“I hope he’s going ahead with the destruction of himself,” said the quick voice of the Russian. Halliday giggled, and lolled his head back, vaguely.
“There’s not much to destroy in him,” said the Pussum. “He’s so thin already, there’s only a fag-end to start on.”
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it has cured my hiccup!” squealed Halliday. “Do let me go on. ‘It is a desire for the reduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a return along the Flux of Corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions of being—!’ Oh, but I do think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes the Bible—”
“Yes—Flux of Corruption,” said the Russian, “I remember that phrase.”
“Oh, he was always talking about Corruption,” said the Pussum. “He must be corrupt himself, to have it so much on his mind.”
“Exactly!” said the Russian.
“Do let me go on! Oh, this is a perfectly wonderful piece! But do listen to this. ‘And in the great retrogression, the reducing back of the created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, the phosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation.’ Oh, I do think these phrases are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don’t you think they are—they’re nearly as good as Jesus. ‘And if, Julius, you want this ecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must go on till it is fulfilled. But surely there is in you also, somewhere, the living desire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when all this process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and more or less finished—’ I do wonder what the flowers of mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud.”
“Thank you—and what are you?”
“Oh, I’m another, surely, according to this letter! We’re all flowers of mud—fleurs—hic! du mal! It’s perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowing Hell—harrowing the Pompadour—Hic!”
“Go on—go on,” said Maxim. “What comes next? It’s really very interesting.”