“Oh, I don’t know. We may never get back. I don’t look before and after,” said Gerald.
“Nor pine for what is not,” said Birkin.
Gerald looked into the distance, with the small-pupilled, abstract eyes of a hawk.
“No. There’s something final about this. And Gudrun seems like the end, to me. I don’t know—but she seems so soft, her skin like silk, her arms heavy and soft. And it withers my consciousness, somehow, it burns the pith of my mind.” He went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyes fixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the barbarians. “It blasts your soul’s eye,” he said, “and leaves you sightless. Yet you want to be sightless, you want to be blasted, you don’t want it any different.”
He was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank. Then suddenly he braced himself up with a kind of rhapsody, and looked at Birkin with vindictive, cowed eyes, saying:
“Do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a woman? She’s so beautiful, so perfect, you find her so good, it tears you like a silk, and every stroke and bit cuts hot—ha, that perfection, when you blast yourself, you blast yourself! And then—” he stopped on the snow and suddenly opened his clenched hands—“it’s nothing—your brain might have gone charred as rags—and—” he looked round into the air with a queer histrionic movement “it’s blasting—you understand what I mean—it is a great experience, something final—and then—you’re shrivelled as if struck by electricity.” He walked on in silence. It seemed like bragging, but like a man in extremity bragging truthfully.
“Of course,” he resumed, “I wouldn’t not have had it! It’s a complete experience. And she’s a wonderful woman. But—how I hate her somewhere! It’s curious—”
Birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious face. Gerald seemed blank before his own words.
“But you’ve had enough now?” said Birkin. “You have had your experience. Why work on an old wound?”
“Oh,” said Gerald, “I don’t know. It’s not finished—”