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    Collected Short Prose
    Collected Short Prose
    Collected Short Prose
    Ebook882 pages14 hours

    Collected Short Prose

    By John O'Loughlin

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    About this ebook

    Having already published short stories or, as John O'Loughlin (with his philosophical bias) prefers to call them, 'short prose' in two volumes of 'collected short prose', viz. Two Sides of the Same Coin & Tales Side Up, the former of which included, as per custom back then, an aphoristic appendix, this author decided to republish them in one volume (minus the aphorisms) for convenience's sake, in the interests, one might say, of structural and thematic continuity together with a certain prosy purism that sets definite bounds to the scope and style of the contents, dovetailed, as they are, into a somewhat voluminous but nonetheless highly accessible project whose material spans the period 1976–84, during which virtually all of his fictional writings, including several novels, or works of 'long prose', were composed.– A Centretruths editorial
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateOct 8, 2021
    ISBN9781847997425
    Collected Short Prose

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      Book preview

      Collected Short Prose - John O'Loughlin

      COLLECTED SHORT PROSE

      By

      JOHN O'LOUGHLIN

      Of Centretruths Digital Media

      CDM Prose

      This edition of Collected Short prose published 2021 by John O'Loughlin (of Centretruths Digital Media) in association with Lulu

      Copyright © 2021 John O'Loughlin

      All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author/publisher

      ISBN: 978-1-84799-742-5

      * * * *

      CONTENTS

      PREFACE

      The Weekly Lesson

      The Weekly Confession

      The Aesthetica

      Hanley's Concept

      A Literary Trinity

      A Visit to Hell

      The Reckoning

      Occupational Species

      The Christian Compromise

      An Extraordinary Rumour

      The Turning-Point

      Caught Unawares

      From the Devil to God

      An Unexpected Crisis

      To the Millennium and Beyond

      Perfection Our Goal

      Nolan's Investigations

      Living in the City

      A Canine Crime

      An Evening with Paul Kelly

      Prospect of a Change

      Extracts from a Journal

      Dream Compromise

      Millennial Projections

      Musical Evolution

      Concerning Black Holes

      A Very Civilized Man

      The Two Literatures

      Wisdom

      A Public Writer

      Understanding Sex

      Space Philosophy

      Universal Language

      A Private Introduction

      Space Journal

      The Spell

      Concerning a Tree

      Musical Theories

      Two-Way Switch

      A Selfish Man

      Sex in the Head

      Visual Experiences

      Class Distinctions

      Worlds within Worlds

      Spiritual Leaders

      Two Kinds of Strength

      Between Two Extremes

      Relativity

      Revolutionary Revelations

      Polar Attractions

      Understanding Bureaucracy

      A Thinker at Large

      Relative Distinctions

      Doing It Alone

      Twelve Thinkers

      Free-Electron Sexuality

      A Vertical Integrity

      Creative Extremes

      For Truth

      Leader's Transcendentalism

      A True Extremism

      A Permanent Cross

      More Plastic

      Supernatural Upgrading

      Centric Sexuality

      Writerly Print

      Supernatural Travel

      Six Thinkers ...

      Five Speeches ...

      Thus Speaks the Social Transcendentalist

      BIOGRAPHICAL FOOTNOTE

      * * * *

      PREFACE

      Having already published short stories or, as I (with my philosophical bias) prefer to call them, 'short prose' in two volumes of 'collected short prose', viz. Two Sides of the Same Coin & Tales Side Up, the former of which included, as per custom back then, an aphoristic appendix, I have decided to republish them in one volume (minus the aphorisms) for convenience's sake, in the interests, one might say, of structural and thematic continuity together with a certain prosy purism that sets definite bounds to the scope and style of the contents, dovetailed, as they are, into a somewhat voluminous but nonetheless highly accessible project whose material spans the period 1976–84, during which virtually all of my fictional writings, including several novels, or works of 'long prose', were composed.

      Thereafter matters became increasingly philosophic and hence, to my mind, ever more metaphysical, with what I would regard as philosophical truth effectively eclipsing the narrative bias of fiction and, indeed, of prose in general.  But that would not have transpired without both the short prose (as here) and the long prose (or novels), together, as noted, with some early aphoristic material that at least had the merit, so far as I am concerned, of anchoring me in a more genuinely purist approach to philosophy than could ever be found in works often of a largely philosophical nature diluted, as here, by prose and, hence, by a discursive want of both logic and system unworthy, in my estimation, of any claims to being genuinely philosophical, or primarily concerned, in other words, with the pursuit of truth and the rejection, in consequence, of beauty, as of any fictional concessions to it.

      Nonetheless, the reader will be aware that prose of a philosophical nature is still distinct from literary prose, or general fiction, and all the more so when, as in this volume and various others akin to it, the material has been centred, the better to intimate of a sort of metaphysical aloofness from the pedament-slaving world which customarily fights shy, in the angularity of its untransvaluated realism, of anything resembing, no matter how metaphorically, the curvilinear subjectivity of a dome, particularly when such a dome intimates, in true religious vein, of transcendental possibility, a possibility very much part of the best – as opposed to worst – of the prose pieces included in this one-volume presentation, which gathers transcendental momentum, so to speak, the further it progresses.

      John O’Loughlin, London 2021

      * * * *

      The Weekly Lesson

      I had just removed her brassiere and was in the preliminary stages of fondling her quite copious breasts when, to my profound consternation, the damn telephone rang.  Now who-the-devil can that be? I asked myself as, reluctantly extricating myself from Sharla's grip, I hurried out into the hall, snatched up the receiver, and straightaway heard a gruff voice asking: Hello, is my daughter there?

      She is indeed! I impulsively replied.

      Ah, could I speak to her a moment?

      Er, certainly.  Just a sec.  I turned towards the piano room, the door to which was still slightly ajar.  Sharla! I called.

      Yes?

      Your, er, father wants to speak to you.

      Oh, damn him! she groaned, automatically putting on her vest.  What-on-earth can he want?

      It wasn't a question I could answer there and then, so I patiently held the receiver to my chest until, arriving breathlessly in the hall, she was able to take it from me and say: Hi dad!

