Now a novel is supposed to be a mere record of emotion-adventures, flounderings in feelings. We insist that a novel is, or should be, also a thought-adventure, if it is to be anything at all complete.
“I am a fool,” thought Richard to himself, “to imagine that I can flounder in a sympathetic universe like a fly in the ointment.” We think of ourselves, we think of the ointment, but we do not consider the fly. It fell into the ointment, crying: “Ah, here is a pure and balmy element in which all is unalloyed goodness. Here is attar of roses without a thorn.” Hence the fly in the ointment: embalmed in balm. And our repugnance.
“I am a fool,” said Richard to himself, “to be floundering round in this easy, cosy, all-so-friendly world. I feel like a fly in the ointment. For heaven’s sake let me get out. I suffocate.”
Where to? If you’re going to get out you must have something to get out on to. Stifling in unctuous sympathy of a harmless humanity.
“Oh,” cried the stifling R. “Where is my Rock of Ages?”
He knew well enough. It was where it always has been: in the middle of him.
“Let me get back to my own self,” he panted, “hard and central in the centre of myself. I am drowning in this merge of harmlessness, this sympathetic humanity. Oh, for heaven’s sake let me crawl out of the sympathetic smear, and get myself clean again.”
Back to his own centre—back—back. The inevitable recoil.
“Everything,” said R. to himself, in one of those endless conversations with himself which were his chief delight, “everything is relative.”
And flop he went into the pot of spikenard.