[Epigraph:
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, iii, 10:]
Short,
therefore, is man's life, and narrow is the corner of the earth wherein he
dwells.
[Complete
first chapter:]
All this
happened a good many years ago.
[Dr
Saunders:]
I believe in
nothing but myself and my experience. The world consists of me and my thoughts
and my feelings; and everything else is mere fancy. Life is a dream in which I
create the objects that come before me. Everything knowable, every object of
experience, is an idea in my mind, and without my mind it does not exist. There
is no possibility and no necessity to postulate anything outside myself. Dream
and reality are one. Life is a connected and consisted dream, and when I cease
to dream, the world, with its beauty, its pain and sorrow, its unimaginable
variety, will cease to be.[1]
[Dr
Saunders:]
I have never
had any sympathy with the ascetic attitude. The wise man combines the pleasures
of the senses and the pleasures of the spirit in such a way as to increase the
satisfaction he gets from both. The most valuable thing I have learned from
life is to regret nothing. Life is short, nature is hostile, and man is
ridiculous; but oddly enough most misfortunes have their compensations and with
a certain humour and a good deal of horse-sense one can make a fairly good job
of what is after all a matter of very small consequence.
[Dr
Saunders:]
Goodness. I
know, it's shattering. One doesn't know what to do about it. It knocks human
relations endways. Damned shame, isn't it?
[Louise:]
What right
have people to make an image after their own heart and force it on you and be
angry if it doesn't fit you?
They
clambered by rickety steps on to the pier and walked along it. There was no one
there. They reached the quay and after hesitating for a moment took what looked
like the main street. It was empty and silent. They wandered down the middle of
the roadway, abreast, and looked about them. […] The bungalows on either side
of the road had very high roofs, thatched and pointed, and the roofs, jutting out,
were supported by pillars, Doric and Corinthian, so as to form broad verandas.
They had an air of ancient opulence, but their whitewash was stained and worn,
and the little gardens in front of them were rank with tangled weeds. They came
to shops and they all seemed to sell the same sort of things, cottons,
sarongs and canned foods. There was no animation. Some of shops had not even an
attendant, as though no purchaser could possibly be expected. The few persons
they passed, Malays or Chinese, walked quickly as though they were afraid to
awaken the echo.[2]
[1] Cf. the description of solipsism in The
Summing Up (1938), lxvii:
The solipsist believes
only in himself and his experience. He creates the world as the theatre of his
activity, and the world he creates consists of himself and his thoughts and
feelings; and beyond that nothing has being. Everything knowable, every fact of
experience, is an idea in his mind, and without his mind does not exist. There
is no possibility and no necessity for him to postulate anything outside
himself. For him dream and reality are one. Life is a dream in which he creates
the objects that come before him, a coherent and consistent dream, and when he
ceases to dream, the world, with its beauty, its pain and sorrow and
unimaginable variety, ceases to be. It is a perfect theory; it has but one
defect; it is unbelievable.
[2] Cf. the description of Banda in A
Writer’s Notebook [1949], Mandarin, 1991, “1922”, p. 200:
The
streets of Banda are lined with bungalows, but the place is dead, and they are
empty and silent. People walk about, the few you see, quietly, as though they
were afraid to awaken the echo. No voice is raised. The children play without
noise. Now and again you catch a sweet whiff of nutmeg. In the shops, all
selling the same things, canned goods, sarongs, cottons, there is no movement;
in some of them there is no attendant, as though no purchaser could possibly be
expected. You see no one buy or sell.
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