      Fearing that my presence beside her wouldn't help any, I ambled back into the piano room, where her bag, coat, shoes, miniskirt and underclothes lay strewn across the floor, and her perfume permeated the air with its delightfully sweet scent.  Indeed, everything about her was delightfully sweet.  Even the room itself, ordinarily so drab and formal, seemed to have taken on a romantic dimension which lent the furniture a mysterious poignancy, as though it had acquired the semblance of life and was now a silent witness to this evening's amorous events.  Fortunately for me, however, Sharla's high intelligence permitted her the equivalent of two lessons in the space of one, so I never had to fear that her musical education would lag behind or be seriously undermined in consequence of my weekly devotions to her sexuality.  In my view she was potentially a distinction candidate, the next and final examination grade almost bound to lead her to studying piano at one of the country's principal music colleges.

      Okay, her voice came from the hall, but I won't be late home in any case.  Yes, thanks for letting me know.  Okay, bye then.  She replaced the receiver with a peremptory slam and swiftly tiptoed back to where I lay, ruminating on the couch.

      Well, is anything amiss? I tersely asked while fixing her with a searching look.

      He wanted to know if everything's okay, she drawled, still a little under the influence of our bottle of medium-sweet wine.

      What a silly question! I asseverated, my hands instinctively groping under her vest for the milk-laden globes which were now generously advancing towards me, compliments of Sharla's graceful return to the couch.  What did he really say?

      Her long spidery fingers crawled nimbly over my stomach and up my chest.  A friend of the family has invited my parents over to dinner at the last moment, so they'll be out when I get back.  Which means that my father has hidden the front-door key in one of the two small lanterns affixed to the wall either side of our front door.

      But don't you have a key of your own? I asked, astounded.

      They still won't entrust me with one, she sighed.

      How silly! I exclaimed.  Why, you're almost eighteen.

      And old enough to be my piano teacher's favourite pupil, she enthused.

      I smiled impulsively, as much from relief as from genuine amusement.  Yes, but at least I'm a private teacher and not a schoolmaster.

      "What difference does that make?" she cried.

      Less scandalous, of course.

      The hell it is!

      I had to smile in spite of my attempt at seriousness.  Look, this is a perfectly natural state-of-affairs actually.  Let's just say that both of us are pupils in the art of making love.

      But you're always teaching me, Sharla protested, clearly no easy girl to convince.

      I sighed faintly and said: Not as much as you may imagine, sweetie.

      "Well, that's not the impression I get," she smilingly retorted.

      Frankly, you're a very precocious young lady who knows, as well as anybody, that the recently-perfected transition from the keyboard to the couch considerably enhances your enjoyment of these piano lessons, I averred, particularly when you can spend part of your fees on the quiet and boast to various classmates at school of having intimate connections with a handsome music teacher nearly ten years your senior.

      I don't boast! Sharla retorted incredulously.  Whoever told you that?

      Now, now, don't blush, baby!

      I'm not b-blushing, she stammered.  I never tell other girls anything about you.

      Ah, but they tell me, I smiled, teasing her.

      What d'you mean? she exclaimed.  No other girls ...

      Alright, I was only joking, I admitted, the back of my hand caressing her cheek in a pacificatory manner.  But you do tell a few friends.

      She lowered her large plum-like eyes in apparent shame.  Okay, only my closest friends, she confessed blushingly.

      I smiled but said nothing as we lay motionless together on the couch, basking in the gentle warmth of each other's bodies.  I ran a hand through her black wiry hair and then ever so tenderly kissed her on the lips a few times.  Eventually she responded in kind and our kissing became more intense.

      The time always goes too quickly when I come here, she at length sighed, coming-up for air.

      Indeed it does, I agreed sympathetically.  It's a pity you don't come here more often.

      Humph!  I might be able to if you weren't always so busy giving piano lessons to other girls every night, she complained.  Don't you ever take an evening off?

      I don't teach at the weekend, I replied obliquely.

      Then why can't we arrange to see each other on Saturdays or Sundays as well? she asked a touch petulantly.

      That might be possible, I conceded.

      Smiling, she drew herself up closer to my face and brought her big dark eyes directly into focus with mine, or so it appeared from the way I saw her pupils contract so rapidly.  Do you have other girls like me? she asked with a directness that momentarily embarrassed me.

      Unfortunately not, Sharla, I confessed in what was probably an overly frank sort of way.  The others are mostly too young, too plain, or too thin.  Besides, I couldn't afford to let that many people keep a part of their piano fees in recompense, since I'm not exactly rolling in money, you know.

      But you do have a girlfriend besides me, don't you? she asked in a tone of voice and with a facial expression which suggested she already knew the answer.  So, to save myself extra complications, I gently replied in the affirmative.  And you see her at the weekends? she went on.  Again I replied in the affirmative.  Humph! That explains it, she solemnly concluded.

      Explains what, Sharla?

      Why you won't see me then.

      Not entirely, I responded half-smilingly.

      Then what? – She seemed on the verge of tears.

      Don't upset yourself, I gently chided her and, sliding my hands down her back and over her rump, proceeded to comfort her as best I could.

      What time is it? she at length wanted to know, looking a trifle concerned.

      My goodness, it's nearly 8.50! I exclaimed, glancing at the watch and scrambling to my feet.  I've another pupil at nine.

      What a drag, she drawled.

      What, having another pupil?

      No, getting dressed!

      I smiled as, reaching for our respective clothes, the pair of us sought to cover our nakedness as quickly as possible.

      That done, we briefly returned to the piano and to the Schumann piece which still stood, as though to attention, on the stand where it had been abandoned some time before.  If it had presented her with a few minor problems it was mainly because her legato technique was still insufficiently pianistic, depending too much on the sustain pedal.  I therefore suggested that she spend some of the following week practising scales in order to make her fingers work harder, since they were still rather too lazy and stiff for comfort (in marked contrast, I reflected, to the way they behaved on the couch).  In actual fact it would be better if, for the time being, you ignored the pedal markings altogether, I continued, growing in confidence.  For the pedal is fast becoming a crutch, and not exactly the most helpful one either!

      Thus after a few amendments to her Schumann technique, a brief display of scales, and a couple of aural tests, I set her free, saying: And don't be late next week! as a final piece of advice which, however innocently intended, was bound to sound ironic to Sharla.

      Oh, don't you worry about that! she smilingly retorted and, much to my delight, planted a firm farewell kiss on my lips before regretfully taking her leave of me.

