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He saw it all
as a joyless indulgence, as a confusion of playthings and
undisciplined desires, as a succession of days that began amiably
and weakly, that became steadily more crowded with ignoble and
trivial occupations, that had sunken now to indignity and
uncleanness. He was overwhelmed by that persuasion, which only
freshly soiled youth can feel in its extreme intensity, that life
was slipping away from him, that the sands were running out, that in
a little while his existence would be irretrievably lost.
By some trick of the imagination he saw life as an interminable Bond
Street, lit up by night lamps, desolate, full of rubbish, full of
the very best rubbish, trappings, temptations, and down it all he
drove, as the damned drive, wearily, inexplicably.
WHAT ARE WE UP TO WITH LIFE! WHAT ARE WE MAKING OF LIFE!
But hadn't he intended to make something tremendous of life? Hadn't
he come to London trailing a glory? . . .
He began to remember it as a project. It was the project of a great
World-State sustained by an aristocracy of noble men.


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