melancholy comes to the occult 3

“Are you ever arrested by the crawling feeling that everything we ever talk about is inane?”

“No, never.”

“Or that all those men in suits talking about ‘pride’ in hellenistic poetry and ‘texture’ in decadence-era French novels are, in fact, quite absurd.”

“Of course they are.”

“Perhaps that much is obvious. But, watching them, don’t you suspect that they are quite nefarious: dangerous creatures, — drunk estate managers ranging about with loaded pistols atop horses who suffer arthritis in their legs.”

“I never think that, no. They all seem quite harmless to me. Perhaps because I don’t care about their opinions. And because I have a private income from the estate of my dead childless uncle.”

“Well, don’t you think that they are, at least, damnable. Were you the prince of the underworld, wouldn’t you punish them with a thousand lashings?”

“What would be my justification?”

“They are guilty on two charges: sheer blindness, first, and, second, acting the child in adult affairs.”

“I can blame them for blindness. I can even make them blind! But in whose court could it possibly be damnable to act the child?”

“Mine.”

“You see? This is why the boys at the end of the lane call you an arsehole.”