      The Weekly Confession

      When she arrived at the church there was nobody to be seen.  The building was almost deserted.  Apart from some barely audible mumbling from the confessional, there was nobody to be heard either.  It was all very quiet.

      Glancing down at her wristwatch, she saw that it was exactly 2.30pm, the time she was usually expected.  The priest would be quite disappointed with her if she arrived late, as experience had recently shown, and might even decline to absolve her.  It was one thing to arrive a sinner, but to depart the church an even bigger one was quite another!  She so hated to repeat her confessions.

      Sharon Conroy had just turned eighteen.  With a shapely figure, a pretty face, a pleasant manner, good taste, and a few additional charms besides, she possessed virtually all the personal advantages for which a young woman of moderate means could reasonably hope.  From a very early stage in her church-going career she had built up a considerable trust in Father James' confidence, in his congenially unpretentious manner of first absorbing and then absolving sins.  Now that she had blossomed into a highly attractive not to say intelligent person, this confidence seemed even more important to her than previously, and notably as a means of securing his profoundest concern for her sexual welfare.  It was he, after all, who had one day assured her that he always took her interests directly to heart.

      She sat down on the end of the pew nearest the confessional and, bowing her head, respectfully closed her eyes.  It was so still in the church that, excited as she was, she could hear her heart beating.  The slightest movement on her part would have seemed like a sudden violence.  A few tiny beads of sweat rolled slowly down her back and were absorbed by her underclothes.  The deathly coolness of the place was so apparent on warm days like today ... it was a wonder to her that she didn't catch a chill, as she had often feared doing, from these sudden violent changes of temperature.  Father James could at least have taken the trouble to warm the place up a bit!

      Slowly opening her eyes she glanced towards the confessional, from whence the steady mumbling, now more audible than before, behind its thick curtain indicated that the priest was engaged in absolving an old man, probably the old fellow who had been there at a similar time the previous week; though what it was, exactly, that such an elderly person could be held guilty of ... she didn't have the foggiest idea!  Perhaps he gambled or drank immoderately, assuming he had the money?  Well, whatever he did, he was evidently a sinner and, as such, Father James would know how to deal with him, to keep him on reasonably good terms with the Almighty.  One had to admit that it didn't pay to underestimate the power of redemption, especially where such an experienced emissary of God as this erudite priest was concerned!

      After a few minutes had elapsed, the curtain behind which the elderly sinner had been hiding was carefully drawn back by a shrivelled hand, and a stooped figure, scarcely recognizable in the semi-darkness, slowly emerged from his part of the confessional with what may well have been a relieved expression on his ugly face, and straightaway shuffled off down the aisle, seemingly well on his way to eternity.  The confessional would probably reek of pipe tobacco and spirits, but what matter!  Father James was awaiting, whether in trepidation or stoical perseverance, his next sinner.  Her part of the box was empty.  Nothing could possibly undermine the favourable effect her perfume was bound to create.  Absolution would soon adjust to that!

      Gently rising from her pew she briskly walked into the confessional, pulled the heavy curtain across behind her, knelt down before the latticed partition dividing sinner  from absolver, straightened her long hair, undid a couple of buttons on her blouse, and softly greeted the balding  priest's squat figure, now seemingly reposed behind a mask of inscrutable receptivity.  The ceremony had begun!

      As usual, in keeping with the solemn tone of these proceedings, she had donned black externals: satin skirt, cotton blouse, nylon stockings, and leather shoes.  Her underclothes, however, were bright red.  But this deviation from formal solemnity, though never overtly remarked upon by the priest, was nonetheless silently accepted by him in view of the Devil's alleged persistence in tempting young women to wear such items of clothing as encouraged lustful sin, in Father James' vocational opinion: That deadly poison eating away at our inner life like a cancer of the soul, and consequently rendering introspective analysis imperative as a means to exorcising its demon.

      So it was, then, that the confession proceeded according to plan, with all due decorum and little or no allusion to certain previous events.  Father James' reassuring intonation, cast in the most exquisite Christian humility, always managed to get around Sharon's innate distrust of authority, especially the omniscient authority which he claimed to represent, and almost invariably made possible a fairly candid reciprocity of exchanges between them.  Thus after the opening formalities had paved the way for the young woman's temporary redemption, he continued, quite unaffectedly, to question her morality, alternating, with her responses, between passive receptivity and gentle innuendoes, nodding his sagacious head in confirmation of her disclosures and even occasionally shaking it from side-to-side whenever one of her confessions, more plausible than the last, happened to confirm his deepest suspicions.  To be sure, the proceedings were never so confidential as when Father James proffered signs of being genuinely involved with them.  For he was known throughout the parish for his fundamental indifference to commonplace occurrences, being temperamentally more disposed to the miraculous and otherworldly, so that anyone who commanded his sympathies in such matters had good reason to consider herself privileged.

      As always, following the introductory recitations, verbal confessions, and general absolution, the partition's small centrally-positioned secret door swung back towards the priest and a hand, slightly clammy but not ungraceful, extended its fingers in the general direction of Sharon's thighs.  She had taken the trouble, on this occasion, to garb her private parts in spotlessly clean panties (not in partly grubby ones as on the previous few occasions) in case he decided to shine his torch on her the better to survey the root of her sin.  It was therefore in her interests, she imagined, to make herself appear the epitome of purity, so as to give him less reason for suspicion and concern.  For they had agreed on the necessity of optical investigation as a means not only to verifying her tenuous virginity but – and this was Father James' most radical innovation – to  evaluating the extent of her sexuality in relation to the ostensible probity of her confessions.  Thus the wayward priest sought to corroborate her proclaimed innocence by instigating a personal investigation of the parts chiefly under suspicion, its being mutually understood that sexual indiscretions were of the greatest concern to the Heavenly Father, considering the nature of the many other sins which only proceeded, after all, from Original Sin, or the fact that there was a sex life at all.  Hence, as sex was at the root of everything, including financial greed, it was of the utmost importance that the Heavenly Father's emissary on earth should go straight to the root of the matter, so to speak, in his constant battle with the Devil.

      And your virginity is still intact, Sharon?

      Yes, Father.

      Let me see, my child.  At which point his fingers begin to explore farther afield.  Ah yes now, there it is.

