Foundation crisis II

[alice wellintown]

> P spends more time on the quaternion/vectors question, but there are
> references to Bertie "Mad Dog" Russell. Might P not be sympathetic to
> Russell's project? Or am I chasing the wrong squirrel up the wrong tree?

I suspect that P, like Eliot, who picked Joyce's bones in whispers
with the same guilty reverence with which P anxiously licked
Melville's repose into the nuetral corner, takes some credit for the
picaresque mappings, evensongs,  and golden boughs, even as he blows
the fog of sloth on the ruins he has shored against.



This landscape gave him assurance. A fair field holding life. It was
the religion of peace. It would die if its timid eyes were compelled
to see blood. He conceived Nature to be a woman with a deep aversion
to tragedy.

He threw a pine cone at a jovial squirrel, and he ran with chattering
fear. High in a treetop he stopped, and, poking his head cautiously
from behind a branch, looked down with an air of trepidation.

The youth felt triumphant at this exhibition. There was the law, he
said. Nature had given him a sign. The squirrel, immediately upon
recognizing danger, had taken to his legs without ado. He did not
stand stolidly baring his furry belly to the missile, and die with an
upward glance at the sympathetic heavens. On the contrary, he had fled
as fast as his legs could carry him; and he was but an ordinary
squirrel, too – doubtless no philosopher of his race. The youth
wended, feeling that Nature was of his mind. She re-enforced his
argument with proofs that lived where the sun shone.

Once he found himself almost into a swamp. He was obliged to walk upon
bog tufts and watch his feet to keep from the oily mire. Pausing at
one time to look about him he saw, out at some black water, a small
animal pounce in and emerge directly with a gleaming fish.

The youth went again into the deep thickets. The brushed branches made
a noise that drowned the sounds of cannon. He walked on, going from
obscurity into promises of a greater obscurity.

At length he reached a place where the high, arching boughs made a
chapel. He softly pushed the green doors aside and entered. Pine
needles were a gentle brown carpet. There was a religious half light.

Near the threshold he stopped, horror-stricken at the sight of a thing.

He was being looked at by a dead man who was seated with his back
against a columnlike tree. The corpse was dressed in a uniform that
had once been blue, but was now faded to a melancholy shade of green.
The eyes, staring at the youth, had changed to the dull hue to be seen
on the side of a dead fish. The mouth was open. Its red had changed to
an appalling yellow. Over the gray skin of the face ran little ants.
One was trundling some sort of bundle along the upper lip.

The youth gave a shriek as he confronted the thing. He was for moments
turned to stone before it. He remained staring into the liquid-looking
eyes. The dead man and the living man exchanged a long look. Then the
youth cautiously put one hand behind him and brought it against a
tree. Leaning upon this he retreated, step by step, with his face
still toward the thing. He feared that if he turned his back the body
might spring up and stealthily pursue him.

The branches, pushing against him, threatened to throw him over upon
it. His unguided feet, too, caught aggravatingly in brambles; and with
it all he received a subtle suggestion to touch the corpse. As he
thought of his hand upon it he shuddered profoundly.

At last he burst the bonds which had fastened him to the spot and
fled, unheeding the underbrush. He was pursued by the sight of black
ants swarming greedily upon the gray face and venturing horribly near
to the eyes.

After a time he paused, and, breathless and panting, listened. He
imagined some strange voice would come from the dead throat and squawk
after him in horrible menaces.

The trees about the portal of the chapel moved soughingly in a soft
wind. A sad silence was upon the little guarding edifice.