens!” the doctor said to himself. “What kind of sin could a person like this possibly have on his soul? None, except, perhaps…” But even that sin, of such an innocent variety, was out of the question, he realized at once.
He stood there in rapt admiration of Gummi’s purity and beauty. The elderly boy grew younger by the minute, illumined by the beauty his eyes feasted on. Gummi lingered for a long time over one portrait. It was by far the least provocative image of all those he had examined: a homely face, plain and not too bright, seemingly unsuited for the stage—mediocrity not cut out for theatrical wickedness. Gummi sighed rapturously. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Very much,” said the doctor in all sincerity. His heart sang. He loved Joy again. He was seized with a feeling of exhilaration. He noticed that the air around him had become more transparent, revealing cleaner lines and more vibrant colors. Of course, it’s autumn again, Davin realized. The world rushed along, rapid and precise, like an image, and again ended up in the same place. The world returned again and again, without ceasing, and escaped the notice of awareness for only a fraction of a second, so that it could be itself, unburdened by cognition and drab egotistical reflections. Davin drank it in like the rarest, most ineffable, water—like water that was more than water.
Most likely Paradise, too, is blessed with no special marvels other than streams, groves, and skies, he thought. But what streams, groves, and skies! My God! And the town—the town! For the first time he became aware of the town’s layout and situation, and realized, too, that they were very pleasing.
They walked out together from under the overhang. Standing on the little promontory of the railroad platform, they saw the town wreathed and whorled in mist, still chilly and not quite awake yet; they saw how it curled itself up into a ball in the bend of Cool Palm River. There were clouds floating in the water, as though they were running away from a laundress who had dropped them into the river. Way over there, on that little bridge … She really is rinsing laundry … My God, how clear it all is! Even the train that had just left, way off in the distance. And, closer, the throng of red brick, becalmed by green crowns of trees just starting to turn pale, dust at the end of the road, cowbells modestly ringing out the good news. With what equanimity, what elegant simplicity, everything has settled down and arranged itself; it has no need to conceal, to hide, to muffle itself up. Suddenly it seemed to Davin that he had to hurry to love, because … such love … soon … would never again … be.
He took out a cigarette case, his fingers trembling. Gummi was reflected in the polished lid, and Davin, recollecting himself, offered him a cigarette.
While Gummi, touched and flattered, kneaded the cigarette with an unpracticed hand, strewing tobacco around, Davin came to his senses abruptly. The town had lost its radiance and was overlaid with a dull gray film. It was a different train, because it was going in the other direction; a garbage can, tipped over on its side, disgorged its abundance … Damnation, I forgot!… Davin tried to recall that cardinal thought that had dawned on him when he was seeing off his departing betrothed. It seemed the idea had followed Joy into the distance, leaving no trace. What was it again? Feeling, thought … no, no connection … Drat! It was imperative that he remember it—without it, he couldn’t continue his work.
Mental activity is nothing other, and cannot be anything other, than the distribution of movement, originating in external impressions, between the cells of the cerebral cortex. The words “soul,” “spirit,”
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