      His explorations cause her to smile a little in spite of herself, but, as on other such occasions, she manages to restrain her emotion and pretend to treat this little physical examination seriously, as though pretence, and pretence alone, could secure its continued efficacy, and thereby avoid compromising the old priest's moral sensibilities.  However, at this point she changes her position, so that the kneeling becomes a squat and her legs instinctively open to assist the movement of his fingers.  Her vagina is warm, moist, relaxed, and his fingers play delicately over its outer parts, around her groin, and through to the contours of her amply seductive buttocks.  Then he extends the torch in his other hand and begins to investigate her underclothes, the seductive implications of which are compared or, rather, contrasted with the innocence of her sex: the 'protagonist', as he likes to call it.

      Your protagonist is in order, Sharon, as is your stage.  Please readjust its curtains.

      This command applies to her displaced panties.  The little door swings back towards the mad priest and, without a moment's hesitation, he gives her his dubious blessings.

      Thank you, Father.

      My pleasure, he impulsively replies, quite forgetting himself.  Same time next week.

      Of course, Father.

      Outside the confessional, the church is empty as Sharon hastens down the aisle and exits the building with an almighty sigh of relief.  It was about time, she thought, that somebody reported Father James to his superiors, in order that he could be straightened out or even defrocked before matters got completely out-of-hand!

      The Aesthetica

      It was with mixed feelings that Francis Daly shook hands with several of the members of the club to which Miss June Faye had introduced him.  Although he was relieved to have surmounted the initial hurdle of arriving at the club, he was less than certain that his arrival had really been appreciated, since it appeared to coincide with the hasty departure of someone else.  Yet even if the angry-looking man who had pushed his way through the crowded room towards the exit at the very moment when the young writer first entered it was the real source of embarrassment on the faces of those for whom Francis' arrival necessitated a formal handshake, one could hardly feel proud of oneself for having arrived at such a seemingly inopportune moment!  The embarrassment was there for all to see, particularly the newcomer, who did his best not to appear offended.

      Well! sighed Miss Faye as soon as the formal handshakes had been courteously dispatched and his hand could return to its customary position of solitary confinement within his trouser pocket, I do hope you'll get to like it here.

      This statement struck Francis as slightly out-of-context with what he had just experienced but, gentleman that he was, he lost no time in assuring his benevolent hostess that he would.  More, he stretched his politeness to the well-nigh absurd extent of informing her how honoured he felt to have been elected a member of such a prestigious club.  Was there a more exclusive establishment in London?  It seemed unlikely if the criteria of admittance were anything to judge by – namely a reputation, firstly, in one of the fine arts, preferably literature, and, secondly, the ability to sit a tough entrance examination conducted on the basis of a GCSE A' Level.  Yes, an examination had to be sat and, if possible, passed with honours.  And Francis Daly had passed it – with honours!  He had answered some two-hundred difficult questions on the lives and works of writers such as Baudelaire, de Nerval, Lautréamont, Huysmans, Wilde, Coleridge, Huxley, Hesse, Flaubert, Rimbaud, etc., and answered them so well that his examiners had no option but to acclaim him one of the most accomplished young aesthetes of his generation and to accord him unconditional membership of their club.  'The Aesthetica', so-named after A.T. Baumgarten's Treatise on the criticism of the beautiful or the theory of taste, first published in 1750, welcomed him with open arms – at any rate in theory – following the final result of his examination.  Although, as already seen, his actual entry into the club could have come at a more propitious moment!

      However, Miss Faye, ever the presiding genius of the place, was not one to allow matters to stagnate and, before the young writer could say anything further by way of assuring her how honoured he felt to be there, she had taken him in tow, as it were, and was showing him around the premises, taking especial care to point out the paintings and/or enlarged photographs of the various aesthetes whom the club had chosen to honour.... Not that one could have overlooked them!  For there wasn't a wall in the room, nor in any of the other main rooms of the club, which hadn't been taken over by portraits of famous aesthetes of one persuasion or another!  But as much for form's sake as anything else, Miss Faye had no intention of being deprived of her duty in acquainting new members with the exhibits on display, as she proceeded to lead the way past the serried ranks of time-honoured men.

      A most revealing photograph of Baudelaire, don't you think? she opined, suddenly halting in front of one of the leading 'saints' of her 'church'.

      Indeed, Francis concurred, realizing that he couldn't very well demur or express a contrary view while the author of Les Fleurs du Mal leered down at them from piercing eyes, his gaze almost withering in its ferocious intensity.  And his mouth was clamped so tightly shut by the overbearing jaws that one might have supposed him incapable of ever opening it.  Not that he ever did, when considered merely as a photograph!

      You won't be surprised that he should have this man as neighbour, Miss Faye remarked, pointing to another of her literary 'saints', this time a well-known photograph of Oscar Wilde in his prime.  He's one of our bona fide aesthetes, she added, staring up admiringly at the well-dressed figure with a large carnation in his lapel, the majority of our cultural forebears being fringe aesthetes.

      Fringe? Francis queried, not quite understanding her.

      Yes, writers of quality who were never specifically part of an aesthetic movement, she informed him.  Like Stendhal and Flaubert, for instance.

      The young writer smiled his acknowledgement of her statement.  No doubt, it explained why there were also paintings or photographs of men like Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Coleridge on display.  There was something intrinsically aesthetic about the writings of any genuine homme de lettres, and even philosophers of a certain stamp weren't excluded from contributing their share to that ineffable something.

      The most important qualification for membership of our club, whether the members be dead or alive, is a predilection for certain authors, artists, or musicians who might broadly be described as kindred spirits, Miss Faye declared, ignoring the sneeze that had erupted from the quivering nostrils of her latest protégé, and indicating, by a broad sweep of her arm, the contents of an adjacent wall.  It contained large photographs of Aldous Huxley, Hermann Hesse, Drieu La Rochelle, and Cyril Connolly – all beautifully done.  We read similar books and are led to admire similar authors.  Whether we're poets, philosophers, novelists, short-story writers, or critics ... is relatively insignificant.  The essential thing is that we should share similar tastes and thus come to recognize one another as kindred spirits.  She paused a moment, as though the occasion demanded an affirmative response from the new member that would justify her continuing and, when it finally came in the form of a modest but meaningful grunt, proceeded to remind Francis of what he had learnt about the club from his recent examination papers.  No-one who isn't automatically led to sympathize with our literary predilections could possibly understand why we think as we do, she confided, taking him by the arm and leading him, via a life-sized photo of Huysmans, into the library.

      A little old man, who was evidently a kindred spirit, glanced up from the crumpled newspaper on his lap and smiled across at Miss Faye through gold-plated teeth.  There was something distinctly Wordsworthian about his polished skull, though his face was uniquely his own.

      Allow me to introduce our new member, she said, responding to the elderly gentleman's recognition.  Mr Francis Daly, Dr Henry Faye, my father."

      Delighted to meet you, the latter croaked, thrusting out a withered hand for Francis to shake.  Let me congratulate you for having passed our entrance examination with such distinction.  It was an extraordinary result for a person of such youth.

      Francis blushed faintly, as he withdrew his hand from the arthritic clutches of his latest acquaintance.  Such praise, legitimate or not, made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

      My father is chiefly responsible for setting the questions, Miss Faye revealed, blushing in turn, as well as for marking the answers.  His are the real brains behind 'The Aesthetica'.

      The old man chuckled drily.  Not that my daughter is entirely bereft of them, he remarked, casting her a fondly paternal glance.  "Although she can be swayed by sentiment from time to time.  It's not for nothing that her favourite Flaubert novel happens to be L'Éducation Sentimentale."

      Oh father, don't be such a bore! Miss Faye protested, dragging Francis by the sleeve in the general direction of a large glass case which broke the monotony of the bookshelves lining the nearest wall.  This is where we house the first editions of various significant works, she informed him in a reverential tone.

      'A veritable tabernacle', Francis mused, as he stood before the glass case and perceived a number of worn volumes which time had evidently endowed with additional significance.  Amongst them were The Unquiet Grave by Palinurus (alias Cyril Connolly) and The Meaning of Culture by John Cowper Powys.  A few of the twenty or so books on display he had never even heard of, much less read.

      I expect you're familiar with most of the titles, Miss Faye commented, briefly scanning the title pages of those volumes approximately on a level with her eyes.

      Indeed I am! came the confident response from the noviciate of first editions, his face momentarily indicative of pride.

      Over there we house the rest of the first editions in our possession, his hostess declared, pointing to a glass case of identical construction and size to the one in front of which they were still reverentially standing.  It was evident that the aesthetic creed required a fair number of testaments.

      Most impressive! Francis averred by way of a verbal response to the case in question, which appeared to be more copiously stocked, if anything, than the nearer one.

      I'm glad you think so, Miss Faye commented with a graceful smile and, catching hold of his sleeve again, she dragged him past the nearby first editions in the direction of a tall, thin man of moderately handsome appearance, who happened to be thumbing through a book in front of the right-hand rows of bookshelves that lined the wall.  Allow me to introduce you to one of our most brilliant Aldous Huxley scholars, she went on at once.

      At their approach, the Huxley scholar looked-up from his literary preoccupations and was duly introduced as Martin Foley.

      So you're the author of 'Trysting Violets', he remarked, extending a trembling hand in Francis' direction.

      I'm afraid so, the latter admitted, smiling wryly.  He so hated to be reminded of the fact!

      How interesting! Foley exclaimed.  There then ensued a verbal pause while they completed their handshake and peered into each other's faces.  Curious, but I had no idea what you looked like actually.  Not at all what I'd imagined.

      Really? Francis responded, feeling slightly puzzled.  I trust my face doesn't make too unfavourable an impression on you.

      Unfavourable?  Good God, no!  It's just that I had imagined someone older and more academic-looking, Foley confessed.

      Oh, I see!  Well, it just goes to show that you can't always tell what an author looks like from his books, Francis declared.

      Indeed not, Foley agreed, nodding sagaciously.  Although you might learn a thing or two about his books from his face!  Take my word for it.  As soon as you discover that a particular author has an ugly face, avoid his books!  They're bound to be just as ugly.

      Francis felt vaguely amused.  D'you really think so? he asked.

      Yes, in a majority of cases, Foley replied.  Ugliness begets ugliness, beauty begets beauty.  And he proceeded to lecture both Francis and Miss Faye on the criteria of the Beautiful and one's duty to uphold the cause of beauty in a world increasingly beset by the ugliness of industrial and urban pollution.  'A thing of beauty is a joy forever', he concluded, recalling the poetry of Keats.

      Francis wasn't absolutely sure about that, but he allowed Foley the benefit of a couple of politely affirmative grunts, all the same.  It wouldn't do to complicate matters on one's first visit to the club.  Even if the world at large was more in tune with ugliness these days, and would have preferred to hear that a thing of ugliness was a woe forever, the fact nevertheless remained that 'The Aesthetica' was a law unto itself, an oasis of beauty in a desert of ugliness, against which it was unwise to rebel.

      Meanwhile Miss Faye must have remembered her duty to 'The Aesthetica's' latest member, for she took hold of his sleeve again and began to drag him along past the rows of books that presented their glossy spines to one's admiring gaze and vaguely suggested an army regiment which one was obliged to review in passing.  Such a pleasant chap, she remarked, as soon as Foley was safely out of earshot and reduced to his former preoccupations again.  But dreadfully sententious!

      They had crossed the threshold of the third and ultimate room of the club, a room twice as large as the library and containing twice as many people as the other two rooms put together.  At the far end of it was a platform upon which a red-bearded man of medium height and fiery eyes was standing at a table and speaking to an assembly of people in the seven or eight rows of chairs in front of him.  At first Francis couldn't understand a word of what was being said.  For the man's accent was so unequivocally Scottish and his vocal inflexions so uniquely his own, that one became distracted from the meaning of his words by their mode of presentation, at once beguiling and eccentric!

      This is our lecture room, Miss Faye hastened to inform him in a respectfully subdued tone-of-voice.  We hold lectures here every week, each member of the club being expected to deliver one in due course.

      Oh really? gulped Francis, suddenly experiencing a distinct qualm at the prospect of his subsequently having to deliver one, too.

      All good fun, I can assure you! Miss Faye opined in response to the slight agitation now discernible on her young protégé's face.  And usually most educative!  At which point she led the way towards the back row of upright padded chairs serving the audience, and invited him to take a seat.  Above their heads the deep voice of the Scots lecturer continued to weave exotic patterns of sound in the air, though by now it had just about become possible for Francis to discern the drift of their import.

