Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

And I've known homosexuals who make a perfectly good job of it, and quite enjoy being queer. Isn't it the same for you? Isn't it just a matter of taking your peculiarities for granted?

That is not the question. The question is to make society take them for granted.

Nunne reached for the brandy bottle, then saw it was empty. His hand dropped, as if exhausted. He said, with apparent irrelevance:

Have you ever read de Sade, Gerard?

No. Only some expurgated bits, anyway.

De Sade was right about the sadist. The true sadist could only find full self-expression as an oriental despot. You see? There's no give and take. Just take.

Pretty bad for the character, I should think.

Ah yes. One would have to be quite callous about it…

And you're not?

Not normally.

Sorme said, smiling:

Then use the frustration to create. That's the classical remedy.

Nunne straightened up in the chair, saying abruptly:

Look, let's go and find some more drink.

Do you really want more?

Nunne said in a flat voice:

I shan't sleep tonight unless I'm drunk. And I want to talk to you.

All right. Where do you want to go?

We could go to my flat… or to a club I know.

Sorme shrugged, standing up. He no longer felt sleepy.

All right. Whichever you prefer.

Nunne's hand rested on his shoulder as they crossed to the door. He said:

You put up with me very well, Gerard.

Not at all.

The wind was cool around his face in the open-topped Jaguar. The streets were quiet; in the whole length of Albany Street they saw no one. Sorme looked at Nunne's profile as he drove, and tried to connect it with the idea of cruelty. It was difficult. In the light of streetlamps, he appeared tired and pale, not particularly sensual.

They encountered no one in the hallway of the block of flats; the room labelled 'Porter' was empty. Sorme looked across at the chair where he had sat earlier in the day; it was difficult to realise that it had been less than fifteen hours ago. Days seemed to have elapsed since he had watched the white-moustached old man and the girl in furs step out of the lift.

Tired, Gerard?

He realised that he had yawned.

No. Not at all.

The lift stopped at the third floor. The white, marble-like stone of the floor and walls gave the corridor the appearance of a hospital. Nunne led the way, fumbling with a bunch of keys. He stopped opposite a dark, panelled door, and inserted the key. Sorme found himself thinking that he preferred the basement flat in Canning Place; the atmosphere was less chilly.

After you, Gerard.

Daylight lamps came on, illuminating a large, comfortably furnished room that dispelled the feeling of gloom. It was furnished completely with a contrast of light wood and a sky blue. The carpet and ceiling were of the same shade of blue; two of the walls were pale amber; the other two were covered with bookshelves of the same colour. The furniture was mostly of blue leather. Above the fireplace, the wall was covered with an immense reproduction of Michelangelo's God Creating Adam. Sorme said:

My god, what a superb place! You are lucky.

It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to my mother. But she never uses it. Do sit down.

Nunne crossed immediately to the liquor cabinet, and pulled it open. He said: What will you have? The same again? Or some wine?

While he spoke, he poured more brandy into a glass, and took a large gulp. Sorme said: I'd prefer wine, if you've got it.

He was looking in the bookcase near the door. It seemed to contain nothing butvolumes on philosophy. There was an edition of Schlegel in ten volumes, and volumes of Kant, Fichte and Schelling in German. The shelf above these contained a row of bound volumes labelled uniformly: Crelle. He took down the first volume; it seemed to be a work on mathematics. Nunne came from the kitchen, carrying a tall bottle of Rhine wine.

Afraid this isn't cold. The fridge is off.

Are all these books yours?

Yes. Left me by an uncle. Fascinating things.

He handed Sorme a large wine glass filled with the straw-coloured wine. He placed the bottle on a table beside the settee, saying: Help yourself.

He poured more brandy into his own glass, and collapsed into an armchair. He looked like a sawdust-filled doll, inert.

Sit down, Gerard. I'll show you round my books next time you come.

Sorme sat on the settee and sipped the wine. To avoid the necessity of starting a conversation, he took another drink from the glass. Nunne said:

Gerard. If I went off to South America or somewhere, would you come with me?

Sorme looked at him; he said cautiously:

Are you serious?

Very. I'd like to go to another country — somewhere I could start again.

Why?

Because… I get tired.

You shouldn't rush around so much. Why don't you try renting a room in the East End — Whitechapel, say — and not telling anybody where you are?

Something in Nunne's smile produced a tension in him. Nunne said:

Whitechapel?

Oh. Perhaps not. I'd forgotten these murders.

Nunne stared at him for a space of thirty seconds, as if trying to remind him of some question. He said finally:

Quite.

Sorme began to wonder how much more brandy Nunne could drink and still remain articulate. So far, Nunne showed no sign of becoming drunk, but his movements and speech were growing heavier, duller, as if an immense weariness was overpowering him. Sorme himself felt only slightly drunk. He had no desire to drink the wine in his glass; it tasted like lemon juice and water to his palate. Nunne said:

I want to get right away. Away from cities. I get sick…

Sorme said nothing. He could think of nothing that would not be cancelled out and invalidated by the facts. He thought: It's his problem.

Tell me, Gerard, have you ever felt really unintended? As if you can't choose any course of action because you're no more than flotsam?

Yes. Never for very long, though.

I do, Nunne said, as if he hadn't heard. You know, when I was at Oxford I used to know a chap called Nigel Barker. Terrific bloke. Most talented man I ever knew.

Splendid cricketer, classical scholar, mathematician. Best all-round sportsman in Balliol, but not one of these brainless sportsmen. Got some prize or other for Greek verse. I'd have sworn he'd have a charmed life — really cut out to do something big. Well, he went and broke his silly neck falling off a horse. Didn't kill him, but he's half paralysed. Funny.

Makes you feel everything's all wrong somehow.

Sorme said:

You know your trouble, Austin. You've got an overdeveloped sense of your own worthlessness.

Nunne halted the brandy glass before he drank, and stared at Sorme over the top of it, with surprise.

You've got something there. Sense of my own worthlessness. That's it. You know, we had a chaplain at Balliol who used to give me talks about that… About how the men who don't serve God never get on in the world.

He emptied the glass, and seemed to lose himself in speculation. He said finally: You're right about the worthlessness. I was always a worthless bastard if ever there was one. Neurotic little bugger all the way through my childhood, in trouble all through my teens. Always smashing up the car or driving it through somebody's back garden. You'd think if there was any justice in the world I'd break my stupid neck, wouldn't you? Not somebody like Nigel.

Sorme found Nunne's self-accusations embarrassing. He was in no position to contradict them. He said uncertainly:

You're creative, anyway. You write books.

Books, Nunne said sneeringly. By any standard of good writing my books are worthless, and I know it. So do you.

What if they were? I'm not saying they were — but what would it matter even if they were? You're still free. You can write books that aren't worthless.