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    Nunquam
    Nunquam
    Nunquam
    Ebook369 pages19 hours

    Nunquam

    By Lawrence Durrell

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    About this ebook

    A desperate scientist’s mastery of technology may save him—or be his undoing—in this follow-up to Tunc by the New York Times–bestselling literary master. The ominous and compelling sequel to Durrell’s Tunc finds gifted inventor Felix Charlock called upon by the sinister international firm, Merlin, to apply his scientific prowess to a seemingly impossible project. He must literally reinvent his lost lover, Iolanthe, in the form of a living, breathing replica. Merlin’s dark project leads Felix on a fantastic undertaking. In recreating his former love, Felix knows that he will either find what he had thought lost, or the technology—his very life’s blood—will be the end of him.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJun 12, 2012
    ISBN9781453261545
    Nunquam
    Author

    Lawrence Durrell

    Born in Jalandhar, British India, in 1912 to Indian-born British colonials, Lawrence Durrell was a critically hailed and beloved novelist, poet, humorist, and travel writer best known for the Alexandria Quartet novels, which were ranked by the Modern Library as among the greatest works of English literature in the twentieth century. A passionate and dedicated writer from an early age, Durrell’s prolific career also included the groundbreaking Avignon Quintet, whose first novel, Monsieur (1974), won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and whose third novel, Constance (1982), was nominated for the Booker Prize. He also penned the celebrated travel memoir Bitter Lemons of Cyprus (1957), which won the Duff Cooper Prize. Durrell corresponded with author Henry Miller for forty-five years, and Miller influenced much of his early work, including a provocative and controversial novel, The Black Book (1938). Durrell died in France in 1990.  

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    • 2/5
      A novel dealing with incest, and the ways in which aggression can have effect on Commercial Concerns, family life, and philosophical musings. Compared to the great Alexandria quartet, I did not find this windup novel to the next pair of books by Durell particularly engaging. In the intervening years, I have not recalled it.

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    Nunquam - Lawrence Durrell

    I

    Aut Tunc, aut Nunquam,

    "It was then or never.…"

    Petronius

    The Satyricon

    Asleep or awake—what difference? Or rather, if there were a difference how would you recognise it? And if it were a recognisable difference would there be anything or anyone to care if you did or not—some angel with a lily-gilding whisper to say: Well done.? Ay, there’s the rub.

    My head aches, it isn’t only the wound—that is on the mend.

    Guilty in what you didn’t know, what you hoped to escape merely by averting your face. Ah!

    He wakes, then, this manifestation of myself so vaguely realised that it is hard to believe in him: he wakes in a room whose spare anonymity suggests one of the better-class hotels; no feudal furniture, no curtains smelling of tobacco or cats. Yet the towels in the bathroom are only stencilled over with a capital p. The Bible beside the bed is chained to the wall with a slender brass chain; owing to some typographical mishap it is quite illegible, the ink has run. Only the title-page can be made out. Well, where am I, then? In what city, what country? It will come back, it always does; but in waking up thus he navigates a long moment of confusion during which he tries to establish himself in the so-called reality which depends, like a poor relation, on memory. The radio is of unknown provenance; it plays light music so characterless that it might be coming from anywhere at all. But where? He cannot tell for the life of him—note the expression: for the life of him! His few clothes have no tabs of identity, and indeed some have no buttons. Ah, that strikes a vague chord! There is a small green diary by the bed, perhaps that might afford a clue? It has the other one’s name in it. Felix Ch. But the book seems very much out of date—surely the Coronation was years ago? It seems, too, full of improbable Latin-American itineraries; moreover in the middle a whole span of months is missing, has been torn out. Gone! Vanished months, vanished days—perhaps these are the very days he is living through now? A man with no shadow, a clock with no face. Something about Greece and Turkey? Had he ever been to Turkey? Perhaps it was the other one. That blow on the head had occluded his vision: the darkness turned violet sometimes and was apt to dance about in his skull. (How she trembled in bed, this astonishing revivalist of a dead love.) But of course he had!

    April to October, but where were those vanished weeks, and where was he? I would give anything to know. It doesn’t look like spring at all events; from the window the snow meadows tilt away towards tall white-capped mountains; a foreground of pearling sleet upon window sills of warped and painted wood. Some sort of institution, then? (Dactyl, you are rusty and need taking down.) Nothing of all this did you notice until the image in the mirror one day burst into tears. Well, keep on trying. No luck with the soft descriptive music. I must have had a meal for the remains lie there, but they are quite unidentifiable. Last night’s dinner? I turn over the remains with my fork. Brains of a hall-porter cooked in Javel, one hundred francs? I press the bell for the maid but nobody comes. Then at last I cry out as I catch sight of the little Judas in the door. The pain of regained identity. Ahhhh! It opens for a second and then slowly closes. This is no hotel. Doctor! Mother! Nurse! Urine!

    Someone starts banging, fitfully, on a wall nearby and screaming in a frothy way; thud upon the padded wall, and again thud: and the peculiar reverberation of a rubber chamber-pot upon the floor. I know it now, and the other knows it too—we slide into one identity once more, as slick as smoke. But he feels desperately feverish and he takes my pulse, and his sweat smells of almonds. O all this is quite perfect! Hamlet is himself again. Fragments of forgotten conversations, the whole damned stock-pot of my life memories has come back to me; and with it the new, the surprising turn of events which has given me the illusion of recovering Benedicta (Hippolyta saying: "How sick one is of les petites savoirs sexuelles").

    I can see no reason why all this should have happened to me, but it has; they go on, these harpies both male and female, tearing their black hearts out. I received nothing but kindness from him (her) and repaid it with double-dealing though meanwhile unwaveringly loving (her-him). Staunch inside, infirm without, lonely, inconstant, and mad about one woman (man). These raids on each other’s narcissism. And yet, if what she tells me is true? It would be going back to the beginning, to pick up that lost stitch again; going back to the point where the paths diverged. Hark, someone is calling my name—yes, it is my name. Lying beside her I used to reproach myself by saying: You were supposed to know everything; you arrived equipped to know all, like every human being. But a progressive distortion set in, your visions withered slowly like ageing flowers. Why did they, why have they?

    She says that now she is allowed to visit me because neither is observably mad; we are simply mentally mauled by sedatives. And you, as usual, are pretending. But then if I like to be mad it is my own affair—doctors are scared of schizophrenes because they can read minds, they can plot and plan. They pretend to pretend. Ah, but I care for nothing anymore. Quick, let us make love before another human being is born. More and more people, Benedicta, the world is overflowing; but the quality is going down correspondingly. There is no point in just people—nothing multiplied by nothing is still nothing. Kiss. Eyes of Mark, beautiful grey eyes of your dead son; I hardly dare call him mine as yet. (And what if you are lying to me, that is the question?)

    Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

    Bless the bed that I lie on,

    Ano-Sado-Polymorph

    Bless the pillow I slide off,

    Giving Sascher-Masch the slip

    With his twice-confounded whip.

    Let them take me from behind,

    But not too very sudden, mind.

    Polymorphouse and perverse,

    Revelling in the primal curse.

    Serenity, Senility. Serendipity … ah my friend, what are you saying?

    Of course I am on my guard, watching her like a hawk. A hawk, forsooth? She will feed me on the fragments of field-mice still warm, broken up tenderly bit by bit in those slender fingers. She will teach me to stoop. Of course a lot of this material is dactylised, belonging to lost epochs; they have recovered my little machines for me and returned them to me (give the baby his rattle now!). I recover bits here and there which in the past Abel might well have appreciated. Turn them this way and that, they smell of truth—however provisional it is; as when raising those deep blue, very slightly unfocused eyes she said: But the sexual act is by its very nature private, even if it takes place on the pavement during the rush hour. When I ask why I have been brought here she adds, on an imperious note: To begin again, to recover the lost ground. There is much that will be explained to you—a lot by me. For God’s sake trust me this time. It is as enigmatic as her way of saying Help me in the past. Must I resume the long paperchase once more, Benedicta?

    I suppose that I owe my survival to the last-minute breakdown of Abel, or something of that order. I can’t believe that any other consideration would have motivated my capture. Of course nobody knows how to put it right except me and I won’t show them under duress. All this is surmise, of course; nobody has said anything. And I am shown every mark of sympathy and consideration: many of my toys have been returned to me, and a place set aside for me to work if the mood is on me. I resist these soft blandishments, of course, though it is hard in a way: time hangs heavy. I admit that I took up an offer to work on the Caradoc transcriptions, largely out of curiosity. The executors want some order brought into them, whatever that means. Indeed the notion itself is unwise since this type of material, by its very haphazardness, creates its own kind of order. Attempt to capture the idea quite naked before it strays into the conceptual field like some heavyfooted cow. Thus do I kill time till time kill me.

    And now, as I have explained, she has come back, for how long I don’t know, or for what reason; but changed, irremediably changed. Yet still the beauty of the domed egg-of-the-highmasted-schooner visage which smiles turn into a stag: still the slant calamitous eyes. Illness, imprisonment, privation—might not all this have brought us close together? I wonder. Why, she even helps me with my papers now. The boy’s death hangs over us, between us, the something unspoken that neither knows how to broach. Resilient as I am, that was a thrust right through the heart of my narcissism; and the bare fact does not yet seem to correspond to any known set of words. So I shuffle paper a bit, reflect and allow my moods to carry me where they will. As for the executors, they do not care what I do with the material provided it goes into covers and provides money for the estate. But … there are no inheritors to claim it so some committee of cranks will divert it to crank projects: old men smelling of soap and singed hair. Pelmanism for rodents, birth control for fairies … that sort of thing: everything for which Caradoc, if indeed he is dead, did not stand. (I hear those growls, I have them recorded.)

    And then, from time to time among my own ruminations float fragments which might almost seem part of another book—my own book; the idea occurs fitfully to me, has done on and off for years. But so much other stuff has to be cleared first: the shadows of so many other minds which darken these muddled texts with their medieval reflections. Abel would have been able to give them shape and position and relevance; human memory is not yet whole enough to do so. Was it, for example, of Benedicta that I once said this—or was it Iolanthe? "Perhaps it is not fair to speak abusively of her, to note that she never thought anything which she did not happen to think. No effort was involved. Shallow, unimpeded by reflection, her chatter tinkled over the shallow beds of commonplace and platitude, pouring from that trash-box of a head. But what beauty! Once in her arms I felt safe for ever, nothing could happen to me." Prig!

    Today is cold again, a Swiss cold. It has all started to become very clear. The leaves are falling softly and being snatched away across the meadows like smoke. My God, how long must I stay here, when will I get out? And to what end if I do? My life is covered in the heavy ground-mist of an impossible past which I shall never understand. I sleepwalk from day to day now with a hangover fit for a ghost.

    As for these scribblings which emerge from my copying machines, the dactyls, these are not part of the book I was talking about, no. Would you like to know my method? It is simple. While I am writing one book, (the first part might be called Pulse Rate 103), I write another about it, then a third about it, and so on. A new logic might emerge from it, who knows? Like those monkeys in the Indian frescoes (so human, so engaging, like some English critics) who can dance only with their index fingers up each other’s behinds. This would be my way of doing things. Smell of camphor: I must not get too vivacious when Nash, the doctor, calls. I must remain as he sees me—an eternal reproach to the death-bed, the dirty linen, the urinals clearing their throats. Yet vivacity of mind is no sin, saith the Lord God.

    As far as Caradoc is concerned what ails me in gathering up this inconsequential chatter is that there are several different books which one could assemble, including some which couldn’t have been foreseen by those who knew him; is everyone built on this pattern?—like a club sandwich, I suppose. But here for example is a vein which would be more suitable to Koepgen—perhaps it is the part of Caradoc which is Koepgen, or vice versa. I mean alchemy, the great night express which jumps the points and hurtles out of the causal field, carrying everything with it. Alchemy with all its paradoxes—I would have logged that as Koepgen’s private territory. But no. The vein is there in Caradoc, under the fooling.

    I mean, for example: Pour bien commencer ces études il faut d’abord supprimer touts curiosité; the sort of paradox which is incomprehensible to those afflicted by the powers of ratiocination. Moreover this, if you please, from a man who claimed that the last words of Socrates were: Please the Gods, may the laughter keep breaking through. Contrast it with the fine white ribbon which runs through the lucubrations of Aristotle—the multiplication tables of thought to set against this type of pregenital jargon. (In between times I have not been idle: on the little hand lathe I have turned a fine set of skeleton keys in order to be able to explore my surroundings a bit.) Is it imperative that the tragic sense should reside after all somewhere in laughter?

    Yet now that I am officially mad and locked away here in the Paul-haus, it would be hard to imagine anywhere more salubrious (guidebook prose!) to spend a long quiet convalescence—here by this melancholy lake which mirrors mostly nothingness because the sky is so low and as toneless as tired fur. The rich meadows hereabouts are full of languid vipers. At eventide the hills resound to the full-breasted thwanking of cowbells. One can visualise the udders swinging in time along the line of march to the milking sheds where the rubber nipples with electricity degorge and ease the booming creatures. The steam rises in clouds.

    Billiard-rooms, a library, chapels for five denominations, a cinema a small theatre, golf course—Nash is not wrong in describing it as a sort of country-club. The surgical wing, like the infirmaries, is separate, built at an angle of inclination, giving its back to us, looking out eastward. Operations one side, convalescence the other. Our illnesses are graded. A subterranean trolley system plus a dozen or so lifts of various sizes ensure swift and easy communication between the two domains. I am not really under restraint. I am joking; but I am under surveillance, or at least I feel I am. So far I have only been advised not to go to the cinema—doubtless there are good clinical reasons. Apart from the fact that I might see a film of Iolanthe’s again I do not care: the cinema is the No play of the Yes-Man, as far as I am concerned. I am for sound against vision—it runs counter to the contemporary trend: I know that, but what can I do? Konx Ompax and Om Mane Padme Hum are the two switches which operate my brain box: between the voting sherd and the foetal pose of the sage.

    There are many individual chalets, too, dotted about upon the steep hillsides, buried out of sight for the most part in dense groves of pine and fir. They are pretty enough when the snow falls and lies; but when not the eternal condensation of moisture forms a light rain or Scotch mist. The further snows loom indifferently from minatory cloud-scapes. One sleeps well. No, I won’t pretend that it is anything in particular, either comminatory or depressing or enervating: except for me, the eye of the beholder. For I am here against my will, badly shaken, and moreover frightened by this display of disinterested kindness. Yet it is simply what it is—the Paulhaus. Subsoil limestone and conglomerate. Up there, on the further edge of the hill among the pines are the chalets allocated to the staff. Our keepers live up there, and the lights blaze all night where the psychoanalysts chain each other to the walls and thrash each other with their braces in a vain attempt to discover the pain-threshold of affect-stress. Their screams are terrible to hear. In other cells the theologians and mystagogues are bent over their dream anthologies, puzzled by the new type of psychic immaturity which our age has produced—one that is literally impermeable to experience. When he is here Nash lodges with Professor Pfeiffer whose dentures are loose and who has a huge dried black penis on his desk—a veritable Prester John of an organ. Swiss taxidermy at its best. But nobody knows whose it is, or rather was. At any rate it isn’t mine.

    Here they must discuss poor Charlock in low tones, speaking of his lustreless eye, the avain quality of his gaze. "Such a lack of theme" Pfeiffer must say. It is his favourite expression. And there opposite him sits Nash in his bow tie, author of The Aetiology of Onanism, in three volumes (Random House). Little pissypuss Nash. You wait a bit, my lads. My goodness, though, it was worth the journey, it was worth the fare. Mind you, it is easier to get in than to get out—but that is true of other establishments I have known.…

    It was not entirely my fault that I awoke with a head like a giant onion—swathed as it was in layer upon layer of surgical dressing. Like the Cosmic Egg itself, and I damned well felt like it. Chips of skull (they said) had to be removed—like a hard-boiled egg at a picnic. No damage to the Pia Mater. Clunk with a couple of pick-helves as I reached for my knife. Then a kind of bloody abstract but rather lovely abdication of everything with darkness hanging like a Japanese print of an extinct volcano. Angor Animi—fear of approaching death. It haunted me for a while. But now I have gained a bit of courage, as a mouse does when the cat does not move for a long time. I am just beginning to scuttle about once more … the cat must have forgotten me. Actually they must see that I am on the mend; by special dispensation I have been allowed some of my tools back, as I say; along with them some private toys. One, for example, has enabled me to discover the position of the two microphones in my room. Instead of plugging them as a clumsy agent might have done I fill them with the noise of cisterns flushing, taps running, dustbin lids banging—not to mention the wild howls and squeaks of the tapes played backwards; and music too, prodigious wails and farts in the manner of Alban Berg. Poor Pfeiffer, he must shake his shaggy head and imagine he is listening to the Dalai Lama holding a service.

    Lately Nash has taken to visiting me regularly about thrice a week—hurried and apologetic harbinger of Freud. Pale with professional concern. Come Nash, let us be frank for a change. Julian had me captured and brought here so that you can try to break my will with your drugs. He laughs and pouts, shaking his head. Felix, you only do it to annoy, because you know it teases. Actually he saved you just in time, for all our sakes. Seriously, my dear fellow.

    Nature becomes almost transparent to the visionary eye after even a moderate period of sedation. I could see so to speak right into his rib-cage, see his heart warbling out blood, see his timid and orderly soul neatly laid up in dusted ranks like a travel library. A telephone rings somewhere. Felix he says tenderly, reproachfully. I suppose I said you must have dreamed of escaping once, when you were very young. Where has it gone, Nash, the impetus? Will you always be the firm’s satrap, its druggist? His eyes fill briefly with tears, for he is a very emotional man and suffers when criticised. For goodness’ sake don’t give way to delusional ideas of persecution, I implore you. Everything has turned out right after a very nasty and dangerous passage. When you are rested and well and have seen Julian there is no need why you shouldn’t send in your resignation if you wish. There is no obstacle—all that is a comic delusion of yours. We want you with us, of course, but not against your will.… I can’t resist acting him a little of a private charade based upon Hamlet’s father’s ghost—nearly managing to secure the heavy paper-knife which I make to drive into his carotid. I bulge my eyes and wave my ears up and down. But he is fleet enough when danger threatens, is Nash; once round the table and to the door, ready to bolt, panting: Cut it out for God’s sake, Felix. You can’t scare me with these antics. But I have, that is what is mildly en-giggling. I throw the paper knife in the air and catch it; then place it betwixt my teeth in pirate fashion. He comes back cautiously into the room. You want me mad I say. And you shall have me so. I comb out my overgrown eyebrows in the mirror and try a stern look or two. He chuckles and continues to talk. It’s lucky you have caught me during my safe period I say. If it had been any other woman.…

    D’you know, he says effervescently "I have a patient who makes up natural Mnemons just as Caradoc used to; he was a famous philosopher, and he illustrates the ruins of his dialectical system with them. Free association is the Draconic law, no? La volupté est la confiture des ours—how is that?"

    Woof! Woof!

    Felix, listen to me.

    Ja, Herr Doktor.

    These dreams you are turning in to Pfeiffer—anyone can see they are faked. I ask you, psychoanalysts riding on broomsticks and sliding down moonbeams with fairies … a joke is a joke, but this is going too far. Poor Pfeiffer says …

    I play a little game with him for a while chasing him round and round the table, but he is nimble and I tire rapidly; I suppose that I am rather ill still, weak in the knees, and of a tearful disposition: and he knows it.

    And Benedicta? says he.

    Was sent to help me compromise my reason and my feelings.

    Good heavens, Felix: how can you?

    How did it all happen to me, Nash—to Felix Ch, eh? Perhaps a desire to poke some frivolous and egotistical strumpet, to plough up some sexual ignoramus? Ah, listen to the alpha rhythms of the grey matter. I hold up a finger to bid him listen. He shakes his head and sighs. Poor darling he says. You wrong her and soon you’ll know it. Anyway she will be back on Tuesday and you’ll see for yourself. In the meantime you see how free you are to walk about, even without her. Even walk into town if you want one afternoon. Treat this like your own country-club, Felix. It won’t be long before we have you back in our midst—I’ve never been more confident of a prognosis. Meanwhile I’ll send you plenty of visitors to cheer you up.

    I must have given him a woolly look for he coughed and adjusted his bow tie neatly. Visitors he added in a lower key, filling out a longish prescription form with deft little Japtype strokes, and adding the magic word in block capitals at the foot of the page. This for the nurse he added sportively, waving it as he stood up. Until next week then, my dear Felix. Julian sends his warmest regards.… He just got through the door in time before the heavy chair burst upon it; a leg fell off, a panel was cracked right across. The German nurse came in clicking like a turkey; a strapping girl with the square walk of the sexually unrealised woman. She had a big bust and an urchin cut. I liked her white smooth apron and her manicured capable hands. Nash had fled down the corridor. I helped her gather up the pieces and redispose the furniture. I asked her if it was time for my enema, but she registered shock and disapproval at this sally. If not, then will I to the library go, I said and she stood aside to let me pass. As I walked, still puzzled by everything, I told myself: Benedicta and I come from a long line of muddled sexers, spectres of discontent. What dare I believe about her, or about anyone?

    Over the week-end I tested my freedom in tentative fashion by disappearing for the afternoon: no, not into town where I am always followed at a discreet distance by a white ambulance; but into the dangerous ward. Who would ever have thought of looking for one there? I reappeared in my own quarters as mysteriously as a conjurer’s rabbit and simply would not tell them where I had been. Would they have believed me? I doubt it. The thing is that I found I was actually picking up the thought-waves of a schizo on one of my little recording devices. He was knocking on the wall at the end of the corridor and singing a bit. I sneaked to the locked door and passed him a wire with a tiny mike on it. (Of course I myself have lots of tinnitus, which is only static in loony terms.) But we hit it off wonderfully well. He didn’t really want to get out, he said; he was only troubled by speculations as to the nature of freedom—where did it begin and where end? A man after my own heart, as you see. He turned out to be a wife-murderer; higher spiritual type than the rest of us. Our electronic friendship flowered so quickly that I felt it about time to test my set of keys. The second worked like a charm and I was inside the ward with the red light, shaking hands with my friend. He was a huge fellow but kindly, indeed almost diffident about his powers. The padded ward was just like anywhere else; spotless and obviously well conducted—and with a much more refined class of person than one finds in the rest of the place. Yes, I liked it very much, even the corridor with its sickly saint-like smell: smell of sweaty feet in some Byzantine cloister? And then all the pleasant diversified humours of Borborymi. Woof! Woof! There would be no visitors between tea-time and supper, so we were free to play at nursery games—on all fours, for example, barking in concert at a full moon, trying to turn ourselves into wolf-men.

    You see, anxiety is only a state of deadly heed, just as melancholia is only a pathological sadness. I might have foundered here, I suppose, had she not appeared; foundered out of sheer exhaustion, out of defiance to Julian’s obscure laws. I could have retreated by sheer imitation into a genuine hebephrenia, to follow out the dull spiral of some loony’s talk; under the full sail of madness steered this cargo of white-faced gnomes towards the darkness of catatonia. A Ship of Fools, like the very world itself. My friend speaks of freedom without quite being able to visualise its furtherest reaches; yet he is almost there. Ah! Folie des Gouffres. But cerebral dysrhythmia will respond to a cortical sedative, even in some cases of cryptogenic epilepsy.… You ask Nash! Om.

    The thing is this: coming round in the operating theatre, under the arcs, surrounded by a ballet of white masks (white niggers, appropriates of a blood sacrifice): bending down to plunge needles into me: I heard, or thought I heard, the quite unmistakable tones of Julian. They spoke, all of them, in quiet relaxed voices, like clubmen over their cigars while I lay there, a roped steer, with wildly rolling eye and flapping ear. I knew that the operation was over by now; I was just waiting to be wheeled away. The figure I mean stood just back from the circle and was obviously neither surgeon nor dresser, though he was masked and gowned like the rest of them. It was this one that said, in the tones of Julian: I think the X-ray findings followed up by a pneumogram should tell you.… Talk filled the interstices of his phrases like clods raining down upon a coffin-lid. Explanations proliferated into jargon. I felt perfectly well by now, the pain had gone with the tachycardia, leaving only the spearpointed attentive fury of the impotent man. Someone spoke of brainstem sedatives, and then another voice: Of course for a while he will undergo what will seem like electric charges in the skull—weird haptic sensations. Hence, I suppose, the longish period of surveillance among the odours of guilty perspiration; life among bedridden schizos under insulin torpor therapy, beings whose Rostral Hegemony is faulty—to quote the brave words of Nash. Much of this is a blank, of course, punctured by dim visions. I dare say I ran the gamut of D Ward. Petit Mal to Grand Malheur. Bed-wetting is common. By day their speech exhibits uninhibited lalling. Welcome, electrically speaking, my new-found friends, possessors of the spike-and-dome discharge! I see the anxiety rising in the Centrocephalon, the rapid 25 per second high amplitude rhythms of the Grand Mal, the focal seizures rising in the cortex. Last week the Countess Maltessa had an unrehearsed, unsupervised epileptic fit; she died from the inhalation of her own vomit. It so often happens Pfeiffer will be saying, shaking his head. You can’t watch everyone all the time.

    I do my best to try and remember this ward, but in vain; nor indeed do I remember its inhabitants with their diversified idiosyncrasies, though of course some of them I have known about, have heard about. But if I met them during my last sejourn here I have retained no memory of the fact. They are all freshly minted—like for example the famous Rackstraw, who was Io’s screenwriter, responsible for some of her most famous work. I would have been glad to remember him; and yet it is strange for I recognised him instantly from her descriptions of him. She used to visit him very often I recall. He himself had once been a minor actor—and, some say, her lover. In its way it was quite thrilling to see this legendary figure face to face, weighed down by the Laocoön-toils of his melancholia. Rackstraw I presume? The hand he tenders is soft and

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