      ... the regeneration of England through sex which D.H. Lawrence wanted to see come to pass is, alas, most unlikely to happen, the lecturer was contending with stern mien.  The sex that Lawrence advocated wasn't, of course, the loveless, soulless, 'free sex' which has become all-too-prevalent in recent decades but, on the contrary, the true, natural, healthy sex of loving couples.  There must be a loving relationship, a strong mutual desire which testifies to the victory of the heart over the head, the triumph of love over intellect.  Without that strong mutual desire, the warmth of genuine love, there is only the sterile, mechanical sex of the intellectual pervert: the cold, depersonalized sex which is effectively nothing more than a coital masturbation.  Wilhelm Reich, that great and much-maligned psychologist, called this sex the vice of 'the fucker', the soulless idiot who has made sex a dirty word to be attacked and shunned by the Malcolm Muggeridges and Mary Whitehouses of this world.  But the sex of D.H. Lawrence and Wilhelm Reich is very different, ladies and gentlemen, from that advocated by 'the fucker', and should never be confounded with it ...

      Francis cast a shyly suspicious glance at Miss Faye, who seemed uncritically engrossed in the lecture which this member of the aesthetic cult was severely delivering.  To be sure, a lecture on sex wasn't exactly what he had expected to hear when first entering the room, and he was almost embarrassed by it or, more specifically, by the use of certain words which the lecturer had selected.  But there was a ring of truth about it all the same, a ring which sufficed to make him prick up his ears again and continue listening.

      "... thus we can differentiate between true sex and false sex, the sex that revitalizes and the sex that devitalizes, the former transmitting a positive current and the latter a negative one.  Unfortunately it's the false sex that dominates our age, and it's from this, ladies and gentlemen, that a majority of us are now suffering.  Too many relationships arise which should never have come about in the first place, too many men and women are locked together without feeling any genuine love or respect for each other, without that sine qua non of true sex.  The spirit of Tropic of Cancer prevails over that of Lady Chatterley's Lover, in consequence of which the world becomes an ever more hellish place in which to live.  Instead of climaxing simultaneously, couples climax either separately or not at all.  And even those who are right for each other, the couples whose simultaneous climax is likely to revitalize rather than devitalize them, even they, ladies and gentlemen, are all too apt, in a majority of cases, to smother the beneficial effects of such a harmonious climax by the debilitating use of condoms and other life-denying contraceptives!"

      A number of gasps and sighs suddenly erupted from the throats of various members of the assembled throng.  One man shouted Reactionary rubbish!, and immediately stamped out of the room.  Another drew everyone's attention to the fact that AIDS had made the use of certain contraceptives, particularly condoms, virtually de rigueur.  But the lecturer was apparently unmoved, for he quickly resumed: "I tell you, ladies and gentlemen, the use of sheath-like contraceptives can be equated with coital masturbation.  For the 'orgone' feedback – to use a Reichian expression – which results from a simultaneous climax and provides the revitalizing warmth, or energy, is prevented from taking place by the sheath and accordingly negated."

      Renewed gasps and sighs erupted from the assembly, this time more unrestrainedly than before.  However, the lecturer was far from impressed, but continued: And, unfortunately, the pill isn't quite the wonder drug it was once cracked-up to be, since, by upsetting the natural hormone balance, it can cause severe depression and radically affect menstruation.

      Here, here! a young dark-haired female shouted from the second row.

      In short, ladies and gentlemen, it should be obvious that nature is a sovereign power that won't tolerate being dictated to by a meddlesome humanity.  But modern science, that brainchild of the Industrial Revolution, is generally loathe to admit this fact.  There are branches of modern science which presuppose an ultimate victory over nature, being considered a means of tricking it out of its traditional hegemony and sovereignty.  But whenever one tampers with nature, one pays the price for doing so.  Who knows, ladies and gentlemen, but that price could well be the ultimate nemesis of our civilization one of these days, the just retribution of the gods?  For the more one tampers with nature, the closer draws that nemesis which is its inevitable consequence!

      Here he paused to let his words sink into the stunned minds in front of him, paused to survey his audience with a stern and almost contemptuous expression.  Droplets of sweat glistened on his domed brow and his face was flushed with righteous indignation, like some Old Testament prophet or early Protestant.

      But I have no wish to go into details of the scientific perversions to which our decadent civilization is subject these days, he confessed, briefly consulting his notes, for they are legion and scarcely to be corrected by mere words.  Of course, we can criticize the various attempts man makes to gain an ultimate victory over nature, since the consequences are generally disastrous.  But we cannot prevent him from pursuing his folly merely through recourse to reason.  We must seek to understand why he has become a victim of this folly in the first place, a policy which may or may not lead to the formulation of a practical solution to his dilemma.  Unfortunately, the only practical solution of which I can conceive as a means to overcoming his current plight isn't one that's likely to win widespread approval or support.  For his current plight is essentially a consequence of the Industrial Revolution and the subsequent development of heavy industry, inevitably giving rise to the modern metropolis and the extensive urbanization which characterizes our time.  In short, a majority of us are so cut-off from nature in our giant cities that we're obliged to act the unenviable part of madmen, which people deprived of regular contact with nature's vitalizing influence sooner or later invariably become.  Hence the scientific audacities of our time, the preposterous attempts to overcome nature which are less a hatred of it than a consequence of being so cut-off from it!

      Again gasps and sighs erupted from the throats, now somewhat hoarse, of various members of the audience, some of whom now accused him of being superstitious and ultra-conservative, whilst others simply yelled four-letter expletives at the platform.  Even Francis felt a familiar malaise enter him at this point.  For he knew, well enough, how detrimental prolonged confinement in any large city could be to the spiritual life, and how one was invariably transformed into a kind of robotic machine only fit, seemingly, for the mechanical routines which an industrial and technological society required.

