There
_was_ only one thing to be said.
That is--they were all trying to say it. Maria _had_ said it....
A whirring moth flew busily past the open window and vanished into the
night. He thought of his own books; for writers, painters, preachers,
musicians, these were trying to say it too. "If I could describe that
moth exactly," he murmured to himself, "give the sensation of its
flight, its unconscious attraction to the light, its plunge back into
the darkness, its precise purpose in the universe, its marvellous aim
and balance--its life, I could--er--"
The thought broke off with a jagged end. With a leap then it went on
again:
"Touch reality," and he heard his own voice saying it. He had uttered
it aloud. The sound had an odd effect upon him. He realised the
uselessness of words. No words touched reality. To be known, reality
had to be lived, experienced. Maria managed this in some extraordinary
way. She had reality.... Time did not humbug her. Nor did space....
Goodness!
The moth whirred into the room, softly banging itself against the
ceiling, and through the smoke from his pipe he saw that a dozen more
were doing the same thing with tireless energy.
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