“Force! Huge force, gripping you, holding you, bearing you on to its purpose which is also your own, so that always you are sure, always stronger than yourself.”
Out of the dark archway came a voice, saying:
“A philosopher in the slums.”
René started, and groped back to the world of the senses. A tall thin figure loomed up in front of him, and a pale, eager face with a jutting nose and large eyes smiled at him.
“Kilner, my name,” said the owner of it. “I’ve noticed you, walking about in a hungry dream. Down on your luck? So am I. Best of luck in a way. When the world doesn’t want you, it gives you time to look at it and think about it, and discover that it is really good. Otherwise you have to take so much on hearsay, and then of course you are not entitled to have an opinion about it, much less any feeling.”
“I was just beginning to feel extraordinarily happy about it all, though I have come to grief, and am a source of great anxiety to my friends.”
“Friends? They never want anything but one’s external comfort. They will dine with you, walk with you, talk with you, sleep with you, but think with you, feel with you, they will not. It’s not their fault. They don’t want to be anything but charming. We who want charm only with truth find ourselves in trouble in no time at all. What did you try to do?”
“I got married.”
“Oh! Is that all? I thought you must be a painter or a writer or—I’m a painter. But I can’t sell a damn thing, so I work for a furniture-dealer until I’ve saved enough to keep me going for a few months. Come up and talk.”
They went up to No. 16. Kilner produced cigarettes and continued: