《星期一和星期二》第21章

f　enraging　you；　and　if　you　can’t　be　forted；　if　you　must　shatter　this　hour　of　peace；　think　of　the　mark　on　the　wall。
i　understand　nature’s　game—her　prompting　to　take　action　as　a　way　of　ending　any　thought　that　threatens　to　excite　or　to　pain。　hence；　i　suppose；　es　our　slight　contempt　for　men　of　action—men；　we　assume；　who　don’t　think。　still；　there’s　no　harm　in　putting　a　full　stop　to　one’s　disagreeable　thoughts　by　looking　at　a　mark　on　the　wall。
indeed；　now　that　i　have　fixed　my　eyes　upon　it；　i　feel　that　i　have　grasped　a　plank　in　the　sea；　i　feel　a　satisfying　sense　of　reality　which　at　once　turns　the　two　archbishops　and　the　lord　high　chancellor　to　the　shadows　of　shades。　here　is　something　definite；　something　real。　thus；　waking　from　a　midnight　dream　of　horror；　one　hastily　turns　on　the　light　and　lies　quiescent；　worshipping　the　chest　of　drawers；　worshipping　solidity；　worshipping　reality；　worshipping　the　impersonal　world　which　is　a　proof　of　some　existence　other　than　ours。　that　is　what　one　wants　to　be　sure　of。　。　。　wood　is　a　pleasant　thing　to　think　about。　it　es　from　a　tree；　and　trees　grow；　and　we　don’t　know　how　they　grow。　for　years　and　years　they　grow；　without　paying　any　attention　to　us；　in　meadows；　in　forests；　and　by　the　side　of　rivers—all　things　one　likes　to　think　about。　the　cows　swish　their　tails　beneath　them　on　hot　afternoons；　they　paint　rivers　so　green　that　when　a　moorhen　dives　one　expects　to　see　its　feathers　all　green　when　it　es　up　again。　i　like　to　think　of　the　fish　balanced　against　the　stream　like　flags　blown　out；　and　of　water–beetles　slowly　raiding　domes　of　mud　upon　the　bed　of　the　river。　i　like　to　think　of　the　tree　itself：—first　the　close　dry　sensation　of　being　wood；　then　the　grinding　of　the　storm；　then　the　slow；　delicious　ooze　of　sap。　i　like　to　think　of　it；　too；　on　winter’s　nights　standing　in　the　empty　field　with　all　leaves　close–furled；　nothing　tender　exposed　to　the　iron　bullets　of　the　moon；　a　naked　mast　upon　an　earth　that　goes　tumbling；　tumbling；　all　night　long。　the　song　of　birds　must　sound　very　loud　and　strange　in　june；　and　how　cold　the　feet　of　insects　must　feel　upon　it；　as　they　make　laborious　progresses　up　the　creases　of　the　bark；　or　sun　themselves　upon　the　thin　green　awning　of　the　leaves；　and　look　straight　in　front　of　them　with　diamond–cut　red　eyes。　。　。　one　by　one　the　fibres　snap　beneath　the　immense　cold　pressure　of　the　earth；　then　the　last　storm　es　and；　falling；　the　highest　branches　drive　deep　into　the　ground　again。　even　so；　life　isn’t　done　with；　there　are　a　million　patient；　watchful　lives　still　for　a　tree；　all　over　the　world；　in　bedrooms；　in　ships；　on　the　pavement；　lining　rooms；　where　men　and　women　sit　after　tea；　smoking　cigarettes。　it　is　full　of　peaceful　thoughts；　happy　thoughts；　this　tree。　i　should　like　to　take　each　one　separately—but　something　is　getting　in　the　way。　。　。　where　was　i？　what　has　it　all　been　about？　a　tree？　a　river？　the　downs？　whitaker’s　almanack？　the　fields　of　asphodel？　i　can’t　remember　a　thing。　everything’s　moving；　falling；　slipping；　vanishing。　。　。　there　is　a　vast　upheaval　of　matter。　someone　is　standing　over　me　and　saying—
“i’m　going　out　to　buy　a　newspaper。”
“yes？”
“though　it’s　no　good　buying　newspapers。　。　。　nothing　ever　happens。　curse　this　war；　god　damn　this　war！　。　。　。　all　the　same；　i　don’t　see　why　we　should　have　a　snail　on　our　wall。”
ah；　the　mark　on　the　wall！　it　was　a　snail。
。。
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