      Unperturbed by the uproar, however, the bearded Scotsman went on: "And the fact that so many of the human kind are now isolated from the soul-enhancing life of nature inevitably means that their sex lives, to return to our principal theme, are more likely to be of the false variety than of the true.  Yes, the fact is that the regeneration of England through true sex is unlikely to happen, ladies and gentlemen, while the circumstances which gave rise to the false variety continue to prevail.  And those circumstances, manifesting in the ubiquitous reality and rapid growth of urbanization, are unable not to prevail, cannot possibly be removed without recourse to the most terrible nemesis the world could ever know, the nemesis, in all probability, of a nuclear holocaust.  Naturally, few if any of us really want that.  For it should be sufficiently evident, from a study of the military constituents of such a holocaust, that few if any of us would actually survive it.  So what do we do?  What can we do?  There, ladies and gentlemen, lies the dilemma of our time, the dreadfully complex predicament in which we find ourselves.  Either we continue as victims of the sordid isolation from nature with which we have been obliged to live, and thus go through life as mental cripples who know what ought to be done to improve our lot but are powerless to really do anything, or else we commit mass suicide with the assistance of the fiendish weapons our technological expertise has prepared for us, and thus cease to exist in any recognizable shape or form!  He paused a moment to wipe his brow with a large white handkerchief extracted the moment before from his jacket pocket and then, in a slightly gentler tone-of-voice, continued: Perhaps the use of the word 'predicament' to describe our tragedy was an understatement on my part.  Would it not be more consistent with the gist of my argument to contend that we are eventually destined to fall victim to the ultimate nemesis which our technological devilry has prepared for us, in consequence of our sordid isolation from nature, which is nothing less than a social catastrophe?"

      Gasps and sighs erupted from more throats than on any previous occasion.  One man leapt to his feet and shouted Reactionary bastard! at the lecturer.  Another, unable to take apocalyptic rhetoric in such strong doses, hurried from the room, as though from the proximity of a deadly virus.  At his side, Francis noticed that a vague smile had taken possession of Miss Faye's lips, as she apparently stared at the heads of a few of those seated in the front rows.  He wondered what her thoughts could be at this moment?

      Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you find what I have to say somewhat disagreeable, the fiery-eyed man on the platform pressed on, seemingly unperturbed by the dissent which his argument had now engendered, "and for that I cannot blame you.  But disagreeable or not, the facts of contemporary life are there before you, as are the facts of Eternal Life, the life governed by nature.  Now the latter are somewhat stronger than the former and won't tolerate being abused for ever!  The longer we persist in our folly, the worse things will become.  Eventually we shall have no option but to commit mass suicide.  For unless we get back to nature – not, assuredly, in a strictly Rousseauesque sense, but simply in terms of living closer to it – there'll be no alternative.  And as matters stand at present, there is no way back to nature, not, at any rate, for those of us who are obliged to live and work in the giant modern cities.  We cannot pull down thousands of buildings and exterminate millions of people with the intention of reducing all modern cities to a maximum population of between two- and three-hundred thousand, thus making regular contact with nature more than a vague possibility.  We cannot do this, for the simple reason that it would be impossible, impossible to discard the world-wide network of business associations and reduce London, shall we say, to the size of Norwich.  Now if for a number of reasons, not least of all financial, we cannot reasonably reduce the size of our biggest cities, it seems that we are logically unable to anticipate any real amelioration in our situation, or any Lawrentian regeneration of England through proper sex.

      Of course, we can continue to use contraceptives, to worship the god of sterility, and do away with our 'accidents' with the aid of abortion.  But we shouldn't thereby consider ourselves especially fortunate, the beneficiaries of genuinely progressive developments!  On the contrary, our so-called progressive developments are usually regressive, detrimental makeshifts expedient to a crippled humanity, which have been forced upon us by the exigencies of the context.  If we've been fooled by liberal propaganda into thinking the contrary, so much the worse!  Our delusions won't prevent us from remaining or becoming their victims.  Admittedly, the economic climate of industrial England currently being as cold as it is, we cannot expect a warm attitude to propagation and population expansion.  But we shouldn't be led to assume that we're especially fortunate to be alive in an age when widespread contraception and abortion are expedient!  We shouldn't allow ourselves to think more highly of Havelock Ellis than of Wilhelm Reich!  The fact is that socialism of any description, whether political, religious, sexual, economic, aesthetic, or whatever, is essentially a negative phenomenon, a consequence of large-scale urbanization and industrialization, not simply a progressive development.  It's like a rat that gnaws at the foundations of the tottering edifice of industrial civilization until such time as the edifice collapses, and the destructive task is complete.  Perhaps something genuinely progressive and positive can then begin to emerge from beneath the ruins, but not before!  In the meantime, we have to live with the rat, to understand the rat in the context of demolition, and to regard its function as an inevitable consequence of the sordid isolation from nature into which the big city has plunged us.  And the rat, ladies and gentlemen, is gnawing at our balls, if you'll pardon the expression, as much as at any of the other traditional institutions of our civilization.  It's making morons of us all, hopeless morons who often confound progress with regress and perversely consider we're getting the better of nature when we manage, most successfully, to deprive ourselves of its revitalizing warmth!

      There was a titter of laughter from a middle-aged lady in the second row, who evidently had the courage to be flippant about the devitalizing influence of modern industrial civilization, whilst a few yards to her right a Here, here! broke loose from the young woman who had earlier responded, in an identical fashion, to the lecturer's opinion on the pill.

      Meanwhile this latter worthy, having cleared his throat with guttural relish, swallowed some water and briefly scanned the faces of his audience, as though to gather fresh strength from their receptivity, now proceeded with renewed voice: "I hope there'll come a time when men and women will profit from one another more than they do at present, when the true sex of Reich and Lawrence will replace the false sex of the typical city perverts of the age, and humanity will blossom anew in the grace of the living God.  That there are people scattered around the world who would seem to be fortunate enough to share in the miracle of creation these days, I don't doubt.  For a majority of people, however, the sterile influence of the big city will have to be endured until such time as fate dictates otherwise.... Not being a worldly confidence-trickster, I have no desire to put false hopes into you.  I cannot offer you any immediate or short-term solution to your problem, for the simple reason that, short of the ultimate nemesis we previously touched upon, there just isn't one.  All I can hope to do is disillusion you with the confidence tricksters, and thus make you more aware of the extent of your plight.  In that respect, I believe I have temporarily succeeded."

      With a parting bow, dispatched with perfunctory contempt for the small audience which, with few exceptions, had responded to his severe diagnosis of contemporary social ills with such sarcastic derision, he abandoned the table and quickly disappeared through a door to the left of the platform.  A general outburst of derisory noise duly erupted from the assembled aesthetes, following his departure.

      Well, what did you think of all that? Miss Faye inquired of the young man seated beside her.

      Francis blushed faintly and half-shrugged his narrow shoulders.  I'm not absolutely sure, he replied, in the teeth of a temptation to say it was a load of scare-mongering cowpiss, though I suppose there's some truth in what he says.

