He embodied, materialized, the wind, the voice of the sea,
the angry, hot scent of certain flowers, of the white lily, the tuberose,
the hyacinth. He created figures for light, for darkness, for a wail, for
a laugh, and set them in array all around him in the blackness. But none
of these imagined figures could cause the horror which he felt. He drove
away the whole pack of them with a silent cry, a motionless dismissing
wave of his hands. But there might be other beings round us, condemned
to eternal invisibility lest the sight of them should drive men mad. We
cannot see them, he thought. As a rule, we have no sensation of these
gaunt neighbours, no suspicion of their approach, of their companionship.
We do not hear their footsteps. We are utterly unconscious of them. Yet
may there not be physical or mental paroxysms, during which we become
conscious of them, during which we know, beyond all power of doubt, that
they are near us, with us? And, in such paroxysms, is it not possible for
them to break through the intangible and yet all-powerful barriers that
divide them from us, and to touch us, caress us, attack us? Valentine
believed that he was immersed in such a paroxysm, and that the barriers
were in process of being broken down.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115