“Who was he?” asked Kurt.
Kilner stared at him aghast.
“A poet. The poet.”
“I suppose I ought to have known,” replied Kurt, chuckling at Kilner’s annoyance, “but you see I was brought up in a German household. There was a fellow called Schiller they used to talk about, and they named a club after him where they used to eat and drink.”
“And what,” asked Kilner, “made you take to flying?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I always loved engines and speed. And after all, you know, it is the only thing to do.”
“Kilner thinks painting is the only thing to do,” interjected René.
“I meant for me,” answered Kurt. “That may be all right for him. I hate using my brains. Things get muddled at once if I do. I love using my body so that every muscle is called into play, and I loathe illness. It’s torture to me to be just a little unwell. I get moments out of my work that make everything else seem nothing at all, just something to laugh at and be merry over.”
“Something like that is my life,” said Kilner. “A few moments, only they are not enough in themselves. I have to follow them up in spirit and express them.”