      Quite so, Miss Faye agreed, nodding.  As one of our foremost aesthetes, he knows what he's talking about alright!  Clinton McDuff is his name.  A critic by profession and, as you've just heard, a keen student of contemporary society.

      Really? Francis exclaimed with surprise.  But surely such a man wouldn't take so great an interest in sex and nature and all the rest of it?

      On the contrary, Miss Faye responded, "most of our senior members have little else to take an interest in these days, considering that they're well past the age when beauty, as you or I may understand it, held any real charm for them.  They invariably become puffed-up pessimists with an apocalyptic axe to grind."  And, getting up from her seat with a sigh of despair, she slowly led the way back towards the library, where her father was still reading that day's paper in Olympian oblivion, seemingly, of the throng of senior and junior aesthetes who filed by on their way to or from each of the other rooms.

      Hanley's Concept

      It was with some surprise that I responded to Pat Hanley's confession that he had formulated a new concept of God.  You have? I exclaimed, my memory not recalling any old or previous concept of the Divine which Hanley may have formulated.  All I could remember was that at one time, when we were at school together, he had confessed to atheism.

      Yes, Daniel, and a very simple and rational concept it is, too, he boastfully admitted, wiping some tea from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.  You see, God, as I conceive of Him, is both body and spirit, like you or me. 

      Really? I impulsively responded, even though I wasn't particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of learning about Hanley's new theological concept in a tea shop!  In fact, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of hearing about it at all, ex-priest or not.

      For too long man has been willing to conceive of God in terms of either body or spirit, Hanley averred, his large blue eyes suddenly lighting-up with the enthusiasm he was evidently feeling at the opportunity of revealing his latest spiritual or, rather, religious profundities to someone like me, who might be supposed to appreciate them, even though I no longer dressed like a priest or even felt like one, having exchanged the proverbial 'dog collar' for a tee-shirt quote some time ago.  There have been pantheists who were only too willing to equate God with nature, and spiritualists who were only too willing to equate Him with the Holy Spirit, or some such mystical abstraction like the Clear Light of the Void.  But such equations are apt, it seems to me, to be lopsided, giving undue emphasis to one or another of God's manifestations whilst ignoring His entirety, as it were.

      I see, I mumbled while chewing, with bashful self-consciousness, a piece of the most delicious fruit cake it had ever been given me to experience.  And so your concept of God has the unique merit of not being lopsided? I managed to add, in the teeth of Hanley's impatience to continue.

      Indeed it has, he affirmed with a look of such self-satisfaction on his ruddy face ... that one might be forgiven for having supposed he had just won first prize in a lottery.  For I could no more accept the notion that God was either a body or a spirit than that we were either the one or the other.  It just doesn't make sense.

      Perhaps not, I graciously conceded, before washing down the cake in my mouth with a drop of mild tea.  But I was still waiting to hear his revelation, or so I imagined.

      What does make sense, however, is that the spirit of God should be identified with the sun, and His body with nature, Hanley averred, beaming across the table at me with eyes that were positively burning with enthusiasm.  Was this the revelation, I wondered?

      But surely, I objected, putting down my teacup with an unexpected suddenness, which caused Hanley to jump in his chair, surely this identification of God with the sun and nature is really one and the same, and amounts to no more than the usual crass paganistic pantheism?

      His visual enthusiasm was by no means weakened by my critical response.  Quite the contrary, it appeared to grow stronger, as though its possessor had anticipated such criticism and was only too glad for an opportunity of belittling it, the crafty devil!  Of course, people have included the sun in nature and pantheistically conceived of that totality in terms of God, he impatiently admitted, but they haven't bothered to distinguish between God's body and spirit, like me.  Thus while they may have included the sun in their concept of Him, they haven't specifically equated it with His spirit.

      Are you quite sure of that? I asked doubtfully.

      Sure? he echoed incredulously.

      I could clearly see, to my bottomless disgust, that he was perfectly sure of it!  Nevertheless, still desiring to weaken his enthusiasm, I ventured to suggest that some other people or peoples just might have come to a similar conclusion without his knowing about it.  After all, was it likely that Patrick Hanley, one-time correspondent for 'Scientific Briton' and current editor of 'Industrial Technology', another tediously factual periodical, had the privilege of being the first man in the entire history of the human race to know exactly what the true nature of God was?  Hadn't Pascal pointed out the impossibility of one's having absolute knowledge of Him?  And even if Pascal had been mistaken, which was by no means inconceivable, wasn't this relative concept of God likely to have entered into other people's minds, from time to time, during the long and painful history of established religion?  Yes, it appeared that I had found a tiny chink in Hanley's theological armour.  For the glare of his enthusiasm quickly faded from his eyes, and they became momentarily less bright.

      Naturally, Daniel, it could well be that a few people or peoples have come to a similar conclusion about the nature of God without my knowing about it, he ruefully conceded, his voice betraying a slight impatience with the gist of my argument.  But, although I can't lay claim to a complete knowledge of the world's religious beliefs, I haven't succeeded in reading of such a conclusion to-date.

      Not even concerning the traditional beliefs of certain Indian tribes in North America? I queried, recalling to mind the well-documented fact of tribal sun-worship.

      No, and not concerning the traditional beliefs of the Aztecs either, he rejoined with renewed zest.  The fact that primitive peoples have equated God with the sun is, of course, well known.  And even in Western Europe, there have been individuals, including the poet Gerard de Nerval, who were willing to endow the sun with such a divine status.  But, to my knowledge, sun-worshippers haven't recognized only the spirit of God in the sun.  They've simply deemed it God, which means one of two things: either that God is only a spirit or that, if He possesses a body, it is also to be found in the sun.

      And, presumably, you disapprove of both concepts? I surmised.

      I most certainly do, he affirmed, the beam of his visual enthusiasm having reasserted itself on its previously intense level.

      Feeling a shade discouraged, I hastened to compensate myself by sampling another piece of fruit cake.  Despite my discouragement, however, the cake tasted as delicious as ever, enabling me to beam back at Hanley my appreciation of its quality.  Alas, my beam was still the weaker!

      As I explained to you just now, he rejoined, ignoring my baser enthusiasm, I cannot abide the concept of a lopsided God.  For the idea that His spirit should be considered His entirety seems to me as preposterous as the idea of considering His body such.

      "But what

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